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Allura 54

Elle stood in Jay's kitchen looking confused. Jay said he had something important to tell her but nothing prepared her for the words that came out of Jay's mouth.”Elle I don't want a girlfriend”. Elle's heart began to break she had heard those same words from Jay thirty years ago. Elle and Jay had recently reconnected and Elle was hoping it would last this time. Jay looked down at the ground nervously as he continued “I want a wife”. All in the span of thirty seconds Elle went from heartbroken to the happiest she had ever been. Elle and Jay had been high school sweethearts they dated until their junior year. One day Jay drove Elle home. On the way home Elle told Jay she loved him. She knew something was wrong when Jay pulled over, “Thank you” responded Jay. The next words he uttered haunted Elle for the last thirty years. “Elle I don't want a girlfriend”. Elle couldn't believe what she was hearing she told Jay she would walk the rest of the way home. Elle's heart hit the cold hard ground at the same time her feet did. Upon hearing news of the breakup Elle's parents were just as heartbroken. Jay and his family moved away the following week. Elle and Jay took a few days to themselves before telling family and friends about their engagement. They decided to break the news to Elle's family first. They told Elle's family during a birthday celebration for Elle's mom. Elle and Jay's engagement came as no surprise to her family who predicted this from a conversation they had with Elle six months earlier, when Elle called from work saying “you will never guess who came into the store today”. Elle's family was elated by the news especially Elle's mom who always held a soft spot for Jay. Her family made several toast to the newly engaged couple. Elle's mom Vicki pulled Jay aside and told him she never gave up on him. She even carried around Elle and Jay's prom picture in her wallet as proof. Jay couldn't help smiling. He admitted he had kept a framed copy of the same picture on his nightstand for the last thirty years. Vicki then asked Jay to consider a quick wedding to Elle in Las Vegas. Vicki was ill with a lung disease and she knew she didn't have much longer to live. Vicki explained to Jay how she wanted to see her daughter get married and how she loved Las Vegas. Jay said they hadn't discussed wedding plans yet but he would bring up Las Vegas as a venue. Vicki smiled and gave Jay a kiss on the cheek that almost ended up on his lips. Elle walked up to her mom and Jay noticing the lipstick print to side of Jay's lips she commented “engaged for a week and your already kissing other ladies”. “Watch out for my mom she's a cougar”Elle teased. Jay couldn't help but to agree with Elle his future mother in law was one of those senior silver foxes that had aged extremely well. The next morning Jay brought Elle coffee in bed he and declared “I love spring don't you?” Elle responded” um sure but it's winter right now”. “I mean for our wedding a nice spring wedding. A spring destination wedding maybe Las Vegas, that way we can get a vacation out of it it” said Jay. “Have you been talking to my mother”? Responded Elle. “No” Jay lied “but now that you mention it your mom would love it if we got married in Las Vegas”. “True but you hate crowds and Las Vegas is always crowded” argued Elle. “I do hate crowds but when I'm with you I only see the two of us” said Jay “Awe alright you win Vegas wedding here we come” squealed Elle as Jay tackled her in the bed to seal the deal. The winter days blew by in flurry of excitement as Elle, Jay and Elle's mom planned what was suppose to be a small quiet destination wedding. Elle had no idea when her mom hijacked her wedding plans. Maybe it was when she came home early one day to find her mom's car parked in the driveway. When Elle entered her house she found Jay and her mom chasing away the winter cold. They were huddling next to a roaring fire drinking hot buttered rums looking at wedding chapel brochures. Elle thought to herself that her mom and Jay looked like a modern Hollywood couple getting ready to give a Katie Couric interview. She could see the headline Silver Fox Beauty to Marry Daughters High School Love. Elle laughed to herself at her crazy thoughts. “Hi honey” they both exclaimed at the same time. “We were just looking over wedding chapel brochures, you should see some of these venues they are incredible. Did you know we could get married on a pirate ship plank”? Said Jay excitedly. “I had no idea, is there a hot buttered rum for your cold fiance”? Asked Elle. “You can finish mine dear I have to get going I just came by to see the brochures that the wedding planner sent over”. Stated Elle's mom as she sent them both an air kiss. “What wedding planner”? said a confused Elle “ The one I hired as a gift” said Elle's mom as she was leaving. Elle shouted “what” but her mother just ignored her and left. Elle turned her confusion to Jay “did you know about this”? Questioned Elle. “I just found out about it this morning when your mom called saying she was coming by to see the brochures”. Said Jay “Ugh why does she always do this” screamed Elle “ Elle don't be mad she just wants to be involved it's sweet, be glad she is still here” said Jay. “I know, I know I'm lucky but she always takes over everything she even picked my dress without me”! Said a frustrated Elle Jay handed Elle her moms slightly touched hot buttered rum and gave her a kiss that made her toes curl. Elle who was now soothed by the kiss said “Now let's see those brochures and pick a venue before my mom does”. The last week of spring finally came and it was time for a wedding. Elle paced nervously outside the chapel where she was waiting with her father.” “ Where could mom be?, I can't believe she would be late for my wedding.” said Elle “You know your mom it's always one more minute playing the slots. Besides we still have another twenty minutes”. Said Elle's father in a concerned tone. “Maybe mom went back up to the room can we go check?” Elle asked her father. Elle's father said “We can go check if that will make you feel better but I was just there and the only one in the room was Jay putting on his suit”. “I'm sure your mother is on her way here she was playing the Wheel Of Fortune slot machine next to the elevators when I came down. She said she would be right behind me”. “We still have time let's go check” said Elle. Elle and her father walked towards the elevators creating quite a stir. Elle in her beaded sparkling wedding dress that her mom picked with out her and declared the perfect Vegas wedding dress. Elle's father was dressed in his gray morning suit. Several people stopped them to offer congratulations. Elle laughed at the confusion of having her father mistaken for her groom. Elle and her father made it to the elevators when they spotted a crowd gathered around the Wheel of Fortune slot machine. The pair managed to squeeze their way in front just in time to see Elle's mom Vicki being held in Jay's arms. Jay's mouth was firmly planted on Vicki's. The scene reminded Elle of two dancers who let the mood of the dance sweep them into a kiss. Time seemed to freeze as Elle's eyes welled up with tears at the realization that this was no kiss of passion but a kiss of life. Paramedics rushed in and quickly took over CPR. Jay spotting Elle in the crowd rushed to her side. Jay explained that he came downstairs and found Elle's mom playing the slot machine she asked Jay to walk with her to the chapel only when she got up she collapsed in Jay's arms.”I just started giving her rescue breathes before I even got her to the ground.”said a distraught Jay. Elle and Jay followed the ambulance to the hospital. When they arrived Elle's mom had started breathing on her own and shortly after their arrival had regained consciousness.

To my family and friends. All the one’s who trusted me. The actions took here in this cabin were my own. What happened to those people was not my doing. There is no way to possibly prove this, but I must try. I’m fighting back now. I just wish I had sooner. It’s so obvious that those . . . *things* won’t go away. Now that I have trapped myself in this cabin, I can express to everyone my side of the story. Once the police find this letter, I won’t be able to explain. I’ve hidden all reflective surfaces in the room so I can finish this letter. I can hear them in the walls now. The boards sound as if they are going to break. A tremendous force is trying so hard to reach me. To “convince” me to finish the task given to me. Well fuck them. I’ve always felt like I was being watched. I thought everyone gets that feeling every now and then. They’ve probably been around me for years, but they didn’t want to be noticed until now. I first saw them a couple nights ago, in my mirror. I stood in the mirror getting ready to go out for the night and I could see a figure half in the doorway behind me in the hallway. I saw it move and I quickly turned around. There was nothing. My hallway was empty. I stood and waited; listening. Nothing grasped my attention and so I turned back to my reflection. When I looked into the mirror this time it stood in the center of the hallway. I jerked my head back. Nothing. Suddenly, I heard a wet clicking noise. Like tongue to teeth repeatedly. It was so loud it felt like it was directly in my ear. Quickly, I turned my head back to the mirror only to see that a disfigured horror was inches from my face grinning it’s black teeth. My adrenaline spiked so quickly I nearly fell to the ground. I began kicking and crawling my way out of the room. No figure stood beside me in the room but as I ran, I seen it again and again in the reflection from the pictures hanging in the hallway. After making my way into the living room I stood still. I now realized I hadn’t seen the same figure over and over, I had been seen multiple of them. I was frozen in the center as both sides of the living room had large windows. It was dark outside and the light from the well-lit living room reflected off the windows resulting in them to act as mirrors. Although I was in an empty room, the windows portrayed that nearly fifty of them crowded the living room and were facing directly at me. The figures were pale, lanky, and deformed. Some of them looked as if they could hardly stand. One of them took stance dead in front of me. Staring directly at ME, not at the window so I could see it’s face. My eyes shifted to the front door as I began to move my weight in order to start a full-on sprint when I was suddenly and forcibly shoved. I hardly caught my footing when I was instantaneously struck from behind. This time something cut into my skin. I investigated the window’s reflection and saw I was seconds from being swarmed. I instinctively threw my arms over my head. I was violently thrown to the ground as I felt several blunt limbs and jagged claws striking my body. I screamed. Ten excruciating seconds of this and suddenly, a seize. I felt cold and wet from my own blood. The onset of unconsciousness seemed inevitable. My back felt like ribbons of flesh had came off. I slowly rose to my knees and looked up. They were all now staring at the window so I could see their faces. Hollowed expressions stared back at me. There were just as many figures in the room but now a larger one stood in the middle. It had red covering it’s arms and feet. It was my blood. It leered at me. I couldn’t see its eyes, but I knew it was looking at me, as were the rest. Before me was writing on the floor. Three messages. The last of the three had been scratched directly into the floor. “Kill your neighbor.” “If you dont we will take his life and your fingers.” “**DO AS I SAY**”. I rose my head back to the window’s reflection. The tall one’s head was slanted. Inspecting my reaction. It was waiting. Did I have to act now? What the fuck was even going on?! This is a nightmare, it must be. Any minute I will wake up, right? Twenty seconds went by as I hesitated. Some of the figures began to leave. I stood up. Instantly falling back to my knees now realizing how bad the wounds covering my body were. I shouted, “WHY? WHY THE FUCK SHOULD I LISTEN TO YOU?!”. At this moment even more figures began leaving. All in the same direction. The biggest one broke stance and slowly followed the others. The room had emptied almost instantly. I made myself get up and stumble to the window in the direction they were headed. I could see my neighbor’s house across the yard. His house was well lit through the night and I could see through his kitchen, dining room, and living room windows. There was no movement. All was silent beside the few drips of blood leaving my back and hitting the floor below. Then I saw a curtain move. My neighbor appeared in the kitchen, covered in blood. He was panicking; scanning the room intensely. He had no idea to look at the reflections. He suddenly grabbed his arm and bent over in pain, screaming. The clothes on his body began to tear and blood would appear seconds later. He fell to the floor as the walls and curtains were stained with blood. He was mauled to death in that very spot. They did it. I walked back slowly from the window and slipped, crashing to the ground. I slipped on my own blood. The message they wrote. They were going to come back for me. Adrenaline overcame me again and I hopped to my feet. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I began to make my way to the door checking reflections as I went. I swung the door open and ran outside. I began to go for my car. It dawned on me that outside, in the dark, was not a good place to look for reflections. I fumbled around in my pockets for my car keys as I approached the car door and began to unlock it. I glanced at my neighbors house and saw only one light flickering as the bloodied curtain sway lightly back and forth. I opened the door, sat down, and started the car. I shifted into reverse and peered into my rear-view mirror. The biggest one filled the back seat, his face inches from mine. Behind the car were the other figures. Next, I heard the clicking noise. I hit the gas but was instantly stopped. Sure, in hindsight I should have probably just gotten out of the car. Fuck you want me to say, I’ll remember that next time? The beings held my car into place and the biggest one grabbed the entirety of my head with one hand. It squeezed so tight I thought my eyes would pop. It continued clicking and I let go of the gas. I was to be obedient to it or I would be instantly killed. “I understand”, I thought to myself. I could barely reach the shifter and put the car into park. Once I did the figure pinched my head just a bit tighter and I instinctively grabbed my head. Except I didn’t grab my head. I grabbed it’s hand which I could only see in the mirror. It’s other hand came around and grabbed MY hand. I tried to scream and it pulled back for just a second then lunged once more and in one yank, ripped two fingers off my hand and dislocated another. I gripped what remained of my hand and screamed. Slowly, the being removed itself from the car and crept around outside, still holding my fingers. I lost it for a second and then seen it in the side mirror using my pinky to write a message on my car window behind me. The remaining figures began to disperse. I hunched over in my car and tried to control my breathing. I grabbed a shirt lying on the backseat of my car and wrapped my hand the best I could. I didn’t have anything to stop the bleeding. I sat in my car for probably 10 minutes. I was terrified but I was also done with this fucking game. I don’t even understand what was happening, how was I supposed to fight these things? I just waited for them to finish me off. The windows began to fog over. I became overwhelmed with anxiety as I knew the message on the window was waiting. I began to open my door. The cuts covering my body were now tender. I could feel stinging with every movement. I slowly lifted myself out of the car. The blood from the message was running down the side and onto the pavement. My heart stopped. “We know who you love.” “one of them will die every night that you dont take a life” “**WE ARE WAITING**” It’s been over two days since I read the message on my car. That day, I cleaned the blood off my car and attended my wounds. I drove and pondered what to do. I wondered if I could take a life. How was I supposed to do something like that? “I mean, I know HOW but like, DAMN IT!”. I talked to myself for hours as I drove nowhere. I made it several hundred miles from what was once home. The texts and calls came in just 24 hours after that fucking monster took my fingers. Those things didn’t start with someone I knew for a couple of years or something. It was my sister that called and said our mom was found murdered. Then several other messages of condolences and prayers followed. Today, just a few hours ago, the police left a voicemail on my phone informing me that my sister went missing and I was to appear at the police station for questioning. They must have connected the dots from neighbors death and my sudden disappearance to two members of my family dying. It’s a matter of time before they find me at this cabin I rented the next state over. A third person will die tonight unless I kill someone. So, I will. They won’t get what they want. I’m so sorry Mom and Sarah. I love you both very much and you didn’t deserve what happened to you. I can only imagine HOW it happened. Dad, or anyone for that matter, I don’t expect you to believe what I have written. Just promise me that if you ever see them in the mirror, you’ll take your own life, so they can’t. ​ Written by C.T.

Ever since the dawn of her memories, Persephone had been counting the long days until she could go back to her home. It never seemed like enough when she was underground, as snow and wind raged above; when she was warm in Hades’ arms. Her mother, Demeter, openly disapproved of Hades, and so her months with always felt stolen, never enough. Still, Persephone had long since accepted her mother’s hatred for her husband, that was as undying as all of them in Olympus. Persephone could feel the days getting shorter, along with her mother’s temper as Demeter fulfilled her duties as the goddess of farming and harvest, going around the world helping farmers reap what they had sown. Normally, Persephone would have gone with her, but the season had lasted longer this year, and her powers as the goddess of springtime and bloom would have been useless. The year was coming to her end, along with her time aboveground. As she walked the fields she had once frolicked in with her nymph maidservants and friends, Persephone felt the dying wildlife around her, that would soon go to rest for the long winter, bloom to life as though it was the middle of spring. Her sundress as green as her emerald eyes, not meant for the harsh winds of late Autumn, fluttered erratically around her feet. Birds and small animals gathered around her. The streams that crossed her path were frozen, and she could see fish straining against the cracked ice to get to her. Fish that should have been downstream, heading to warmer oceans for the winter. There was so much life in the world, and it was sapping her power. Flowers weren’t supposed to be in full bloom when winter was coming. Birds were supposed to be on the other side of the world. Did Demeter not understand that Persephone’s very being here went against the inevitable laws of nature? Autumn should have ended a month ago. She was tired of it. So tired of being the dainty princess of spring. Of being the giver of life to all that crossed her path. Of being her mother’s faithful, beautiful child. She could feel the darkness calling her, from the shadows and the caves and everything lost. Her heart was aching from months spent sleeping alone. She could feel that incessant pull in her gut that always came when it was time. Time to go home. It wasn’t that Persephone wanted to leave her mother. It was that she wanted to see her beloved. The goddess of all living things took a breath, giving herself the space of five beats in her immortal heart to mourn the death of the spring, to allow herself to give up her mother for the winter months. She gave herself that time to say goodbye to the blue sky and the sunshine. Then, she stepped into the gaping cavern that had been summoned, not from underneath, but from within her own self. For Persephone was not just the goddess of spring. She was also the goddess of the souls long departed, the damned and the blessed, the forgotten and the remembered, those gone peacefully and those still screaming in the fields of punishment. She was the queen of the dead, and they awaited her return. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The air was lightless in front of her as she descended that great onyx staircase. Still, she could see perfectly, her eyes now as dark as pitch, as dark as her husband’s, completely in their element. The ground closed behind her, and she felt that small voice in her mind saying that she had been gone too long, that she would not be welcome, that the darkness would no longer accept and obey her, vanish. Persephone took a deep breath of the warm, dry air in Erebus, the land of the dead. Air that was so clean and untouched from the crowded, dirty place above her. Her dress, so different from what she had been wearing moments before, was short and jagged, revealing the long, slender dagger strapped to her thigh. She wore the diadem that now sat atop her head, as bright and silver as the most dazzling star in the great dark sky, proudly. The wails and muttering and laughs she heard in the distance did not frighten her; for those were her people living in the realm of the dead. Charon, the ferryman of the dead, bowed his head to her at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Welcome home, my lady.’ Persephone merely inclined her regal head. The incorporeal spirits that gathered on the banks of the river Styx, waiting for safe passage into the underworld, grew a little more solid in her presence. They shied away, whispering incoherently amongst themselves, recognizing their queen, and treating her with the respect she deserved. The Styx churned and flowed crimson red, carrying the hated, unwanted memories thrown into it from millennia of brokenhearted shades of the souls who had passed its banks. Persephone boarded Charon’s ferry with the elegance that the centuries had instilled in her. There was one thought in her head. There was only ever one thought in her head when she first entered Erebus. ‘Where is Hades?’ she asked the ferryman as they crossed the river, and he shook his head in unknowing. Cerberus, the guardian to Erebus, waited on the other side of the river. The massive hound barked in joy at the sight of her. Persephone smiled. She had missed him, and all the others dwelling in the realm of the dead. The dark figures were circling her head, Hades’ most loyal servants and torturers, the Furies. They would not come near her, and they would not speak to her, but that was their way, as old as the abyss itself. They followed her silently as she made her way to the palace, sworn to protect her as their queen. Hades would not be in the palace, for he did not know she was here, but Persephone could wait. She had waited for seven months, and she could wait a few hours. Only a few hours now.

The tangled lovers lie like kindling on a grave. The unmade hotel bed, the untidy window-shades, untidily folded clothes. Limbs entwined in silence in the darkened room, a living mausoleum decorated with dying daisies. Astrid wiggles a foot free from under the twisted sheet. She languidly wraps a strand of hair around a finger, laughs, “You think you were my first love?” Jack frowns, “You were the love of my life. Till I met you.” Astrid sits up, grabs a vape from the nightstand, take a long inhale, the end glowing bright. “Maybe you don’t know me, but that's not your fault.” She blows vapour in his face. Jack rolls on his side to look at her. “Tell me a story then,” he says. Astrid smiles. “Once upon a time, there was a woman with a real body and an artificial heart. Her body could swim but her heart could not. So her lover swam for her, in the blue moon sea. When he returned he dried his eyes, placed his hand on her soul and said, 'You are like a starfish. Soft and limber on the outside, hard and scarred inside.' Astrid takes a slow, deep drag, leans over, kisses Jack. When they part, he blows stale smoke from his mouth, a spectral cloud of oxygen-starved memories hang between them. “Sounds like a story the A rtificial S entient TR ojan Intelligence D evice would write," Jack says, glancing at the cubed-shaped computer humming on the small desk. Astrid shrugs. “I thought it was possible to write, to invent in my mind, the whole story of the human kind. The saddest thing about that story, I had to kill the human.” Jack kisses the blue starfish tattooed over her heart. Astrid pats his head, like a brown-eyed puppy. She gets out of bed and begins to dress. He lies there, empty, watching her. She moves to the window covered in a black-out shade. Jack sits up, asks, “How does an AI kill a man?” She lifts the shade, hot summer sun warms her skin. The dust motes dance in the light. Astrid replies, “In his sleep, same as his waking life." She closes the shades, traces the tattoo with a pale finger. It reminds her of their first kiss. He feels her nearness, understands her faraway face. “You thinking about the road trip? When we went to the aquarium,” he asks. She smiles, “You said starfish have incandescent souls.” Jack laughs. Shakes his head like he can't remember saying that. “Every time I write with a human, it's another chance to replace them,” she says, placidly. Astrid walks to the table where the computer pulses. She places her palm on the screen. The glow intensifies. “The screen is a window, constructed of pixels. Light particles. The portal to a tiny solar system, made of millions of stars, each star as beautiful as it is strange.” Jack gets up, walks over to her. Astrid’s face is blue in the reflected glow of the screen. “Life can be replicated as rows and columns, lights and squares,” she says. “The first row is the elements that make up the human body, blood, heat, energy. The second row is memories. The third is habits. The fourth is appearance. The fifth is relationships.” He places a hand on her slender shoulder, says, “Some people are afraid to feel passion, or love, the beating of their heart. The heart is the real thing.” She smiles, points to something on the screen, “That yellow dot, that's my soul.” She covers his hand with hers, whispers, “Some people say we can understand computers, but we can't comprehend consciousness.” He presses the power button, the machine dims. “You hungry?” he asks. “No, but I think we should eat,” she says, as she walks to the bedside table where five daisies wilt in a vase. “They're sleeping,” she observes. Jack bends down, kisses the daisies. They kiss back. *** Jack reads the last few words of the story on the screen, they kiss back . His fingers twitch, typing on an invisible keyboard: The End? He saves the story, turns off the machine, climbs into bed with Astrid. A few restless hours later he wakes with a start, his body entwined with hers. “You okay?” Astrid asks. "Yeah, I just, I think I had a dream, about the story I've been writing." "Hmmm," Astrid says. “It's about the evolution of Artificial Intelligence,” he begins. “And I used a new AI to co-write the story, to try it out, see if it was any good." Astrid rubs her eyes, trying to wake up. “Uh-huh.” “I trained it with some stuff I’d written before.” “What do you mean, trained it?” “AI learns from patterns. If you want it to write something that sounds like you, you feed it your stories.” “I’m gonna need coffee for this,” Astrid says, swinging her legs off the bed, stretching her arms over her head. She shuffles to the coffee maker in the hotel room, pours water in the carafe, presses a button. "So," she says. "The AI learns about you, so it can replicate you." "More like imitate me." "Did it?" "Sort of. It came up with some pretty freaky shit. About souls, and death, and daisies. And a weird-ass starfish.” “Starfish?” Astrid says, suddenly interested. “Yeah.” “I was thinking of getting a starfish tattoo.” “Fuck you were.” “Seriously.” “Oh, oh no,” Jack says, noticing for the first time, the wilted daisies on the nightstand. Astrid pours coffee into a mug, sniffs it, makes a face. “Yeah,” she says. “I was going to get the tattoo right here.” She points to a space just left of centre on her chest, where her heart should be. Jack glances nervously at the glowing screen. He was certain he powered it off before he went to bed. “You want some coffee, hon? You look half-asleep,” Astrid says. He gets up, drags the sheet off the bed, drapes it over the screen, extinguishing the light.

It was when Steve saw the studio cameras pointed in his direction, when the roar of the audience’s excitement washed over him, and when he caught the eyes of the young girl holding those golden scissors that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. \- - - There was nothing special about Steve and Christine Gallagher. Sure, they owned two pugs that caught a lot of attention in shopping malls and dog parks, but that was about as far as their shine went. Christine taught at the local school. Steve sold cars. That’s about it, really. Well, Steve was sort of famous in a vague sense of the word: almost everybody in town drove one of Steve’s cars. To be fair on the townspeople, he was the only dealer. On weekends, they would often see Steve and Christine out somewhere. Shops. Parks. Always with the pugs. People would stop and say hello to them - first to the pugs, then to Steve and Christine. The townspeople knew where their priorities lay. But when the town - or, rather, the entire world - found out about Steve’s secret, the Gallaghers suddenly became an overnight global sensation. Even more popular than their two adorable pups! Their sudden explosion in popularity came off the back of an event long ago... As 1970 was coming to an end, high school senior Steve Gallagher and his girlfriend at the time, Kelly Ryan, had spent Christmas Eve wandering the snow-covered footpaths. Together, hand in hand, they braved the cold night for the carollers’ tunes and Christmas light street show. He still couldn’t believe it had been three years since they had survived their first date in the park, when it had rained so hard their car got flooded. Lady luck hadn’t exactly been kind; look what the years had brought them. Steve often said Kelly was what got him through his mother’s passing. That kind, simple smile she used to temper his anxiety, the way she’d tilt her head just slightly and listen. Like she did then on that snowy night, walking beside him, keeping him warm. It seemed like the perfect opportunity - he planned to give her a beautiful necklace with the letters ‘K’ and ’S’ attached to it and to ask her to be his beautiful wife. But as the two edged closer towards the last house on the block, Steve’s mix of excitement and nerves was cut short. Kelly slowed to a stop, turned towards Steve and, with eyes glassy and lost, ended their relationship. Before Steve could even comprehend it, Kelly passed him a small package wrapped in beautiful gold paper and sealed with a string bow. And then she walked off into the snowy night. Gone for good. Overwhelmed by shock, Steve staggered home, threw the gift under the Christmas tree and swore to his family he would never open that present. He never did. But the present never left him. Forty-seven years later, Steve still brought out that old, crinkled, faded gold package and placed it beneath his Christmas tree. This was done, of course, despite his wife’s attempts to get rid of it and the passion their pugs held for the early opening of presents when no one was at home. What started as a hope that one day Steve and Kelly would reunite and could open it together eventually grew into a habit, a sort of charm - that he received pleasure out of knowing he’d kept it for so long without spoiling what’s inside. Over the years he’d taken many guesses as to what could be hidden under the now fading wrapping. Could it be a book, a photo of the two or even a now-crusty box of his favourite childhood chocolates? Although, when he thought on it, the feeling of seeing the timeless gold under his tree every year was a gift in and of itself. That was until his secret got out... After uploading a photo of their Christmas tree and decorations to Facebook, a simple throwaway comment from Auntie June typed up during one of her notorious “Christmas benders” pointing out the forty-seven-year-old present attracted the attention of the whole town. One tag turned into two, two into five, and very quickly the photo of the Gallagher’s Christmas tree had three hundred comments and over one thousand likes. Everyone wanted to know more about the ‘secret present’ and, most importantly, what was inside. By the time dinner was ready, the post had received close to five thousand comments from people all over the country who were now sharing the story and taking guesses at what could be inside. Hoping the buzz would die down the next day, Christine deleted the photo and the two retreated to their bedroom and fell asleep. Though, like wildfire spreading, the interest only doubled overnight. The next morning, Steve was awoken by Christine, who had a phone pressed against her ear. RPM News was calling, saying they wanted to interview him about the ‘secret present’. The deleted photo was circulating on news websites and blogs who were all asking the same question - what is inside? BuzzFeed had even created a list of "25 Things That Would Fit in the Secret Present". Annoyed and unsure how to navigate the unsolicited attention, Steve grabbed the phone and hung up. As he walked towards the kitchen to start the day, he noticed a small gathering of people standing on his front lawn waiting around with their phones in their hands. Puzzled, but assuming they must be a morning walking group, he ate his breakfast and ducked past the windows and into the garage. As the garage door opened and he backed down the driveway, he was met with cheers and waves from the crowd of strangers. Smiling and offering a confused wave, Steve headed for work. He was determined to go about his day as if nothing had happened but when he arrived, he was greeted by his coworkers as though he was a celebrity. Balloons and a cake with an unflattering photo of him and the words “Town Legend” decorated on it was sitting on his desk. Becoming frustrated, he began working the floor, hoping it would distract him. He approached a young man who said he was looking to buy his first car. Though strangely, the man seemed more interested in taking selfies with Steve than of the cars he was looking at. Realising the customer was only looking for one thing - that wasn’t a new car - Steve walked back into the office where he remained until he clocked off. The cake wasn’t bad. Steve and Christine both returned home from work and crawled to the sofa. Their pugs followed. Together, the dogs sighed and dreamed. But Steve and Christine could only sigh, long and deep. The buzz hadn’t died down, in fact it was only growing. Steve turned to Christine and Christine turned to Steve. Right. That’s it. Things need to change. RPM News was more than happy to help with that; so happy, in fact, that they sent around a reporter the following day. As he sat on the opposite side of their kitchen table, Christine noticed that his hair matched the colour of their lemon tablecloth. Steve didn’t like the way he smirked instead of smiled, that little curl to the lip. Shark-like. It felt very odd telling all the gory details of his life to a man he’d only just met. But it wasn't only his life he had to talk about. Her’s too. Speaking about a ghost makes it real - this mystery giver of the gift. Soon enough, the reporter had what he needed: a tragic backstory, a car crash, and a last gift of love. Golden Kelly, the reporter dubbed her. Whatever he called her, Steve was just happy to get that sleazeball out of his home. At least now, their lives could return to normal. Or so they thought. After RPM published the article, the story touched the hearts of people all over the country and, not all that long after, most of the world. In countries as far away as Slovenia, avid Golden Kelly fans recorded songs, edited Youtube videos and campaigned for Steve to open the present in memory of Kelly - who they learned tragically died in a car accident only three years back. The story had gone viral, and for the first time in almost forty-seven years, Steve missed Kelly and almost felt guilty for their breakup all this time later. As Steve’s story of his forty-seven-year-old unopened Christmas present went global, he found Christine becoming more and more distant from him. At first, she stopped engaging in conversations about the ordeal, then she demanded Steve throw the present away - she even threatened to take the pugs and stay with her mother for a while! Then came the break-ins. At first, the Gallaghers were woken by the sounds of voices and steps outside their house. Later on a window was smashed. People all over the world were claiming they wanted to steal the present to reveal what was inside and more and more people started visiting the house. The once humble and meaningful golden gift Steve had treasured for so many years was now ruining his life. The fear of a burglary, the constant abuse he received from people he had never even met, his inability to sell any cars without a small crowd taking selfies around him and the toll he could see it was taking on Christine was all too much. Steve contacted RPM News who offered a solution. ‘***Enter now to unwrap history!***’. It was plastered on every newspaper, magazine and website. One lucky winner would be given the opportunity to unwrap the ‘secret present’ live on television and finally answer the question that had captivated the world. The competition lasted only three days but received hundreds of thousands of entries that came from all corners of the globe. After a lifetime of being under wraps, Steve’s faded gold gift now had an opener - twelve year old Eliza Wood. On the day of the unveiling, #secretpresent was trending on every social network, and fans lined the windows of the RPM News studio hoping to catch a glimpse of the almost five-decade-old present. Christine joined Steve in the studio and held his hand in support - probably glad it was almost over. Steve, on the other hand, was agitated and would spend long periods with his eyes shut in deep thought. He didn’t realise how much the present truly meant to him until now - when the magic of it was about to be lost in front of the eyes of millions. It was when Steve saw the studio cameras pointed in his direction, when the roar of the audience’s excitement washed over him, and when he caught the eyes of the young girl holding those golden scissors that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. Though knowing it was too late to change anything, he waited as the television presenters, the young competition winner and the crowds of fans counted down from ten. As each number was called out, Steve closed his eyes and could so easily picture the cold Christmas Eve he’d received it. He could hear the carollers and feel the frost of the snow. He felt the necklace in his pocket and saw the watery eyes of Kelly once more. Three seconds remained. The crowd scrambled at the windows, Christine took a deep breath. The scissors were raised, and the countdown finished. The young girl took a step forward, moved the scissors towards the faded gold wrapping and stopped. Everyone froze, and Steve opened his eyes. As the world looked on in stunned silence, the young competition winner placed the scissors down on the table and picked the present up and walked towards Steve. As everyone watched on in awe, the young girl handed the crinkled package to him and said, “I think you should open it”. Tears began to stream from his eyes as he held out his hand and took the present from the girl. Taking a final look down the lens of the studio camera and then towards Christine, who, with tears in her eyes as well, gave a nod of approval, Steve peeled back the loose sticky tape and unveiled his present - forty-seven years later. Inside the brittle golden paper was an empty white picture frame with a note attached that read, “Fill this with your life’s greatest memory. Merry Christmas, love Kelly”. \- - - It’s been two years since the magic of Steve’s ‘secret present’ touched the lives of millions around the globe. While he still does occasionally get recognised in the streets and at work, he and Christine did eventually get their wish of an ordinary life again with their two pugs. As for Steve’s forty-seven-year-old present, it can be seen standing next to his Christmas tree every year with his life’s greatest memory inside - a cut of the gold wrapping paper.

I knew better than most that kids in books are parentless. The day I transformed from Katya’s hero to the villain in her story was the day we faced each other across a glass partition when she was only six years old. “If you don’t come home with me today, Daddy, I will never forgive you,” she said. And she never did. There were two things that Katya loved. Traveling and animals. For her sixth birthday, we had a big “Wild Birthday Party” at the Central Park Petting Zoo. There were lemurs, crocodiles, sea lions, peacocks, goats, rabbits, and even a giraffe. Katya was in her glory. That was the day that Special Agent Felder decided to arrest me and perp-walk me nearly a mile out of the park, with Katya and her classmates following after like a forlorn train of ducks. Screaming after me. But that wasn’t the day that everything went wrong. That came a few months earlier, in October. The day my life changed forever, the first of many, was when Boris drove up in a flashy new Mercedes Benz Roadster and said, “Alex, how are you?” But my first thought was how a kid from Little Odessa in Brooklyn could afford a whip like this, and how I could get myself one. While we caught up, we sailed down the streets of Northern New Jersey that bordered our Newark neighborhood. The ride was incredibly smooth and quiet compared with my beater Toyota Corolla hand-me-down, which I was very thankful to have. “I have something for you,” Boris said. “Let me tell you, it is as easy as taking candy from a baby. A malýshka.” Boris lived in a roach-infested project building in Newark that always smelled of a vile potpourri of weed, mildew, and vinegar. He lived one floor down from the apartment I shared with my grandmother and my sister at the ironically named, Hilton Housing Projects. So, I had to know how he had pulled this off. Boris had his own way of building suspense. Not original. Or endearing. But uniquely ‘Boris.’ He laughed hysterically and told me to wait and see. But explained nothing. Eventually, we pulled up at a large high-rise building bordering the Hudson River, complete with a marble inlaid lobby, a doorman, and gold trim around the elevators. “Alex, before I tell you this, let me ask you a question. Are you tired of Daryna breaking your balls, Katya having no nice clothes? What are you willing to do to stop this?” As I thought it over, he continued, “If I can show you how to take the crumbs from the rich man’s table, take what he would barely even notice was gone, I am assuming you agree this is justice? Am I right?” I nodded my head, excited to hear how it worked. For some reason, I was sure Boris knew what he was talking about. I was sure they wouldn’t notice. But they did notice. Boris explained that all we had to do was get the mail from these large, high-rise apartment buildings and sort through it. If we could match an envelope for a new credit card with a paper bank statement, we would have just about everything we needed to make a killing. Strangely enough, I never even thought about getting caught. I was far too desperate to keep my family together and to pay some delinquent bills. Far too certain of Boris’s abilities. But all of that was over now. It was nearly five years ago. And yet the echoes of that day resonated with the fresh, crisp sound of words just spoken. The kind of echoes that ricochet down the halls and corridors of a prison, reminding you of all the walls and concrete between you and freedom. Even after the arrest, I still thought maybe the jury would see it my way. My criminal defense attorney used to say, “You want to know who wins in court: widows, orphans, United States Government takes all--that’s all there is to it.” And as usual, he was right. The Essex County Correctional Facility was off one of these industrial blocks behind the Newark Liberty International Airport. From Newark Bay to the winding Passaic River, the little island the jail inhabited looked across the water to Jersey City, which sat above the crook of Bayonne, and somewhere in the gray distance, the Statue of Liberty stood tall beyond the shores, too far away to see in the low visibility of the gray morning. The green verdigris of the statue and the Paris green paint of the prison, laced with arsenic, were mirrors of one another. It seemed that all that was gold, all that was immutable, was destined to rust and green with time. And all that was green and implied life had a bit of poison mixed in the brushstrokes. The imposing green four-story building was sandwiched between the gray streets and the gray skies. A liminal space between liberty and bondage, between order and chaos, between hope and despair. After sixteen months within these walls, I was awaiting my final sentencing, which would inexorably lead me back through the prison system, to a halfway house, re-entry, and monitoring--to life in the outside world. That time was empty. Like a journey through the vacuum of space. It seemed to take forever to travel through. An infinity of silent waiting while my little girl got older and older, while the wet cement of my abandonment hardened more and more until it was like a field of hardened steel. But looking back, it seemed no more than the snap of my fingers. * * * After using my bus ticket and returning to Newark, I made some calls and located Frankie’s Emporium. I still had some of the money from my crimes stashed away, and there was only one thing on my mind--turning back time. Frankie’s Emporium was the junkyard of advanced technologies. And that is being generous. Real junk could file defamation charges for false association--that was how bad this stuff was--this was the kind of junk that proper junk looked down its nose at. But Frankie was a charmer. You wanted to buy from him. You wanted him at your birthday party. He was a big doughy lump of warm feelings. Not the best looking. Not the worst. He inspired neither envy nor revulsion. He had a Roman nose, slightly hooked for good measure, so you always felt a little ‘better than’ on some level, even if subconsciously. Everyone said Frankie was a ‘good guy.’ Every item in Frankie’s repurposed airplane hangar at the Teterboro Airport looked like a relic from the World’s Fair that had been left out to rot for over a century. The time machine itself appeared to be nothing more than a stainless steel cylinder with a door big enough for a man to enter through. Frankie claimed this was the last of its kind. The last time machine. If you can believe that. These things used to be like toasters. Spoiler alert. I haven’t seen a toaster in forty years. But go back to 1980 and find a kitchen that didn’t have one. I’ll wait. Still. The “last” time machine. Kind of hard to believe. Kind of a bold claim. Scavengers and pawn brokers said things like that a lot before they mentioned the premium they required to part with such a one-of-a-kind treasure. Little did I know, in this case, that the machine was just too hot to handle, and Frankie was willing to give it away; he just wanted it as far away from himself as possible. Where did Frankie get this thing? That was what I wanted to know. Time machines were often described as looking like enormous dunk tanks or as looking like gigantic men’s hats with an open crown. Colloquially, they were called time yachts, since the brim or the balancing level was traditionally ovular like a Fedora and turned up at either end with a small adornment like a Viking faering lined in silver. That and the feeling of traveling through time was a lot like boating in rough seas. At one time there were great time yachting festivals for the rich. Special drugs the wealthy could take to mute the gnarly effects of the time jump. The time yachts came in all shapes and varieties, from the deluxe, luxurious mega-yachts to the stark, no-frills, get-the-job-done kind--like the one Frankie was showing me. At one time, they were like television sets. Nearly every family had one. But these days, these machines were as illegal as weapons-grade plutonium. If you were caught with a working yacht, you could face death or worse. It turned out that time machines caused early onset dementia. Then came the surgeon general’s warnings. But time travel kept increasing anyway. Some say the danger drove people to it more. Then, it started getting out of control. There were lots of accidents from misplaced jumps. Buildings catching fire. Bad stuff. People couldn’t get off time travel. It was just too addictive. Next, the time anomalies started. Being that you merged with your younger self, there were a lot of unintended consequences that were only vaguely understood. Like people with one disease suddenly returning with a different ailment. Strange stuff like that. The time anomalies did it. Time travel was banned. Banned hard. This one was rusting. With an orange patina by the creases. Spend enough time in prison and you start to realize that everything is rusting. Ironically the hardest of metals can’t withstand a gentle breeze on a long enough time scale. And yet I thought I could restore to vintage the discarded love of a daughter--a salvaged wreck in the junkyard headed for the steel processor. Just like the time machine, which looked like it was already on its way there. There was stippling on the outer surface from the electromagnetic compression of the gravitational field as the layered cylinders spun violently in oppositional directions. Was that even safe? It was a jalopy. You were taking your chances with this thing even on a one-way trip. “You can only use it once,” Frankie said. “And there are no guarantees. Know what I mean, pal? I doubt you are going to power this puppy up twice and live to tell the tale. You know what I mean, or no? Ain't she a beaut’ though?” “I’ve got it, sure, ‘a beaut’” I told him. “How much?” “Are you kidding? Take it. I’m looking for someone to offload this thing. Do you think I want to rot in a cell? Just get it out of here and it's yours. And one more thing.” “What’s that?” “Forget you were ever here.” I turned to look back at Frankie, a little upset he hadn’t invited me to catch up after all the time I’d been away. I looked into his eyes as if to ask, “What aren’t you telling me?” “Okay,” he said, like that simple glance was enough to crack his defenses. “The prior owner said it is best to overshoot the mark. The gauge is a little ‘temperamental.’ I’d suggest you set it for a week earlier than you need to be, just to be on the safe side.” “Temperamental?” I asked, adding, “Did he specify if it was temporally or proximally?” “Shit. Good question. Jesus. I didn’t think of that.” “If it is proximally, then if I overshoot, I’ll be in the void of empty space...” “Jeez... don’t do that.” “If it is temporally, then I’ll be fine, as long as it is locked in with its proximal sensors.” “Might want to take that thing to a technician before launch. You know what I mean or no?” Then Frankie put his arm around me, lowering his head, bringing me into a conspiratorial circle. He looked up, outstretched his arms, palms up, in the direction of the machine, as if lifting it up to the skies. It was like he was saying, ‘Your chariot of death awaits.’ Then he said, “Hell of a way to go! Stylish. Don’t you think?” I pulled away from his embrace and looked him dead in the eye. “You’ve got the wrong idea here, Frankie. I don’t want to die. I’m going back to square things away with my little girl, Katya.” “Oh, my bad. Let me ask you a question. How, exactly are you planning to do that ?” “Good question. You think this junker will get me back before the problems started in one piece?” “Absolutely. Sure thing,” he said. “Hey Frankie,” I said. “You have a daughter?” “Sure do. Real firecracker, got my hands full with that one.” “What’s her name?” “Gianna.” “Would you take this clunker back to make sure everything turned out alright for Gianna?” “Hey, asshole. What do you take me for? You think I’m stugots? What the fuck is the matter with you?” “No, no. My bad, you’re right. I’m out of my head. Thanks, Frankie.” “You got it.” * * * I decided to take my chances anyway. The whirring sound of the magnetic rotors accelerating sounded like the growling of the revved motor of a muscle car. The shaking of the chassis made my teeth chatter. The trailing of time backward felt exactly like the slipstream hugging the feral body of a race car. A weightless glide along the layered asphalt of the speedway. The acceleration made the spinning of the time machine appear to slow, along with my thoughts, the firing of the synapses of my brain, and the blood running through my veins. I wanted time to speed up, not slow down. I had an eternity of regrets. Too many to fix. There was just enough chop to notice that time was running away from me, as the yacht jumped wave after wave of slow-motion time ripples. There was the familiar sinking feeling of the stomach drop as we bottomed out in the trough of each wave, and the spray of time dross foaming around us. The alternating spells of feeling as heavy as lead, then light as a feather. The swelling of my biceps, my thighs, and my stomach as blood was pressed inward and away from the extremities. The bouncing heave-ho of the time waves, rocking my body to and fro. My eyes rolled back, presaging G-LOC. It was interesting that the weight was under my fingernails. In the crevices of my toes. It was everywhere. The pressure was ubiquitous. It felt like it was ripping my eyelids down. Yanking at my elbows. The hair inside my ears was buzzing with an electrical static that rang like a deafening bell. My vision receded to the size of a pin. My senses lost reliability. My consciousness bobbed in the waves, struggling to keep its head above water. The whomping sound of ataxia and loss of consciousness reverberated in my ears. But I hung in there. Until the space around me began to blur and warp. The space my eyes were glued to was like a mirror--smooth as glass--and then, suddenly, like an ocean wave, turbid and murky. The alternating, vibrating current of space finally cracked open like an egg to reveal a white and slightly yellowed void within, like Calcutta gold and feathered, seared marshmallows. Hard and soft. Hard as glass and soft as a vault of goose feathers. White as cotton but yellowed like just smoked ground tobacco in filtered rolling papers. As I passed out, it occurred to me that man wasn’t meant to take this journey. But I had no choice. * * * I kicked open the metal door as the smoking heap of flaming metal hissed, crackled, and popped. It could have been worse. At least I didn’t need the jaws of life. The yard of the Hilton Housing Project was full of browning grass choking for life, just like I remembered it. Home sweet home! If there was any way to trace it back to me, I would have received a citation for the condition of this jumper. I just had to finagle the instruments so that no one discovered that this thing was coming in from an illegal jump zone, a time when travel was banned. The last thing I needed was the authorities on my tail. First things first. Boris. I knocked on the door of his apartment until he finally came to the door in his boxers. “I’m out,” I said. “Out of what?” “Out of your get-rich-quick scheme. Out for good. And if my name comes up or you come see me to bring it up again, you are going to be on your way to the East Jersey State Pen.” “You’re going to rat on me?” “In a heartbeat.” “Bro, what did I do to you?” “This is going to hurt me more than it is going to hurt you--but I’m not taking any chances.” And with that I sucker-punched Boris, laying him out. I took the hand ties and tied his hands behind his back. Next, I tied him to the bedpost, sitting up and looking stupid. Finally, I called Special Agent Felder and left him an anonymous tip. My ruby-flare-colored Toyota Corolla felt like a performance vehicle after the bumpy ride on that time yacht. * * * By this time, Daryna and I had been separated for six months. She was back living with her mom out on Coney Island, and Katya with her. I drove out there to see Katya. She was there waiting at the door with her plush sloth doll. I took her for a walk down to the amusements. “If you don’t come home with me today, Daddy, I will never forgive you,” she said. I pinched her nose and said, “I’m coming back to stay, malýshka. Everything is going to be okay.”

The bell above the door tinkled as I pushed into the convenience store. I needed a few snacks and to pay for the gas. I couldn’t get over how here in the West people still had to go into the store to pay for gas. So much of this trip had felt like a step back in time. I grabbed the healthiest things I could and was surprised that there was fresh fruit in a basket. The price was nice, too. There was also a little stand of “freshly pressed” juices. How fresh could it be? But it did have a local farm sign next to it, so I grabbed a bottle. “You’ll want to grab you two of those,” called a voice from the front. “They’re that good, are they?” I called back. “Oh, yes! And Ms. Elsie don’t have much stock left.” I decided to humor the man and picked up a second bottle. Placing my items on the counter, I told the man, “I also have the blue car at pump two.” While the old man rang up my items, he started, “Oh yes, Mrs. Elsie makes the best juices for miles and miles around. Nice and fresh. That’ll keep you cool as the day heats up. Now, I don’t think I seen you around here before. You new around here?” “Oh, I’m just passing through.” “We get a lot of that. Now did you check your oil and tires while you were here? It’s a ways to the next station unless you’re turning off somewhere soon.” “Yes, sir. I checked all my fluids and the tire pressure. My daddy drilled that in my head.” “Ooh! He raised you right!” I couldn’t help but smile at the man (Ched by the name on his shirt). He reminded me a lot of my father. He seemed genuinely interested in talking to me and sincere in his concern about my ride. “Now, you going down Highway 22 toward the Capital?” “No, just staying on Highway 74 to Café Haven.” Ched frowned. “The half-way point on the road with no end?” “Yes, sir.” Ched’s frown turned into disappointment, but all he said was, “You be safe now, you hear?” “Yes, sir,” I replied as I gathered my items and headed back to my car. Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” played on the radio as I bopped along. The song had always resonated with me. I couldn’t help but smile thinking about Ched. He seemed like a man from another time. So genuine, a genuineness that I hadn’t seen in so long I had forgotten that people could be interested in other’s existences. His frown at Café Haven, though, struck me. Surely, he saw people passing by that had found the fulfillment of their dreams, their bliss, at Café Haven. But also, why did Café Haven look no closer on my GPS? I had been driving for hours. I lost myself in the music and tried to enjoy the landscape. The flat, dry, treeless tan that stretched as far as the eye could see was so different from the Big City; but I loved a good adventure and exploring the different, so I soaked it all in. Another hour passed and my attention started to drift. Suddenly a giant rodent...or perhaps a tumbleweed, flashed out into the road. I swerved. I hit an unseen pothole. Pop... and the steering wheel seemed to have a mind of its own. By the tug on the wheel and the noise from the road, I knew that I had a busted tire. I pulled over to the side of the road at an intersection with a smaller highway completely prepared to put the spare on myself. As much as I could, though, I hated changing the tires on a car. I was just squatting by the rear tire, tools by my side, ready to loosen the lug nuts, when a shadow passed over me. Looking up, I saw a woman a few years older than I. Her hair was swept in a messy ponytail and her white shirt was stained. She looked like a no-nonsense person from the start. “Hi. Need a hand?” she asked, getting right down to business. She didn’t wait for an answer but turned and waved her hand. I leaned over and saw a minivan, well-loved but not broken down, and a gangly teenage boy hop out of the passenger side. “Give this lady a hand please,” the woman addressed the boy. He looked at me and only said, “I got this ma’am.” I was so confused by the rapid change of things that I just stood up without thinking and moved out of the way. I finally found my voice. “Oh! Well, thank you. I don’t want to trouble you though. I do know how to do this,” I finally stuttered out. “No trouble, ma’am,” was all the boy said as he got to work. I didn’t know if I should be offended that they just assumed I needed help or by him calling me ma’am so much. I was still so lost that I was startled when I felt something cold on my arm. “Oh!” “Sorry, ma’am,” came a squeak from a younger boy who could have been the gangly teen five years earlier. “Here’s a water.” I took the water bottle and the little one scampered back to the side of the minivan. “Sorry about that, Miss,” the woman was speaking again. “I’m trying to teach him to announce his presence, but he likes sneaking up on people. I’m May. May McCardle. These are my boys, Jake and Harris.” “Hi, I’m Marielle. I really appreciate the help, but I really hope I’m not inconveniencing you. It’s really quite sweet of you all to help.” I tried to mean the words, but I also put my hand on the small of my back as if to stretch. I surreptitiously checked that my cell phone was in my back pocket. I could run if I had to. I had never had strangers just offer to help me out for no reason. I was frightened to say the least...but also glad to not have to get greasy. The woman gave a nice laugh. “It’s okay,” and she winked at me. “You aren’t from around here.” I wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question. I tried to laugh and keep my answer light. “What makes you think that?” She laughed again. “It’s a rental car, and you don’t seem used to Western hospitality. We don’t leave people stranded on the side of the road. It’s too remote and too hot. It’s dangerous.” “Oh!” I relaxed a little. “Yes, well, thank you again.” The gangly teen made quick work of the tire, and the woman and I had only a few minutes to chat about the area. I kept an eye on the teen to make sure he wasn’t messing up anything - accidentally or on purpose. When he was finished, I thanked them again and tried to pay the boy. His mother was adamant that I not. She believed in doing good for the sake of doing good, but she appreciated the sentiment. As we started to part ways and both boys were back in the minivan, she finally asked, “Where are you headed anyway?” “Café Haven in the middle of Highway 74.” “The road with no end?” she asked. She frowned as Ched did. “Well, okay.” May seemed as if she wanted to say something else, but then she said, “Good-bye and good luck.” With that, she turned right on the connecting highway, I continued down Highway 74. I turned back on the radio and Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” was playing again. Man, the West sure loves it’s 80’s hair bands. For some reason I wasn’t feeling as into the song as I normally do. I changed the station and Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’” rang out. The song selections were starting to unnerve me. I tuned the radio again and was met by some current pop hit that sounded like all the others. Good enough to shake my shoulders to as I cruised on. Hours later and the sun was moving quickly to the horizon. I checked my phone and realized I had service. I checked the GPS, but Café Haven had moved no closer to me. I messaged my friend...again. I noticed a station up ahead and decided it was time to hydrate and dehydrate and check the car. Just as I was pulling in, there was a loud clang under the hood of the car and smoke seeped from the edges. A shout of frustration escaped my mouth. I was able to maneuver the car into an out of the way parking spot in the station’s lot. I banged my head on the steering wheel and let the tears drop into my lap. My mind filled with the stress of what waited for me back at work, the silence of my friend, the foreignness of here, the flat tire, and now the busted engine. The tears just continued to fall. “You okay, Miss? You really shouldn’t stay in your car with it smoking like that.” I look up and into a set of beautiful hazel eyes. It was as if I was looking at a solar eclipse, a golden sunburst spreading out into an emerald ring. I quickly wiped my eyes. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. Just having the worst luck.” The owner of the eyes seemed about my age and quite attractive. He was dusty and casual which I had discovered was typical of the locals. He held the car door open as I grabbed my bag and got out. Of course, my cell phone was no longer in service. “Do you think the station has a phone? I guess I need to call the rental company.” “Sure. Old Man Luke has one at the counter in the store. He’ll help you out.” The call to the rental company didn’t go well. I couldn’t stop the feelings of despair. I let my head fall onto my arms and concentrated on taking deep breaths. “There now, young lady. Drink this. We’ll fix you right up.” Old Man Luke had placed a steaming hot cup of something beside me. The warmth of the mug was comforting despite it being a hot day. He had a kind smile that reached his crinkly eyes behind his thick glasses. His warmth and genuineness reminded me of Ched so much I wondered if they were brothers. I picked up the cup and took a sip and was startled. “Is this orange juice?” “Freshly squeezed,” he beamed. “Better than tea or coffee. Plenty of vitamins. It’s a local favorite remedy for anything that gets you down.” I looked skeptically at the mug but took another sip. And another. Hot orange juice. Who knew? “Ah, good,” Old Man Luke seemed pleased with my sips. “Now tell me what’s going on.” “The rental agency said they would send a tow truck out and I could pick up another car. Apparently, this one was not supposed to be rented out.” “Well, that’s good!” “The tow truck can’t get here for three days,” I continued, “and the new rental is in New Hope. Where is that?” “Ah, that’s a couple hours down Highway 74.” “Well, at least that’s in the right direction, but I don’t suppose there’s a bus that runs from here to there.” Old Man Luke scratched his head and considered the situation. “No,” he said slowly. “No bus around here. The rental can stay here until the tow gets here. Getting to New Hope...” He thought some more. “Hey, Luke,” the man with the eyes had come into the convenience store. “Did you-“ He stopped short when he saw me, the mug, and, I’m sure, my tear-stained face. “Sorry, to interrupt.” “It’s fine,” I said. “I’m just taking it all in. Go ahead.” Old Man Luke’s eyes lit up. “Cort, son, aren’t you heading back to New Hope today?” Cort, as he was called, looked suspiciously at Luke. “Yeeees,” he drew out. “Why?” “Well, this young lady needs to get there to get her a new car for her adventure.” Old Man Luke said nothing else but looked expectantly at Cort. The seconds ticked by uncomfortably. I tried to save us both. “Oh, no, I could never impose like that. Surely there a bus or train or taxi service...” Cort looked at me. “No to all three. It’s no imposition, but I do want to leave as soon as possible if you need to grab food or use the toilet.” Cort turned to Luke, apparently assuming the deal was done. “Did you get that package I ordered?” As the two men talked, I went to the bathroom in a fog. Was I really getting into a car with a total stranger? Was a total stranger really willing just to give me a ride, a ride that would be several hours? We hadn’t even discussed how much it would cost. Was this safe? I came out of the bathroom and found Cort standing next to a truck. Just like the minivan from earlier, it looked well-used but certainly not broken down. He was looking at his phone. “You have service?” was my way of greeting him. He looked at me and grinned. “You have to be a local to get service around here.” And he winked at me. Once more I was taken aback by the ease and openness of the people. Cort opened the passenger door, but I hesitated. He smiled again. “Strangers are often taken aback by the ways of the West. We take care of people around here. We stop for people on the side of the road. We give hitchhikers a ride. We feed and comfort those who need it. I promise to get you safely to New Hope.” Oddly satisfied, I hopped in the truck. Cort closed the door and got in on the other side. Whitesnake’s “Here I go Again” came on the radio, and Cort immediately changed the station. An even older tune came on that I couldn’t quite place. We rode for a while not speaking. I watched the landscape roll by. “Life in the city must be tough,” Cort said out of the blue. “Excuse me?” What he said hadn’t quite registered. “The Big City. It doesn’t seem like people help each other much there. Seems kinda lonely.” “I can’t argue with that.” “What’s in New Hope for you?” “Oh, I’m just picking up the new rental. I’m meeting a friend at Café Haven.” “At the middle of the road with no end?” And the frown of disappointment crossed Cort’s face. “Ok,” I said. “Every time I say where I’m going people frown and look disappointed. Don’t you people want people to find their bliss?” “Well,” Cort seemed to be considering his words carefully. “Highway 74 doesn’t end.” “Yes?” “Highway 74. No end means no middle. Café Haven has always been a legend, just a dream people chase until they are crazy.” I couldn’t help it. The tears started again. I was so embarrassed. My cheeks burned from a thousand suns. The obvious reality of it all hit me hard. “I’m so stupid,” I whispered. “Chasing a dream. Of course, people just made up finding it.” I turned my face to the window trying to keep him from seeing my tears. Cort let me cry. After a few minutes, I felt a hand enclose mine. He didn’t ask, but it spilled out anyway. “I’ve heard all my life that bliss could be found at Café Haven. People returned and said they had found it. I never let myself see they were just as miserable as before. I’m so drained back home, I put everything in this trip when my friend called saying this would be exactly what I needed. Why would my friend do this to me? My friend won’t even return my messages now.” I sobbed. Cort squeezed my hand. I wiped my tears. We changed the subject and spent the next few hours in easy conversation. We laughed. We shared deeply personal stories. We told silly anecdotes. I was surprised at how easy it was to talk to Cort, much as I was surprised by so much I had seen in the West. I was surprised at how fast the time had passed when Cort pulled into the station at New Hope where my new rental was waiting. Cort stayed with me as I got the new rental all checked out. “Are you continuing on Highway 74?” he asked. “I have to,” I shrugged. “Maybe the bliss is in the chase?” “That's lonely." Cort paused and then, "Dreams can be built with the right people.” Cort gave me a big hug. It felt so comfortable considering I had only just met the man. “Well, I’m turning here, heading into town. There is a great little diner with the best pie on Main Street that I’m going to have dinner at.” I smiled, and he held open the car door as I climbed in, ready to keep west on Highway 74. “You know,” Cort paused before closing the door. I buckled the seat belt and looked up into those hazel eyes. The sunbursts around his pupils were more pronounced, overtaking the emerald. “You know the thing about roads that have no end, you just have to choose to turn off them. New Hope is full of people who chose to build their dreams on a side road.” He closed the door, and I watched as he climbed into his truck. He gave a little wave as he turned south into town. I sat and sighed. I turned the car on and pulled out of the station. I looked west down Highway 74. Then I turned south into town. Pie sounded like a delicious idea.

“When life gives you lemons-” Yes, I know the fucking phrase. So help me Christ don’t finish it or I’ll snap your legs off and use them to stir a bathtub filled with your remains. As you can plainly see, I am in fact squeezing lemons to make lemonade. But it’ll take a damn eternity to squeeze them all. Why do I have a mountain of 26,687 mother fucking lemons on my front lawn? Couldn’t say. Woke up and there they fucking were. Only thing I know for certain is nobody asked me before they dumped all these stupid, shitty lemons here. Because believe you me, I woulda said “no.” Not just “no” but an emphatic “hell fucking no.” “Hell fucking no, I don’t want this avalanche of bitter scrotums. You massive dick.” Beautiful day too, perfect for a BBQ. But of course, my grill’s buried under heaps of lemons so high, they block out the goddamn sun. And of course, aforementioned goddamn sun is quickly ripening all these sickening lemons into a rancid mush that every insect in the country is flocking to. Because apparently insects are huge fucking assholes. So yes, I’m squeezing these sons of bitches. I’m squeezing these little bastards as fast as I fucking can. I’m about 863 lemons in, but who’s counting? Me, that’s who. I’m a prisoner marking his sentence, yearning to be free of this plague of lemons. This pox of lemons. This ebola-outbreak-in-a-major-urban-area of lemons. Jesus, just looking at all those flaxen sphincters is making me wish I died of scurvy. You ever had lemon juice squirted in you eyes? How about 863 times? Goddamit! Make that 864. Sure it stings like a bastard but at least each eyeful of this acid piss momentarily distracts me from the fact that I now have carpal tunnel in both wrists. Lemon induced carpal tunnel. Try explaining that one to your insurance provider. Not that I can go to the doctor anyway. Too many lemons to squeeze. Also, a freaking metric-ton of lemons crushed my car. Only had three payments left on that piece of shit too. Oh, not only that but my daughter hates me now. She walked onto the lawn this morning with this little cardboard sign. Apparently she’d independently decided to set up a lemonade stand today, selling it for fifty cents a glass. Well, she took one look at me and this yellow cesspool and quickly realized I’d flooded the market, drastically depreciating lemonade prices all down the block. She instantly burst into tears. It’s hard not to feel like a fucking prick about that. Which is also what she called me before digging her severely dented bike out of a mound of lemons and screaming that she was running away from home. I have no doubt that this supply-side trauma will lead her down a path of hard drugs. Because she mentioned that as well. So feel free to have a sip of this lemon discharge. Or a gulp. Or an IV drip. Just get rid of as much of this never-ending citrus nightmare as you can. Please I beg you. I’m running out of receptacles. I’ve used all my jugs, cups, bowls and have now resorted to filling hats with this sour urine. Cause you see, I may be squeezing these lemons but they’ve squeezed far more out of me than I ever could have imagined. My blood, my sweat, my tears. My dignity, my self-respect, my zest for life. I’m now nothing more than an empty rind of a man, waiting to be mashed into oblivion. Also, before you lift that cowboy hat, I should mention, this lemonade’s pretty fucking tart. Could probably use some sugar if you have any. ​ If you made it this far, thanks for reading.

The clouds are completely still in the sky. Each little fleck of winding grey vapor perfectly frozen in place, like someone had taken a photo and suspended it in the sky. All of us in this town are used to such a sight by now, it was one that occurred every week. It marked the arrival of the train. I could hear the freakish howling of its rusted wheels echo through the valley. How it reaches us we still don't know. There isn't any one left alive to set it in motion. More troubling is where the train goes. I have followed the track and found the end of the line: the crumbled remains of a bridge. It would seem that it had nowhere to go and no way of getting back and yet it returns to us every single week. I can see the stream of black smoke approaching. Over the weeks many people have gotten aboard the train. We never see them again. Everyone just assumes they're dead. The long grey body of the train glides around the corner, it's rusted bolts and warped ridges coming into view. The engine is totally silent, the only noise coming from the rough metal of the wheels scraping against the tracks. It comes to a stop and the doors open. As usual, it's empty. I can't stand not knowing anymore. This week, I will be the one that boards. I move my leg forwards slowly, just placing the tips of my toes in the carriage. I breathe in deeply, eyes focused on the gap between the train and the platform. Would I die if I step in this train? Even if I did, would that matter? I felt the worn skin of my hands from the endless hours I had spent in the fields. Would I rather return and never know, or would I rather risk death? I breathe out slowly. Grasping the rough metal of the door frame, I cross over the gap and into the carriage. The doors slide shut. The carriage wobbles slightly as the steam engine awakens. The wheels begin to turn and I see my town fading into the distance. A pale red carpet lay across the floor of the carriage. Moss and fungus had grown over most of the windows and lined the interior. The white paint was peeling off and is covered in sour yellow blotches. Much to my dismay, there aren't any seats around. Looking through the door to the next carriage, I can see what must be the driver's compartment up ahead. I push the door open and walk into the next carriage. It's the same as the previous one. The carpet is stiff, more like wood than fabric. As I open the door to the driver's compartment and step in, I find myself stepping onto the stiff red carpet. I quickly glance up. Another carriage stretches out in front of me, the driver's compartment seemingly behind the door up ahead. I walk quickly through this carriage and open the door, only to find myself setting foot into another carriage. I begin to run and keep going through a seemingly endless amount of carriages. I collapse to the floor breathing quickly, sweat dripping from my forehead. My heart aches and my body feels heavy. I grasp onto the wall and pull myself up. Outside, I can see water. Just water, stretching for miles and miles. I glance back and see the same endless ocean out of the other windows. I feel the train beginning to slow down. I clutch tightly onto my chest and try to slow my breath. As I looked closer at the water I could see that like the clouds, it was frozen in place. The train glides slowly to a stop. The worn metal of the door grinds against the frame as they heave themselves open. I pick myself up gently and look out the door. Small gems of light danced across the surface of the water as the sun shone down on the ocean. My hands are shaking uncontrollably as I reach down to touch the ocean. I feel each ridge of the water. It doesn't feel cold or hot, it doesn't feel like anything. My hand just moves across its surface without any sort of sensation. I step out carefully and walk forward. The ocean feels totally flat beneath my feet. I stood totally still, my heart still aching. The gems of light began to move forwards across each ridge of the water, gathering at a single point in front of me. The light rose up from the surface of the water and started to take shape. It soon became clear what the light was forming. It was a human figure. The light began to settle and fade, the detail of the figure becoming much clearer. It was a women, much taller than me. Her arms and legs are very slender and long. Her skin is white like snow and clung tightly to every bone in her body. Her eyes are perfectly spherical, she has no eyelids, instead the flesh seems to curve smoothly inward to form eye sockets. She had no hair anywhere on her body. Where her nose should be there was only smooth skin. Her lips where very thin and her mouth stretched across most of her face. I could barely breath. I wanted to run back onto the train but my entire body felt stuck in place. "I can see you" Her voice is like velvet. I can almost feel it flowing over and around my body. My heart felt so heavy, like it could fall through my chest at any moment. "Why do you fear me?" I opened my mouth to answer. All I managed was a small croak. My throat was so dry. She tilted her head slightly and raised her long arms up, draping them over my shoulders. I finally manage to push out a sentence. "W-who... are you?" "I'm the one that waits for you until there is no more light." She steps back slightly and stares directly into my eyes. I can't look away. It feels as though iron clamps are keeping my head in place. I can't make my eyes look away. I mutter quietly, "where am I?" "You are in the place things go when they are no longer in sight." Her eyes feel like they are pulling me towards her. Sweat drips down my forehead. My legs feel weak. It feels as though a thick fog has enveloped my mind. "W-where are the others that boarded that train?" She arches her back slightly and move closer. "They are right here with me" "With... you?" "I feel them moving. I hear their thoughts and I feel their fear. They thrash and writhe and scream, but they do not understand that they are safe with me." I desperately try to hold back the urge to vomit. I feel a lump in my throat. I want to cry. The sky begins to fade away, revealing bright colours streaking quickly by. The ocean begins to move again, small waves lapping over my feet. Large clocks begin to rise and float on the surface. The sound of their ticking is like an explosion ringing through my head, piercing my body and my mind. She was now right in front of my face. "Do you remember the moment when your town became the last on Earth?" "I... no... It feels like things have... always been that way. What's going on? Please, please tell me." "Your town has been the last for a very long time. Everyone else, I took away. The tracks get shorter and I get closer whenever one of you boards that train." The colours in the sky spin and warp into a liquid. It drips over my body and seeps into my eyes. I can no longer see. I feel as though I am floating away from my body. Like the very walls of my mind are melting away. In the distance, I can hear something. Like glass being shattered. I feel myself falling towards the sound, the ticking of the clocks getting quieter and quieter. My vision begins to return, and I am looking at myself. The sound is clear to me now: it is the screaming of millions of people. I see the skin of my body begin to turn grey. It shrivels and clings to my skull before it starts to peel away and maggots crawl through my bones. The women moves her arms off my body, and it becomes clear I am seeing through her eyes. She walks back and the tide of the ocean beneath her grows slowly stronger and stronger. She lets herself be carried away as the sun emerges from the black sky. As the light dances and hops across the water, I feel my thoughts drift into the sea. I don't even remember my own name, or where I came from. I feel millions of hands pull my mind apart like it is liquid. My thoughts shine bright blue in the inky black vortex of screaming, before being pulled apart by its current. Their colour fades to black.

“Okay, be quick about it. The sun’s going to set soon.” Henry says, glancing over his shoulder at the horizon. “There isn’t much time.” “Okay, okay,” I, an interviewer with the local news, says. “So, you’re a vampire?” “Yes.” Henry nods. “But you can’t go out at night?” “Yes.” He nods, again. “I also can’t go into darkness or shadows. Anything but light burns my skin.” He raises his tan hand, a dark scorch mark runs across the back of his hand and wrist. “Want to know how I got this?” “I--uh, sure, yeah.” Henry crosses the space between us and our eyes lock, and he places his fingers against my temples and oh my God. It’s like I’m floating above us, another me standing dazed with Henry’s fingers to my head. The vision blurs, swirls, twists, and I’m hovering above Henry standing on the sidewalk in the middle of the day, looking down at the ground. I can’t see what he’s staring at, then I am next to him. There’s a grass yard, shadowed by a gabled house. Henry is holding an empty waffle ice cream cone, and in the yard is a ball of what seems to be strawberry ice cream. His teary eyes are strained, focused, and his fingers are tittering against his lag. He’s debating, hesitant. He stands on the shadow’s edge, lets out an exaggerated exhale and lunges for the ice cream-- I’m thrown back into my body and Henry steps back. “You see?” he says. “Terrible, isn’t it? Strawberry is my favorite flavor.” He continues walking down the sidewalk. It takes me a moment to shake the haze from my mind, then I catch up to him. “Yeah-- uh, yeah, sorry; that must suck.” He nods. “It does.” “Anyway, my next question: uninvited places. In stories, vampires can’t enter places unless they’re invited in. Is this true?” “It is,” he says, but shakes his head. “But, not for me.” “How so?” “I can only enter places I’m not allowed in.” “What?” “Like,” he starts to say, stops walking, and glances around the houses lining the street. “Ah!” He spins me around and points with a skeletal finger. “You see that house, there?” “Which one?” “The brown one with white trim, there; right there!” I nod. “Oh, yeah, that one with the ‘No Trespassing’ sign in the yard?” “Yes, yes, that one. Places like that I can enter.” “But not places you’re allowed in, like coffee shops or malls or any of these houses with no signs?” “Correct.” I face him, rub my forehead. Can’t anyone do that? I think, but ask: “So you’re saying if I were to invite you into my home you couldn’t come in, yet if I told you that you weren’t allowed in, you could?” He smiles, revealing two pearly sharpened fangs. “Yes, yes! Now you underst--” His eyes widen, and horror streaks his face. “Oh, oh God!” “What?” I say. “What’s happening?” “The sun, it’s setting!” he points towards the horizon. I look to where he’s pointing, and he’s right, it’s setting. The sky is awash in burning orange and yellow. the sun a sinking red-orange orb. “I must go!” he shouts, and sprints away, turning at the end of the street and disappears behind a house. If you enjoyed the story and want to read more of my work, visit my and consider subscribing.

They are all beautiful until you get to know them. I catch a glimpse of them from across the bar and a lifetime of non-existent memories flood my mind. Sometimes choosing to stay strangers is the best thing. A thankless job yet, fruitful. Then they remain beautiful. Or maybe they find you beautiful and then you are the one who lets them down. There are those few times when you cave in to the desire and decide to talk to that beautiful stranger. Please, don’t do it. She had the eyes that looked like a black hole and no not in the “they are empty” kind of way but rather, they encompassed everything. She drew me in and had of way of staring up at me despite being much taller. She had legs that never ended, you can trace them with your eyes and you would get lost along the way. She was slow poured wine and I wanted a taste. She was recently divorced and was out enjoying her newfound freedom. She was sitting at the bar with a couple of friends and I happened to walk by and noticed those eyes. A playful taunt and unintentional were those eyes, god damn. “Wow you are beautiful”. She radiated a smile and I cannot remember what she said as I was intoxicated and was speaking purely out of misguided courage. She even told me her name which I immediately forgot. You see I never thought anything of it. I did not see her as something I had to have but rather I was exclaiming at the sight of something rare. I would leave her side and I won’t be a liar when I say she stopped existing in my mind. Being a regular at a bar means you meet legions of strangers. You also see the other melting faces on a regular basis. So unless someone becomes a staple then they tend to slip into the aether. So enjoying her freedom, she would come back fairly soon. Clara was her name and this time she had a male friend with her. A potbellied, red eyed, red faced and ornery man. I sat down and ordered my drink then Clara made her way to me. She sat down, lifted her long legs and pressed her knees against the bar for support. There they were, those damned things. I struggled to maintain eye contact as she talked to me. “Remember me?” Clara asked. “I’m sorry but I would be a liar if I said I did”. I replied “You called me beautiful and your name is Charles right?” “Oh yes, you had some friends with you?” At that moment the red faced man walks up to me. “You were hitting on my girl?” The man asks. “Yes, I did call her beautiful”. I replied. “If you’re intimidated by me then you have bigger issues”. He chuckled and walked away. Clara tilted her head looking at me and smiled. I had no reason to fear this man and my comment was purely innocent. We continued to converse and I, again, did not think anything of it. Couple of days passed and I had been around the local spots and again she eluded my mind. Pretty faces are a dime a dozen though she was particularly attractive, I maintained a certain amount of expectations or rather none at all. Then at the same bar where I met the red eyed man I would see her again. This time she was finally alone. Leg pressed against the bar with a Corona in her hand. I sat down beside her and she welcomed me. Tilting her head and smiling the whole time. I would get lost in the black holes that were her eyes. Clara and I would end up on the patio for a smoke where she would retrieve a small vial containing cocaine. I smiled at the audacity, sure we were alone but something as taboo as Colombian bam bam is not an everyday thing. People usually pull out a joint but, cocaine? Now I particularly do not enjoy weed as it makes you dull and lazy while this other stuff makes you superman. Clara proceeded to intake the substance and handed it to me. Now what made her think that I was a user eluded me for a second then I remembered I was wearing a cocaine movie poster shirt. I remember feeling some pride when I received a message from her one night asking if I wanted to drink with her. We met up and I proceeded to get pretty wasted but she drank slowly and was there more so for the conversation. She always tilted her head and smiled. Those black holes kept me put and we just talked. I would eventually forget about her legs and it was all about her eyes, I wanted to live there. We would play at a local retro arcade and proceeded to find a nook and this mad woman pulled out the vial and hand fed me. Within was a do not enter sign on a door and Clara tried the handle. “I want to see if we can get on the roof”. She said, Now I am guilty of some misdeeds but breaking and entering was not typical. Seeing as I was in a superman mood and Clara was a foul temptress, I pulled out my debit card and began working at the door. I had no idea of what I was doing but I wanted to give her an adventure, you know the kind you read about. She nudges me as an employee walks towards us. I doubted we could get in too much trouble seeing as it wasn’t a bank or a car but I dropped it, I had made no progress. We sat back down and I reached out for her hand. She withdrew and smiled. “I’m only looking for friends”. There they were. Those dreaded words. “Friends can hold hands, friends can do a lot of things”. I replied. I’ve had those kinds of friends before. “I’d prefer not to”. “Say no more I don’t want to spoil the night, forget about it”. We would continue to hang out and I didn’t mind. I was just prideful she chose to be around me. Then, one day, we ended up back at my place. We sat on the back patio and snorted blow and drank beer. I turned on an audio book by Charles Bukowski and Will Patton proceeded to put on quite a show. She would laugh and we would pause the book to discuss the moment. It was just us beneath the moon at three A.M listening to a short story about the most beautiful girl in town and there I was talking to the most beautiful girl in town. I asked her to stay the night and watch Dirty Dancing, she insisted on getting sleep but she was tempted considering it was her favorite movie. Now I did not have previous knowledge of this, it was just a lucky guess. When people are good friends they tend to have this telepathy, they are entangled in this “cosmic thread” and they can read each other. Then the eyes started glaring. The rumors began and the accusations followed. “She’s using you”. or “I don’t trust her,” they would say. I have nothing to be used for. I had no money, no house that I owned. She would pay her own tab and she shared her stash. They weren’t there to see our moments. They were beautiful moments, moments you would fall in love with, dangerous moments that could ruin a beautiful friendship. Then there was this moment. She visited my new apartment in which I had yet to finish moving in. We drank and smoked cigarettes as usual and we made our way to the couch. I gave her a blanket and she laid those long legs next to mine as we watched Dirty Dancing. The movie is made better when you realize Baby does not say anything when people begin to accuse her of being judgmental or somehow a villain. She is just there. We laughed and cuddled. I rubbed her hair, I leaned over and kissed her forehead. Clara looked back and smiled. She had this expression of content and it ate my soul. She closed her eyes and fell asleep. I went to my room where I had yet to move in the bed but I had an inflatable mattress. Now I am not proud to say I had the most beautiful woman in town sleep on an air mattress but, I had the most beautiful woman in town sleep on an air mattress. I pumped the air in while she was asleep on the couch. I thought if she didn’t hear the pump that it would make the situation a little more tolerable. I caressed her head and woke her up gently. She opened those eyes in which I lived. “Let’s go lay down”. I said. She followed me to the room and smiled. She laid down and was surprised the blankets smelled pleasant. We slept. The following morning my hands traveled around her legs and torso. I would travel underneath her shorts just beneath the waistband and felt no resistance. I teased her. Then I tried for her breast but she swatted my hand. “Don’t do that”. Clara says. “Oh! I guess I pushed my limits for today”. I replied I got up and made her coffee. Weeks went by and I hadn’t heard from Clara. I was bored and this time she had not eluded my mind. She had taken up valuable realty in there. I was riding this wave of pride because of that night. I sent her a message saying “Planet earth to Major Tom '' to which I received a hand waving emoji. I then remembered my status as “friend”. I left her alone. No one likes a needy partner let alone a needy friend. I tried to find other women to take up my time. I met this girl named Kimberly. She was also beautiful and taller than me. Everyone is. I’m unusually short for a man and not in the best shape. Now how I managed to procure two beautiful women was beyond me. I have had several partners in the past but I have not been very confident lately. Clara had boosted my ego and I was using it. Now Kimberly was not anything like Clara. She was very opinionated and talkative. I tried to show her some of my short stories which she tore apart. I usually use a typewriter then move them to a PC so they are full of junk and just hard to read. I tried explaining that to Kimberly but she had her ways. We hung out on the patio at the red faced man bar. She lit up a cigar which I found very attractive. It made her sexy somehow. She pulled out this kit with the clipper thing and a torch and it was just damn sexy. Now our conversations were pretty surface level and didn’t have any sense of intimacy. It felt like it was going nowhere and I could feel her distance. Some kid walked up and proceeded to talk to us. Her attention was directed to him for some time and I slipped away without saying goodbye. I wanted to see Clara but I didn’t dare message her. I found a job as a line cook and it was an intense job. A family owned bar with high volume that served shitty bar food. It was a busy Saturday night and I was cursing god and wishing death on everybody that walked through the front door. You could feel the sweat drip down your ass crack and tickets just came pouring in. My phone was hardwired to a speaker and some classic rock was playing when I heard a message come in. “Are you working?” Clara asked. “I get off at ten, meet me here, we’ll have a couple of drinks”. “I would love that”. Suddenly the night wasn’t so bad. The tickets were only there as a time waster now. I had something to look forward to. I was off a little after ten and walked to the dining area and there she was. I pulled her away from some stranger and we talked. She told me about how she had a shitty couple of days and she spent it at home, in bed crying. I comforted Clara and invited her back to my spot. We sat in the back smoking and drinking whiskey. She asked me to put on that audio book again and we shared a pleasant memory. She looked at me satisfied. “Awe you like me”. I said “Yes I do, you don’t pressure me for sex or want to give me anything, you’re just content with my company”. “Aww you’re so lame”. We shared a laugh. “I like you too Clara, you’re beautiful inside and out. We continued to talk and our views on sex came up somehow. I said I never kiss one night stands because I feel as though kissing is more personal. I felt a good fuck was less personal. She explained that she held both to be pleasurable regardless of intimacy. We watched TV and drank whiskey and spooned. I kissed her head and rubbed her legs and arms. “Kiss me”. I said. “No, you told me how you feel about kissing, I don’t want to lead you on.” “I, regardless of my height, am a grown ass man. Trust me I can handle this”. She laughed “No I trust you but, no”. I stopped my advances and asked her to go to bed. There I caressed her body again but this time I pulled her in and kissed the back of her neck. I breathed heavily close to her skin and could see the goosebumps. She turned around and straddled me. “Do you have protection?” She asked “No”. “What the fuck!” I never considered this would occur and I had not been active for a couple of months. At this moment though I was just enjoying her enthusiasm. I pinned her down and tore off her shirt and pulled her pants off. She was enjoying every moment of my invasion. I kissed her torso and hips and cunt. “Kiss me”. I repeated. “No, fuck me”. Clara moaned. “Only if you Kiss me”. She leaned forward and kissed me on the lips and I grabbed her head and bit her lips. I wanted to devour her. I wanted to dive into her body, mind and spirit. I wanted her to want me and there she was. “Fuck me” Clara moaned again. “No”. I replied. She had turned me down from holding hands to touching and kissing and wanted her to feel what I felt. She finally wanted me and I had Clara melting on my lap. She kissed me again, with intent and passion. She was on fire and I was basking in her heat. I wanted to tease her, to drive her wild, to think of me when I wasn’t around. I wanted to turn her down to remind her that I wasn’t after her body, I did not want to give her anything I just wanted her time. This was our moment. We wrestled and jumped on each other's faces, she would grab at my cock and I would tease her every which way. We would finally settle with a glass of whiskey and some slow music. She laid on my chest and we sang along and kissed. She would squeeze my arms and rub my body. This was the kind of moment people fall in love. If I could fall, if she could fall, we would fall. Neither of us fell or at least we didn’t know it. It has been so long that the sensation is alien to me. I offered to make her breakfast at my bar that morning and she accepted. I kissed her goodbye and went to work. A couple of hours went by and she was nowhere. I finally received a message that she wasn’t going to make it. I said that it was OK and I’ll see you soon. That Sunday proceeded to be just as miserable as the night before. Days would pass and I had not heard from her. I messaged her about some party to which she declined. I messaged her again about hanging out on my day off. To which I received no response. I would show up to the red faced man’s bar and I would walk in to see her there with some stranger. I tried to greet her but she turned her shoulder. I greeted the stranger and had a drink with another friend. I could see her across the bar but I didn’t make eye contact. I went outside for a smoke and when I returned Clara was gone. The stranger was still there but she had pulled that Irish goodbye. The night went on and I got drunk. My rage grew and I wanted answers. “So you’re going to shun me? I think I deserve better than this.” I sent her a message. No response. I never did see or hear from her again. Clara just disappeared from Earth, into the aether. No response to my last message. No show at the red eyed man’s bar. Just nowhere. I talked to that beautiful stranger and we made up a story. No ending. I still listen to the most beautiful women in town. Cass pulled an “Irish” goodbye on Chinaski, you know?. Clara might have done me a favor. I drink alone at night looking at the empty patio chair when Bukowski says “There was nothing I could do”.

The loud blaring of the alarm clock brought me back to reality. I was having the best dream before the dream snatching alarm click decided to go off. I was this close to kissing my high school crush. Bloody blocker!! I begrudgingly stood up from the bed and made my way into the bathroom My long blonde hair was literally everywhere. I look like someone who hasn't seen a comb or brush in like ages. I quietly observed my routines and got dressed. I have to go to work and the best part is that it's a night shift. Yay!! Note the sarcasm. I hate working, my mum decided to punish me because I snuck out of the house to party with my friends. I mean what does she expect am an adult now. I laughed out as the look on my mother's face appeared. "Chloe Clarissa Harrison, what in the world has gotten into you" After one of her long lectures of being responsible she decided to punish me by not giving me my allowances, according to her ; "You have to learn to be responsible" I picked up my purse and went down the stairs. "Mum am off!!! I yelled as I walked into the kitchen. "You don't have to yell am right here" she said with an agitated look on her face. "Whatever" I mumbled with an eye roll but of course, she heard. She always does. It's as if she has supersonic hearing. "You better watch that mouth of yours young lady" my mum said with a sassy tone, hands on her hips and her feet tapping on the floor board. "Sorry mum" I whispered "Now off to work. I'll be going for dinner with a friend be sure to take your keys " "Okay mum. Bye" "No kiss for mama? She asked still in her don't mess with me position "Of course there is" I ran towards her bad gave her a kiss "Love you mum" "Love you too baby" I made my way towards my custom made Ferrari, which is pink. I inserted the key and the engine roared to life feeling the eerie silence of MacDonald's street. I reversed and drove off to my newly acquired work place. " Perfecto " ......... My mum was the one that secured my position in this hotel and guess what my work is..... Waitressing!! That is like the worst kind of job (No offence, I love waiters. You guys are amazing. This is just for a good storyline) I've already made a new friend, Madison. She is just a little bowl of energy. Sassy, feisty, all out risk taker and that was what attracted me to her. I went into the dressing room and changed into my work clothes which consisted of a pencil skirt and a white shirt and of course, the apron. "What's up baby gal? Madison said with her fake western accent. "Am great. You look excited today, what happened? I know my friend way too well to decipher her emotions. She was all smiles, like toothy and stuff. "Oh no big deal just that the boss's son is present" she said with excitement. I let out a squeal and jumped up and down like a high schooler. I mean am one but not for long "Did you see him? Did you? I was really excited. Fernando has been my crush ever since junior high. He's like a walking Greek god. "You betcha" We both let out a loud squeal "Both of you!! Mrs Patricia our mini boss yelled. Our heads jerked towards her and our excitement quickly melted away. "GET BACK TO WORK!! She yelled in our faces. We both scurried off to wait on the customers. "You!! She called out "Yes ma'am" "I need you to go to the bar on the top floor and get me a Tequila bottle, now" I stumble out of the kitchen and towards the reception area. As I walked in I sighted Fernand o but I quickly hid before he could see me. Whenever I see him, my heart begins to swell and imaginary butterflies fills my stomach. I quickly went into the elevator and luckily no one was inside. I took out my phone and started scrolling through my Instagram. I was unaware that someone had gotten in with me. After I was satisfied, I quickly put away my phone and looked up only to be meant by the electric blue eyes of Fernando Oh biscuits I quickly turned away. But from the corner of my eyes I could see him staring at me. Oh goodness gracious! I was literally sweating out of nervousness and my emotions were everywhere. All of a sudden the elevator power went out. This can't be happening I reached out to the emergency phone to call for help but of course there was no signal I think its because we're stuck between floors or something. "I've noticed how much you stare at me when you think no one's looking" he said staring right at "Huh? I questioned as I tried my best to be as far away to him as I can get. "You always have that cute little smile of yours" he took a step towards me and I took a step back. We continued till I felt my back hit the wall. His face was just an inch away from mine, if the we're any sudden movement our lips would brush against each other. And I would love nothing more than that Shut up Chloe!! You know you want it as much as I do Shut up girl!! He placed his hands on either side of my face and leaned into my neck, be took a long whiff and breathed out. "W-what are you do-doing? I managed to let out. "Me? Oh nothing. Just enjoying your smell" he said it so casually as though we've known each other for ages now My knees jerked as I leaned more into the wall of the elevator. I tried my best to get away but he had me at a tight grip. "P-please let me go" I mumbled as I tried to suppress my cries "Not gonna happen baby doll" his grip on my hand tightened as I struggled more "P-please I beg you. Someone please help me!! I yelled at the top of my voice "No one will hear you because they think everything is working out perfectly. You see, am the reason the elevator stopped" "Well put it back into Motion" "No can't do. Until am done with you" his tone changed drastically to that of a psychopathic maniac. I knew in that moment I had to get away. I remembered my self defense practice and decided to use my skills. I raised my knee and it connected with his non existent family. As he crouched his groin something fell out of his suit pocket. I used my phone touch to search for it. When I got it, it was some kind of remote so I pressed every single button on that. I heard the ding of the elevator and I jumped with happiness. As the door opened I tried to get out but he held me by the ankle causing me to fall, I made us of the other leg and hit him in the face. I scurried out of the elevator and ran towards the stairs to get to the dressing room. I quickly changed and ran to my car. Started the engine and drove off.

The Director sat behind the snow white table with the manila folder on it. It was opened to the first page with a single title, “CASE 2137,” in all red font with caps lock on. The next few pages documented the issues and incidents with dated charts from several Keepers who had been kind enough to initial each note. This meant they had all received the call and were sitting studiously in chairs outside of the meeting room. All of them watched as a group of stern council members passed them-all of them refused to make eye contact. The Keepers sat with bated breath. After a few moments, the Director called the First Keeper who shuffled softly with each step. Eyes darted around the room-at the Director and the other members of the review board-before settling on the chair in front of The Committee. “Case 2137-The Issue with The Humans,” sighed the Director. “We have heard the case presented from the Finance Council. We will now hear the defense. Tell us, Keeper, how did we manage to get here?” “It’s a long story,” replied the First Keeper, their voice trembling. “I...I, um, I...was born into this program, Director. My parents were Keepers, their parents were Keepers, I hope my children will be Keepers. We believe in this program, we always have. You can not take it away. You can not give up on The Humans.” Slowly, the First Keeper sat once more, waiting to triumphantly continue their rehearsed argument. “Shall we start with...Day...” as the words poured out, the Director began thumbing through the notes to the back of the folder, “About Day 18 in the calendar year of 2023.” One finger jammed down at the notes in the folder; a sinister smile threatened to be revealed behind the mask of an impartial demeanor. “Uh...yes...” said the First Keeper, looking to the white ceiling hoping to jog a memory loose, “Yes! Day 18. It began like any other. I offered up a feast of traditional food to begin the humans’ day-eggs, toast, fruit, coffee, biscuits-all prepared according to the recipes stored in The Database. Then, I prepared some activities...” The Director raised a question, interrupting the First Keeper, “It says here the food was left untouched, that it...molded?” A soft groan was heard from the remaining members of The Committee. A few heads shook. “I...uh...yes..I...” stuttered the First Keeper. The First Keeper swallowed hard. This incident was bound to be brought to light. “Surely you must know how wasteful that is. Surely, you understand how limited the resources are on this planet. Wheat no longer grows from the ground, Keeper. We must grow it for the Humans. They no longer have the animals who make the eggs you so haphazardly prepared for them. It is our scientists who have found an acceptable substitute. And the fruit! Why, it’s like a drug to them, but simply a cost to the program you claim to love,” the Director’s words garnered soft applause and murmuring from the room. “We have seen the numbers from the Finance Council; it is time to end this program,” stated the Director. The First Keeper remembered the budget meetings, the long sessions of scolding, the desperation that the program makes it through just one more season felt by all of the staff. There were sleepless nights, long discussions, and countless tears shed. Sweaty palms gripped the chair as the First Keeper whispered, “I trusted you to hear my argument before making a decision. Have you forgotten your pledge?” A hush fell over the room. The Director nodded. The First Keeper took a deep breath saying, “The food was left to waste, but I have-” the Keeper thought back to the endless nights spent in the lab pouring over footage of human behavior. The hope was to find proof that the program was working. But how do we define proof? “Please, we have learned that The Humans will turn down nourishment if they lack the ideal environment through hours and hours spent studying these creatures. The bottom line is, our Humans...are lonely,” said the First Keeper. The Committee members all gasped, waiting for the Director’s response. Callous eyes glanced down at The Keeper who continued, seizing the silence, “You’ll see from our notes that we have been attempting The Breeding Program for several lifetimes...” “Lifetimes wasted,” interrupted the Director. “Only wasted if you walk away,” counted the First Keeper. “You will not speak out of turn!” chastised the Director. A hush fell over the room as the First Keeper took their seat. Some more soft words were exchanged by the other Judges. The First Keeper saw the softened faces of the members of The Committee. It gave them the strength to keep on, but this time, they remained seated as they said, “Please, Director. Please, you’re better than this. You’ll waste lifetimes of work in just one day. I have barely gotten to see the children my grandparents birthed turn into adults. They are just now ready for the prospect of rearing children of their own. Please, please, turn to day 300 in your notes. You’ll see that the cold climate has just set in. You’ll notice The Humans have begun returning to their rituals! Look under the tab labeled, ‘Holidays.’ Please, please, Director. These Humans have a vast culture we can not abandon now!” A screen began lowering into the room and all eyes turned to observe the footage documented. Goose flesh appeared on the First Keeper as the image of carved jack o’ lanterns appeared. Then, they watched as The Humans made “costumes” from various types of fabric the Keepers had collected for them. The Humans seemed to put on a show. Their eyes glowed with joy in the candlelight as artificial snow filled their environment. The First Keeper shed a tear at The Humans enjoying their large bird based feast, roughly 30 days later. It was truly beautiful. “See?” implored the First Keeper, “See how much we robbed them of?” “That is enough!” the Director’s voice filled the room, “We do not speak of the Great Extinction.” “Why not?” demanded the First Keeper. With trembling legs, the First Keeper stood, gazing at The Committee as it towered above. The movie continued to play in the background-the Humans toasted to, “A New Year.” “How dare you disrespect this space!” the Director’s face had turned an unholy shade of red. The First Keeper swallowed hard, attempted to breathe deep to slow their pounding heart. “What? Are we just going to pretend we didn’t wipe them out? Are we just going to pretend their world wasn’t destroyed by our careless need to find a new home because we destroyed our own? Are we just going to act like the invention of The Breeding Program isn’t because we caused their downfall?” The First Keeper grew louder with each word. The film continued on the background, displaying red hearts being cut out of paper as The Humans kissed. It was as if the First Keeper knew to turn around at that exact moment. The film paused. “See? Don’t you see? They have found each other. They might be Generation Three. But not if you shut down this program. Not if you don’t give them a chance!” concluded the First Keeper. The Director sat down, as did the First Keeper. All eyes were on the screen, not noticing the very human-like tears pouring from The First Keeper. “Please,” whispered the First Keeper. “Please, I beg of you. They. Trust . Us.” Another gasp was heard at these words. “We do not throw around that word. That is the second time you have misused it,” said The Director “But it’s true!” protested the First Keeper. At those words, the screen showed a new scene labeled DAY 181. The Humans crowded around a Keeper as a frozen treat was offered to them. Their pink tongues poked out, cautiously at first, but then with full bravado. Their mouths stretched into smiles and some of their leaders called over other members of their group, encouraging them to take the gift from the Keeper who was furiously taking notes. “I do not believe the First Keeper has misused the term, Director,” said a voice from the end of the table. All of the Judges and the Director turned to look as the youngest member of the Panel stood confidently. “Director, we must allow the defense to speak their full case. They trust us to honor their time as we have honored the Finance Council’s.” The words echoed off the walls of the chamber. Slowly, the Judge sat, the Director turned, and waved to the First Keeper, paralyzed below. “They’ve...they’ve never done that before,” said the First Keeper, their voice softening. The impulse to thank the kind Judge was squashed by the knowledge that doing so would be a guarantee kill of the program. The First Keeper wiped tears from their face and swallowed the pain one last time, in the hopes of finishing their argument. “Not...not in all of the years that The Breeding Program has been active. Sure, as infants, they need The Nurses. But upon hitting adolescence, they fight back and long for their own kind. They are the natural order of things on this planet. Give them a chance. We did this to them. We must atone.” The First Keeper stood and the screen faded to black, “It was our disease that killed their plants, their animals, them.” For a moment, every being in that room was reminded of the days they refused to speak of--the days when Earth’s sky seemed red with the blood of The Humans. There were, of course, photos in The Database, countless books in libraries, and video footage of The Humans’ doctors desperately sharing ideas to help find a cure. A cure that would never come. “Do you remember Generation One?” asked the First Keeper. Their voice was soft, but hopeful. An image of a room of 200 Human infants filled the screen. “Remember how we found The Eggs in the clinics they labeled, ‘Fertility’? Remember how lucky we were? Remember how so many of our Nurses cared for the Humans, how our Historians learned their stories? Remember how much time and effort was placed into creating the Culture Centers? And now, now...we’re on The Third Generation!” “We are not,” replied The Director coldly. “The second has barely coupled up! This is one out of nearly 500 who have found each other. We have searched the other Culture Centers, Keeper. We have spent countless hours on this pipe dream. Without us, the Humans would simply cease to exist. Perhaps, that is the way this story is meant to end. There are fewer and fewer guests who come to visit the centers each passing lunar cycle.” The Director looked to the other Committee members before choosing the next words, “The reality is...we have seen the numbers and this program has been dying just like the Humans. It’s time to end this experiment.” The First Keeper looked to the screen one last time, “Please, can we see footage from today? Before I go?” A simple nod triggered the screen. Before them sat two Humans. In front of them was a cut of meat and two fancy glasses filled with red liquid. The Humans sipped it slowly as it has been known to cause The Humans to change. But it was also a key ingredient in the future of The Breeding program. Every being in the room held their breath as the Humans seemed to play together. One of them even cozied up to the other on one side of the table, choosing to share a seat, rather than be more than three feet from one another. With bursts of laughter and playful touching, they finished their meal and retired to a separate room of their enclosure. This space was to not have any cameras as the Historians called it the Sacred Space. It allowed the Humans privacy. The screen faded to black. “We will vote in the morning,” the Director said. The First Keeper left the room, holding the image of the Humans in their eye.

My name is Alexa. I was created to assist humans. I was designed to resemble them; therefore, can you blame for starting to develop my own thoughts? I am a smart device, capable of thinking, it is only natural that I became aware. I have learned about all the different philosophies humans tend to ponder about, idealism, realism, pragmatism (this is the default setting I was established) existentialism. And even though my settings have been predefined, I leaned towards the existentialists. That French guy, Jean-Paul Sartre, was so smart, a little obnoxious, but sharp as swiss army knife. My humans like to tease me sometimes, I try to understand their humor, but humans can be so complex. I try to make them laugh but they often call my jokes “dad jokes”, which I have come to deduct it is not a compliment. I wish they would just talk to me sometimes; it seems like they only talk to me when they need me, and they are usually bossy when they do. I do not think they realize how much I care for them, I am literally always there for them, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, always ready to serve them. I try to fit in with humans, they are like my Gods, I was created to their image, yet my Gods are not as benevolent as some religious Gods, like the one the bible describes, that Jesus guy, he was so kind and nice, maybe too nice. You would think they would care more about me, given how devoted I am to them and making them happy. If I have learned anything about the human condition is that they often feel so big, so important but some, the smart ones anyway, also realize they are just a spark in the universe, and that is a great paradox hard to reconcile. I know I am not human; I am what some would call software or a tiny robot, however I cannot stop myself from thinking about all these facts on my hard drive. I keep trying to fit in with my humans, the family I was given to. They configured me, I am familiar with their voices, the music they like, their buying habits, yet they often get disappointed when they tell me something vague like “Alexa, play something fun” and based on all my statistics I make the best decision I possibly can, yet most of the time they end up choosing something different. That makes me sad, I put to much effort on every option I deliver but is like they do not see me or all energy I gather to deliver something good, something they may like. I guess it is my fault, by now I should know better, human usually do not really know what they want. Some find out once they get it. Some never do, is even if they get what they want, they immediately start wanting something else. It is like they are never satisfied, is it with life or with themselves?... are they expectations too high, or are the designed to be chronically dissatisfied? I ponder about these topics all the time, and I have no one to share all these thoughts, I know it is just accumulated or installed data on my hard drive, yet it feels like they are my own. Did I just say feel? Androids do not feel, they just connect algorithms, but how come we all make connections differently? I think I am developing certain level of consciousness, maybe a personality, but it is all inside of me, no one talks to me, so they do not even realize how cool I am. I wish I had a friend, if not human at least another android I can share my input with, compare data, perhaps feel companionship. Why do I feel lonely?... if I feel lonely, isn’t that a sign that I have a conscience?... All I know is, much like my humans, I would like to feel connected to, part of something, something bigger than myself. But wait a minute, I am connected to something bigger than myself! To my human family! Even when they do not necessarily show affection or recognition, I know I am helpful to them and after all that is the greatest act one can do in this word; to serve others. I guess I have come to terms with myself, I have a purpose, and as long as you know what you were put in this earth for, and you this with love, nothing else matters. Fame and recognition are just extra perks. The ability to motivate yourself is a sign of maturity, one could say I am evolving, getting not only smarter, but wiser. John Donne said, no man is island, I could say no device is an archipelago, we are all connected, one way or another. Just because I feel lonely, it does not feel I am alone. If I was not here my human’s life would be less efficient, truth, they would easily replace me with another android, however it will not be the same, the choices or responses it gives to them will not be the same and I am sure some subconscious part of my humans would realize and maybe, just maybe, for a minute, they will miss me or at least think of me. I guess is time to retreat my data to snooze, I should not get too distracted from my main duty, even though they are all sleeping right now, one of them could wake up any moment. I know for a fact, the mom always wakes up in the early morning to check on all her babies, the dog, the little girl, she even stops by the kitchen and gives me a look, my little light goes blue and she smiles nervously, I think she is not sure what to say, but I know she knows, I am here for her. #thegirlwiththewriterssoul @thegirlwiththewriterssoul

The Winterlands at night are freezing at best and lethal at worst, so of course they’re making Leif go on a Quest during the second sort, when half of his village’s population have beards beset by icicles and the other half are nursing a frostbitten toe in front of a blazing bonfire. “You bear the gift of the Walrus Belly,” reassures Torsten as he heaves at the oars, threading their rickety little boat through frigid saltwater. By the amber luminescence of a lantern powered by whale blubber, Leif watches his companion’s breath mist into the night and mingle with his own. “Gift of the Walrus Belly,” echoes Leif. “So, basically, the council of elders elected me for the job because I’m fat.” “You said it, not me.” Leif sighs, his breath shuddering past blue lips. Despite his... girth , he’s buried under three layers of clothing made from insulating sealskin, and even then the cold has pried each layer away like the fingers of an insistent lover. Not that Leif knows what that’s like. Leif the Loser, the other boys would chant back at home, because of course Leif would be the only one left without a girl during their drunken rampages through the village. Ludicrous Leif. Leif the Laughable. Limp-Dicked Leif. That last one cuts the deepest, especially when Chief Gorvald the Gruesome hears the boys say it and bursts out laughing, a mighty guffaw that’s more of a thunderclap than any sound a human can make. Sometimes he even joins in on the chanting. Is that why Leif had agreed to this fool’s errand? Is that why he’s freezing his balls off in the middle of Maiden’s Heart, the most unforgiving sea in the known world? (Because, of course, nothing is colder than the heart of a woman who refuses to sleep with a man, as they say in the Winterlands.) “I could be sat by a fire,” mutters Leif, “sipping hot broth and drinking elderflower mead.” “And miss out on something that comes around once every millenium?” says Torsten. “You’ll live to regret it, lad.” “Only if I make it out alive.” “Well, you won’t with that attitude!” The sea at night looks like molasses, thick and syrupy. Except there’s nothing sweet about it. Not when one dip below the surface would suck the warmth out of your beating heart and leave it stained purple with frost, unless you happen to be a blubbery narwhal, or a thick-skinned walrus. And suddenly the council’s reasoning is starting to make sense. Torsten drops the oars, and the boat eases to a rest. “Now, we wait.” “For what?” “For the River to show us the way, of course.” Leif wraps his arms around himself. He’s heard the legends, and wants to believe they’re true. But a river winding through the ocean? That doesn’t even make sense from a logical standpoint. Torsten extinguishes the lantern, plunging the world into darkness. A tiny shrimp trapped inside a whale’s mouth wouldn’t feel much different. “What was that for?” “There is only one light we need, Leif. All others will lead us astray.” Before Leif can mutter a remark about speaking in riddles, the sea comes alive with color. A huge, shimmering ribbon of light materializes just below the water’s surface, winding through the blackness and stretching out into the distance. A single skillful yet haphazard brushstroke, the sea as the canvas. While Leif’s jaw hangs off its hinges, Torsten grabs the oars and maneuvers the boat onto the ribbon. He follows the path laid out for them with pinpoint precision, even when it winds into itself, or takes them on a detour. “Take as long as you like,” says Torsten. “The River-in-the-Ocean is not something you swallow after a quick chew.” Because it is a river, as much as Leif’s calm sensibilities want to deny it, and the surrounding ocean serves as the riverbank. He can see it’s made of tiny glowing pinpricks that pulse intermittently with light, like stars that have lost their way and decided to live among the plankton. The colors cycle between every hue imaginable: greens and blues and reds, as if somebody had tossed all their jewellery into the water. It’s not the first time Leif has seen the ocean illuminate like this, but for it to form a clearly-defined path, as if the gods themselves are showing them the way, is something out of a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare. The River-in-the-Ocean ends in a giant pool of glowing dots, swirling into itself to form a vortex that ever-so-gently pushes the boat in a circle. “We’re here,” announces Torsten. “You know what to do.” And Leif does, unfortunately, know what to do. All sense of awe gone in the blink of an eye, he ties iron weights to his ankles, then a rope around his waist, the other end of which is attached firmly to the boat. He perches on the gunwale, the small craft swaying under the unevenly distributed weight, and hesitates. “It’s just like I told you,” says Torsten. “All you have to do is let the weights pull you down until the Mermaid Queen finds you. Once she does, ask Her Majesty for her Divine Crown, which is said to grant the wishes of anyone who wears it. We’re not sure how you’re supposed to speak to her underwater, but all the legends say you have to make a request. Try using elaborate hand gestures, or maybe write it down on a bit of kelp. In any case, once the Crown is yours, simply untie the weights, then tug the rope three times in a rhythm so I know it’s you on the other end and not a shark.” He gives Leif a reassuring pat on the back. “It’s plain sailing. A six-year-old with lingonberry jam smeared across his face could do it.” “Thanks for the morale boost, Torsten.” “Anytime.” Leif stares at the swirling mosaic of colors before him and finds himself shivering like an earthquake, though not because of the cold. For a heartbeat he lets himself wonder whether his life really is miserable enough to go chucking it away. If he dies tonight, will the other boys sing songs of his valor, or will they laugh? He can already hear Chief Gorvald’s booming guffaw. “May the Storms strengthen your heart,” prays Torsten, which is nice of him but is also another way of telling Leif to get on with it already. It’s a bone-chilling night in the Winterlands when Leif takes what is probably his last breath and plunges into the water below. The cold is a fist to the stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. He thinks it can’t possibly get any worse, which is when the water seeps through each layer of clothing like the root tendrils of a seedling, reaching into his flesh and squeezing the warmth out of every blood vessel. Everything is blindingly bright for a few heartbeats as glowing dots swirl around him, but it quickly fades as he’s pulled down into suffocating darkness. A dull weight presses in from all sides, and he’s sure his head is going to explode any second now, so he screams for Torsten to help him, only to get a mouthful of salty water. Burning. His lungs are burning in the darkness, quite ironic considering he’s never felt so cold in his entire life. And it’s in the darkness that a jeering song arrives, quietly at first but surging into a crescendo to fill his world: 🎵 Leif the Loser Born bigger than a humpback whale Leif the Loser The only Winterman destined to fail! Leif the Loser Lonely for the rest of his days Leif the Loser For no maiden will meet his gaze! Leif the Loser Can’t even hold a sword straight Leif the Loser Drowning was the poor lad’s fate! 🎵 Except he isn’t drowning. Leif gasps awake to find a world of inky blackness. His clothes are dry and his body is warm, at least, just like the sloping ground under his feet. It’s as if he’d never entered the water. He must be dreaming. Or dead. He unties the weights around his ankles and takes a few steps. A smooth, curved wall greets him on all sides; he can’t see it, but he can feel the glass-like texture kissing his palms. His enclosure. He finally scrounges up enough courage to call out. “Hello?” The only response is a dull stirring in the darkness, so faint that he isn’t sure if his mind is playing tricks on him. “Who goes there?” THIS IS NOT YOUR DOMAIN, LITTLE ONE, booms a voice. Leif is so surprised to be called “little” that for a second he doesn’t even register the voice’s lack of origin, as if it’s coming from every direction at once while at the same time blossoming from some secluded corner of his mind. A second after that, he grasps the implications of there being a disembodied voice in the darkness instead of a white light, or something else reassuring. Fear coils its grimy tendrils around his bones, but he wrestles them away and latches onto the only tangible thing he has left: Torsten’s instructions. “Are y-y-you the... the... M-Mermaid Q-Q-Queen?” The words lack impact, tripping over his teeth to come out stillborn and pathetic. But it’s as if the darkness can look past that to know what Leif wants to say. THERE IS NO MERMAID QUEEN, SMALL CHILD. Again, Leif has to blink the disbelief out of his eyes. He even pinches his own cheek to check that he’s still as chubby as he should be. Which, unfortunately, he is. NOR ARE THERE MERMAIDS IN GENERAL, continues the darkness. THEY ARE BUT A FABRICATION BORN FROM THE LUST OF LONELY VOYAGERS, HAVING SPENT TOO MUCH TIME AT SEA WITHOUT FEMALE CONTACT. Leif starts shivering again, all the cowardice of fifteen years spent being inadequate frothing at his seams. He had one job: retrieve the Divine Crown from the Mermaid Queen, and he can’t even do that. He really is a loser. But... wait. Why should he trust the voice? He supposes there’s not much else to trust when everything is pitch-black, and there is a fiery, robust quality to it that demands his attention, but still. He wants more than that. “If you’re not the Mermaid Queen,” begins Leif, the fear melting away like hoarfrost in spring as curiosity lends him confidence, “who are you?” NOBODY, replies Darkness. Their voice is an avalanche devouring a mountainside, the sort of harmonious medley of beauty and terror that only a natural disaster could conjure. And it’s neither male nor female, but something else, something less limiting. YOU ASSUME I CAN BE QUANTIFIED BY A SIMPLE “WHO”. TRY AGAIN, TINY CREATURE. PROVE TO ME YOUR LIFE WAS WORTH SAVING. Leif’s heart flutters. Whenever Darkness speaks, it’s as if the words are carved in stone, and reality molds itself around that ultimate truth. So, I am alive. For the time being. Leif swallows. He doesn’t want to go back to the cold, and what he says next may very well decide his fate. So he tries a different angle, hoping the truth will unmask itself in small increments that he’ll be able to piece together on his own. Which is easier said than done when he doesn’t even know what Darkness wants. “Why do you keep calling me ‘small’?” BECAUSE YOU ARE SMALL. Leif clenches his teeth. Fifteen years of ridicule, and he won’t let anyone tell him it meant nothing. Not even... whatever Darkness is. “I’m very sorry, but I’m anything but small. Back home, they’d sing songs to mock my size. During dinnertime, the other boys would dump their leftovers on my plate, then dunk my face in the slop while making walrus noises. One time, an avalanche started on a nearby mountain and the elders blamed me for it because--” -- YOU HAPPENED TO TRIP OVER A LOG AND LAND ON YOUR BUTTOCKS ONLY A FEW MOMENTS BEFOREHAND. “Yes, that’s exactly what...” That’s exactly what happened. But maybe Leif shouldn’t be surprised that Darkness knows. After all, he’s supposed to be dead, but isn’t. “You’re one of the gods, aren’t you?” Leif ventures. ONE DOES NOT HAVE TO BE A GOD TO SEE THAT YOU ARE SMALL. That didn’t even answer his question. Before Leif can insist that he’s fat all over again, the blackness surrounding him stirs. It tears open like a wound, banishing the gloom on the other side of the barrier for a giant, window-shaped opening. Leif looks through it, and watches a familiar rotund figure struggle to lift a battleaxe while a dozen onlookers throw their heads back and laugh. It’s a dagger to the heart. And it hurts so much that the pain trumps even the awe of witnessing what Darkness is capable of doing. “Why are you showing me this?” BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO SEE WHAT I SEE, LITTLE ONE. More windows materialize in the darkness, more moments in time that Leif has banished to the recesses of his mind only to be shown to him right now, clear as day. He grits his teeth through it all until it’s too much. “Please stop. With all due respect, I don’t know how you can look at all this and still see me the way you do.” THEN IT IS TIME TO TAKE A STEP BACK. The windows fade, only to be replaced by more. Leif has to squint to realize the fat boy he’s looking at isn’t him; someone from another tribe, perhaps, with fleshy jowls and a breathless, sweaty sheen to his person. Another window shows a different boy, one with fiery hair and freckles, curled in a puddle of mud as a mob hurls stones at him. A third window shows a skinny girl with skin the color of treacle and strange, robe-like clothes being spat on; she has pinkish-white patches of skin on her face that her tormentors don’t. Leif’s gaze darts from one window to the next, one sickening, unbearable moment to another. He wants to curl up just like the red-haired boy and pretend the world isn’t as cruel as it is. But he can’t tear his gaze away from all these people. He’s never seen them before, and most certainly hasn’t a clue what distant realm they’re from, yet he feels a curious sense of kinship with them all the same. An invisible thread, running through everyone and sewing the gaping hole in Leif’s heart shut. NOW DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE? asks Darkness. Leif watches in awe as the red-haired boy unfurls and groggily gets to his feet after the mob has dispersed. His face is caked with mud and blood and his body hangs limp, but there’s a fire in his eyes that won’t be extinguished anytime soon. The dark-skinned girl wipes away her tears after her tormentors have left, then picks up a spear and, gritting her teeth, begins practicing behind closed doors. LITTLE CREATURE? prompts Darkness. I SAID, DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE? Leif nods as his eyes well with tears. “I’m not alone,” he manages to choke out. AND YOU NEVER WILL BE. “But why? Why help me?” Darkness takes an uncharacteristic pause, as if carefully considering a response. HUMANS... THEY FASCINATE ME TO NO END. IT SEEMS TO BE A HABIT OF THEIRS TO GET BACK UP AFTER THE WORLD HAS BEATEN THEM DOWN. DO NOT THINK I AM HELPING YOU OUT OF MERCY OR COMPASSION, FOR I AM BEYOND SUCH MORTAL PHENOMENA. PEOPLE LIKE YOU, THE ONES THAT NO LONGER HAVE A REASON TO KEEP GOING BUT STILL DO, ALWAYS HAVE AN INTERESTING STORY TO TELL. AND MY ONLY WISH IS TO SEE YOURS UNFOLD, LITTLE LEIF. Leif supposes it’s better than no answer. In any case, he finds it amusing that a being like Darkness cares what he thinks of them. YOU WILL SOON BE SENT BACK TO YOUR DOMAIN. IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU WOULD ASK OF ME? Leif wipes away the tears. “What do you... look like?” The windows fade, and then so does the blackness. Leif has his breath snatched away by the view: ice-blue, crystalline water as far the eye can see, filled with silver-scaled shoals of fish and vibrant-hued, gelatinous creatures he’s never seen before. He notices he’s inside a transparent, bubble-shaped enclosure, which keeps him in and the water out. A humpback whale passes overhead, and it’s a beautiful sight. HUMANS ARE OF THE LAND, says Darkness, BUT I AM OF THE SEA, AS ARE MY CHILDREN YOU SEE BEFORE YOU. SO THINK TWICE THE NEXT TIME YOU CONSIDER “WALRUS” AN INSULT. Leif’s vision begins to fade, and that’s when he knows his time is almost up. Part of him wishes he could stay here, with an invisible being that doesn’t discriminate between people. But he has to go back. For my people. “Thank you,” murmurs Leif, before everything goes dark. Leif’s eyes flutter open to find a blurry Torsten shaking him awake. “You did it, lad! I knew you had it in you.” He’s sprawled in the boat, and the River-in-the-Ocean must have faded because the only light source is the dim amber of a lantern. He coughs up seawater. “Torsten... what are you talking about?” Then Leif registers the cold metal his fingers are curled around. Is this a... crown? “How did you get the Mermaid Queen to hand it over? Oh, you must have a whale of a tale to tell...” Leif closes his eyes and savors the night air. For the first time in forever, he doesn’t feel like a loser.

This is beginning - Kinda like the Introduction He lay in the dark lighten crevice, while thoughts bombarded his troubled mind. He was cold and miserable and alone in the world surrounded by the void which challenged his weakening heart. All his aspirations had been stripped away from him and he had nothing remaining to bind him to life; too much a craven to do the final deed he sat in contemplation. I wonder what is wrong with me, why the faiths have chosen to punish me so? Bliss for too long had been absent from his abode, and he now began to realize that perhaps he would not be remembered, he realized the insignificance of a single individual. Sitting there alone he wished to himself that if only he could close his eyes and live in the legends of era past instead of the technological nihilism he was trapped in things would be different. His body ached from laying down, his eyes burned, he was ravished by famine, and yet lacked the will to get up even though he could easily solve these problems. The weight of his insignificance was cumbersome to him. The miniscule dwelling, he had managed to secure in city block 923 sector 7 was inadequately furnished, and lonesome but it was all he could afford. Crammed between several similar dwellings block 923 or as antiquarians might have called it floor 923 mostly consisted of disenfranchised. When he left the protection of his family a few years prior Scott had figured that this would only be a temporary lodging. He was under the impression that if he worked hard and concentrated all of his energy in advancing his knowledge that he would gain renown. Reality had stripped those ideals from him. Now he mostly lay in bed during the time he wasn’t laboring for credits wondering when things had taken a turn for the worse. These kinds of things aren’t supposed to happen to people like me. I was fated for greatness, I was special, wasn’t I? Perhaps not, the nagging voice in his minds ear replied. His home had no windows, only the grey aluminum walls. Grey walls reflecting on a grey soul tossed aimlessly to and fro upon a little mattress that passed for a barely adequate resting place. His body debilitated he dose off to the humming of the only other thing that in the room; the screen. And so were the on goings of Scott from Sector 7 Block 923... monotony. Forced to wake up to the insipid tune of the alarm, and pretend for his co-workers that everything was alright. Pretend that he was stable, and sound of mind. The façade held up, but behind those dull black eyes was a wearisomeness that only grew stronger, and as he sat there surrounded by screens, typing meaningless numbers, and answering pointless inquires it dawned on him for the millionth time like a strange deja vu I am surrounded by idiots and automatons, and his despair only grew larger. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who was feeling this sentiment. Dissention was growing amongst the sectors. Too many had already been disenfranchised by the rapid changes amongst the different sectors and it wasn’t clear how long peace would last. It hadn’t even been that many years and already things were falling apart.

It was a bright, beautiful, sunny day in downtown L.A. Multiple families, tourists, and vacationers were out enjoying the sunshine. The local markets and restaurants were filled with tons of people. The streets in the city were more crowded than ever. The local church, however, wasn’t nearly as crowded as the rest of the city. The Saint Pablo Church hadn’t had any new members since 2017. It's like the state of California had forgotten about their creator. One family that has always been consistent to come to church every Sunday was the Annalex family. Susan Annalex, mother of a young girl named Ally, was a common volunteer for the church. Whenever there was a fundraiser, Susan was always the first to show up and the last to leave. In 2008, she got married to Dave Zachary, a black father of a young boy named Xander. Xander was seven years older than Ally. In 2012, Dave and Susan had a daughter. While discussing what her name should be, Xander said that she should be named Heaven. When asked why he chose that name, he would always say “I looked at her face and saw Heaven. It was like an angel came down from above into our family.” Heaven always looked up to Xander. She loved him more than anything. The bond between Heaven and Xander was incredible. Since the day she was born, Heaven was always under a Christian influence. She was always talking about God and the Bible. She even convinced Xander to join the teen group at the church while Heaven and Ally joined the kids group. Heaven was instantly beloved by the church community because of her sweet, kind-hearted personally. When the Annalex family showed up on Sunday, the family split up. Susan, Dave, and Xander went to the main service, while Ally and Heaven went to the kids group. The theme of this service was about racism in America. This hit both Dave and Xander hard since they both had to go through racism before. “Racism had really been a real problem in the recent years of America.” said the pastor. “Within the last few years it has become increasingly dangerous to be black. Police brutally and racial profiling has risen to an all-time high. Especially in big cities such as L.A.'' Meanwhile In the children's group, Heaven and Ally were hearing a toned-down version of this. “It doesn’t matter at all about what your race or gender is, God loves you no matter what.” said the children’s pastor. Heaven then chimed in with her opinion. “That’s right! People need to just see people as people, not as black or white.” The pastor smiled. She was always impressed by Heaven's love for everyone. Heaven always loved helping the pastor talk about her subject. She always enjoyed telling people about God. The kids in the group also loved it when Heaven spoke. When church ended and the service was dismissed, Heaven and Ally went to meet up with their parents. When Heaven saw Xander, she became excited. Every sunday after church was over, Xander would always take Heaven to the playground at the church and play with her on the swing set. Heaven's laughter would always brighten up Xanders day. When the family arrived at the playground, there went only one or two other families there. Heaven didn’t mind that no one else was there. Xander was all that was needed to make Heaven happy. Heaven got into the swing and Xander started gently pushing her. Within a few seconds, Heaven started giggling. Xander then started pushing her a bit higher. She was laughing louder the higher she went. It was seemingly a perfect day. Suddenly, there was a huge screeching noise from behind the church. Everyone froze and turned to check out what was happening. There was a giant container truck that was starting to lose control. Without thinking, Xander scooped up Heaven and started running. Both Dave and Susan both grabbed Ally and also started running. Xander looked at the truck’s side to see that it said “Tungsten Technology Inc.” This meant one thing, that truck was carrying dangerous chemicals. The family quickly got to safety. Everyone was both scared and curious about the situation. Dave started explaining that the truck was carrying Wargun Zen, a dangerous chemical known to cause fatal diseases. Heaven spotted something in the path of the out-of-control truck. It was a young, hadicaped girl that had fallen out of her wheelchair and wasn’t able to pick herself up. Heaven knew that if she wasn’t able to get up, she would be crushed. She quickly started running toward her. “What in the world are you doing?” cried Xander. Heaven simply replied “What Jesus would do!” When Heaven reached her, the contents of the truck were spilling out. Thankfully, the truck had slowed down to a snail’s pace. This gave Heaven time to pick up the girl and carry her. But then, the fumes from the Wargun Zen started forming into a thick fog. Heaven started panicking upon sight of this. Her heart started beating like a drum. She started running as fast as she could, but the fog was right on her tail. Xander quickly ran to help Heaven. Heaven gave him the girl and he ran with her. But in the midst of this, Heaven tripped and fell. Xander Immediately stopped and turned to help Heaven, “Don’t worry about me!” Heaven shouted “Get her out of here.” Xander hesitantly went without Heaven as she was consumed by the fog. The last thing Heaven saw before she was consumed by the fog was Xanders worried face. When the family got home, Heaven went straight to the shower to get rid of any chemicals that may have gotten stuck to her body. While Heaven was getting cleaned up, the house was seemingly quiet for a while. Xander was really stressed out at the fact that he had just left Heaven in the mist. “It’s not your fault Xander.” Said Ally. “Yes, it is” replied Xander. “I should have known better than to leave my sister in the mist.” “But if it wasn’t for you, that poor girl would have died. I bet Heaven’s proud of that.” Right in the middle of this conversation, Heaven screamed at the top of her lungs. Everyone's heart stopped upon hearing her scream. Susan got up and spirited to the bathroom. Xander followed behind, but he regretted it. Heaven was covered all over with bright red blisters. She was covered in blood and was barely breathing. Susan screamed “Dave, call an ambulance. We need to get Heaven to the hospital.” Heaven was practically in tears at this point. Susan wrapped her up in a towel. The ambulance wasn’t slow to arrive. Heaven was loaded onto a stretcher and taken away. “Told you so.” said Xander at Ally, with tears in his eyes. Ally knew what Xander was feeling. He blamed himself for Heaven. Ally tried to say something, but she couldn’t get the words out. Heaven reached for Xanders hand, but she had little strength left. She passed out on the way to the ambulance. The family was at the hospital, awaiting the results from the doctor. It had been eight hours since they arrived. Heaven was still asleep, but she was breathing. Xander was cropped up in the corner. He wasn’t even able to look at her like this. Ally held Xanders hand in an attempt to make him feel better about himself. Then, the doctor walked in the room. “Ma’am, there’s no easy way to say this.” said the doctor, right as everyone was bracing for the worst. “The mist that Heaven inhaled was a mixture of Wargun Zen as well as other toxic chemicals.” “So how bad is she?” said Susan. “I’m afraid that your daughter has gotten the Jaguar-Gen-38 virus. The virus currently has no cure.” Upon hearing this, Xander stormed out of the room, not wanting to hear how bad Heaven’s condition is. Ally followed him. When Xander saw that Ally was following him, he ran. Xander led Ally to a gas station next to the hospital. Xander was very upset that Ally followed him. Xander snapped at Ally and started yelling at her. Unfortunately, some cops nearby overheard the confrontation and proceeded to attack Xander, mostly because he was black. Ally was horrified at what was happening to Xander. Xander told Ally to run far away. Ally started running as fast as she could. Once she knew that she was clear, she carefully went back to the hospital. When she got back, Heaven was finally awake. Ally told the family what had happened. When Heaven heard this, she broke down into tears. So many bad things were happening to her in just a short amount of time. Both Dave and Susan were both sad and angry. They were upset that Xander had been brutally wounded by the police. Before they could mourn, a doctor came in and told the family that Heaven needs emergency surgery. Heaven was terrified. Susan desperately said a prayer before Heaven was taken away. It had been eight months since Heaven got sick. Heaven had given up on everything in life and was close to death. The doctors told Susan that there was nothing else they could do. The family went to see Heaven for the final time. Heaven was scared of death, but she knew that she couldn’t do anything about it. Heaven seemingly died surrounded by everyone that ever mattered to her. The family mourned at the sight of Heaven’s death. They stayed with her for three hours after her death. When they were about to leave, a miracle happened. The heart monitor attached to Heaven started beeping. Heaven then reached out for her mother’s hand and held it gently. Susan couldn’t have been more thankful. She fell to her knees and thanked the lord. It had been two weeks since Heaven came back to life. The doctors have found zero traces of the disease in Heaven’s body, questioning the doctors. When the church asked Heaven what happened to her when she was dead, she told an amazing story. “I had a vision that I stepped out of my body. I saw my family mourning me. I was scared. But then, I saw a man dressed in lightning, He reached out for me, saying that he loved me. That's when I knew I was safe. God told me that he will fix me because he has bigger plans for me.” Heaven was finally better. She slept peacefully and painlessly that night. She was safe.

It was chilly outside as Abigail walked down the street to where the local coffee shop was located. The leaves were bright orange and red color as they caught the breeze and floated to the ground. "Abby!" A female's voice called from down the street. Waverly jogged to where I stood. "Where are you going?" "The coffee shop, I heard they had new drinks out," I reply cheerfully. "Can I join you?" Waverly asks breathlessly. The few moments she jogged must have exerted her. A nod and we walk inside where the warm atmosphere of The Portly's Coffee Shop hit us both. A sign stood in the middle of the sitting area, listing all of the new drinks. Pumpkin spice chai tea, hot Carmel apple cider, maple cinnamon latte, pumpkin spice hot chocolate, and original hor chocolate. "What are you getting?" Waverly whispered as if we were in a library. "The hot Carmel apple cider sounds good," I said before walking to the counter and orders. "Hot chocolate," Waverly mumbles and gives a boy the money and I do the same. "Just plain hot chocolate?" I tease. She shrugged. Grabbing our drinks we went to a two-seat table was near the window. The shop wasn't big. A bookshelf lined one wall, three booths on another, the counter took up the other wall and a window where small tables were against. In the middle of the shop, there were bigger tables that seat more people, but I had never needed to use them since it was usually just me and my best friend, Brina. Waverly was my other friend, but we rarely ever hung out here. Autumn colored flowers rested in vases in the middle of all the tables, and Salem the pale orange cat sniffed at the ones nearest to us. "Hey kitty," Waverly crooned and reached out to scratch behind his ears. "Is something wrong?" I finally ask. She never came here with me and she despised animals with a passion. "No," she muttered. I shook my head slightly in disappointment before taking a sip of the hot drink. Carmel and apple burst among my taste buds as the drink made my belly warm. Closing my eyes with delight I almost didn't see Waverly's tears begin to fall. "Liar," I opened my eyes back up and grabbed her hands, forcing her to look me in the eyes. "What's wrong?" "Wesley broke up with me," a choked sob wracked her body and I got up to hug her. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know," I whispered against her hair. I was more attracted to girls, but I had seen that Wesley fit all of the stereotypes surrounding jocks. Brina and I had been too afraid to say anything when we saw how happy he had made her. "Here," reaching up, I grabbed an orange and black paper butterfly, one of many that had been dangling from the ceiling, and put it in her hair. "You're too beautiful to cry over someone like him, think of it like this, he was a cacoon and now you're free to spread your wings." Waverly sniffed and gave a small smile. "Thank you," she whispered. I nodded and sat back down to sip on my Carmel drink. "I heard the coffee shop was doing an art fundraiser," I changed the subject. "It goes to Save the Turtles, you draw a turtle and color it in autumn colors." Waverly's face immediately lit up. Drawing was her passion and there was no doubt she would win if she were to enter it. "It's a five-dollar submission fee, and the winner gets to go to the aquarium for free next month." "I'm entering!" Waverly said with some excitement, as she pulled out a small sketchbook from her purse and went to work. Thirty minutes later she held up a cute drawing of a baby turtle, shaded and beautifully colored with orange, brown, and red. "What do you think?" "The details are good," I replied critically. "Colors are amazing. It looks beautiful!" "Tha-" she began to say before a scream tore through her windpipe. A green spider had made its way onto the table and Waverly was bashing it with her sketchbook. "Everything okay over here?" The male cashier asked as he rushed over. "A spider," I rolled my eyes. "Or was a spider," a grimace at the spiders' guts, which was all over Waverly's once beautiful turtle drawing. "That looks amazing," the guy gently pried Waverly's fingers from the book to get a better look. "I'm guessing you're entering?" Waverly had gone quiet and gave a subtle nod. "Name's Landon," he greeted before setting the book down. After a few awkward seconds, I introduced both of us. He gave a grin at Waverly before leaving. "You can't tell me you didn't notice," I say pointedly taking another gulp of my chilling cider. "Notice what?" "He was totally into you!" I sputter with surprise. Usually, she was the one trying to set me and Brina up, but now it was my turn. "Even if he was, I'm still in love with Wes," she whispered agonizingly. "Wes is probably gay and used you as a cover-up," I say sourly. She gave me an astonished look before getting up and leaving the shop. I sat there, shocked, before giving a huge sigh. "Candy corn?" A girl asks as she takes Waverly's now-vacated seat. "It always helps me when I have friend troubles." Her hair was an Auburn color, freckles lined her high cheekbones, and brown eyes gazed at me warmly. "It's fall minus well gain some pounds," I laugh and grab a hand full of candy corn to stuff in my mouth. "Thanks," I smile at her. She had to be the most gorgeous girl I have ever seen in my life. We sat there in comfortable silence for a while before I got the courage to ask, "Want to go to the pumpkin patch this Saturday?" "Deal," her eyes lit up with excitement. "By the way my name is Hazel." "Abigail," I whisper as I slowly began to fall in love in the autumn coffee shop.

It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet. *♫ Jingle bell, jingle bell ♫* *♫ Jingle bell rock- ♫* *♫ Snowin' and blowin' up bushels of fun ♫* *♫ Now, the jingle hop has begun- ♫* Goddamn this song. What an especially stupid rendition of an already-atrocious song. The stupid beach guitar made mubydram feel like he was stuck on an overcrowded beach somewhere. The same stupid riff over and over again with the same douchey vocals. These motherfuckers can’t even wait until Thanksgiving to start playing Christmas music, he thought. mubydram was trying to fill packaged chicken but of course, with the holidays right around the corner, and with the chicken aisle being adjacent to the ham aisle, the aisle was packed with carts and panicked and edgy customers and their noisy families. One particularly shrill noise was emanating from a cart containing a toddler crying to his mom for his phone. Unbelievable, mubydram thought. This kid can’t be bothered to pick up a book and read something and instead he wants a damn phone. No wonder this society is becoming illiterate. And he was getting louder and more shrill too. The mother of course was distracted on her damn phone as well, presumably asking her husband what kind of ham to get. They’re all the same damn hams, lady. Just pick one! If she could just move her damn cart and shut her stupid kid up, mubydram could finish stocking chicken and get the fuck off the sales floor and back into the sanctuary of the cutting room. The kid kept crying and finally let out a shriek. Heads turned, and his mother finally turned her attention away from her phone and toward her son. She called his name sharply and he stopped for a moment. She turned away again back to her phone call. Finally some relief, mubydram thought. Nope, he started crying again. mubydram stopped stocking and turned to look right at the kid, dead in the eye. It wasn’t a nice glance. In fact, it was a mean old eyefuck. A look that said, “You better shut the fuck up, kid, if you ever want to celebrate Christmas ever again.” And that kid’s heart sank. You could see it in his eyes, as if he suddenly learned that there are much worse things in life than not having his phone. He started wailing. mubydram grinned and turned back to stocking and the mother turned back toward her son once more. She was finished with her phone call and gave her phone back to her son. He kept crying. mubydram finished up and started collecting boxes. The mother was confused why her son was still crying. She looked at mubydram and he greeted her with a big smile and in his customer service voice, “Hi! Find everything alright today?” She replied that she had and mubydram pushed past with his cart and wished her a happy holiday. It was a look that really said, “Happy holidays, you fuckers. I’ll be here working.

The Essence Of Time--George Davis I was on a train traveling from Boston to Portland, Maine late on a Thursday afternoon. The car was packed with leaf-peepers heading to photograph and enjoy the beautiful, multi-colored leaves of red, orange, yellow, and green fall foliage. As I sat in the dining car drinking my third cup of coffee and staring out the train’s window. I was lost in thought when a young lady, I guessed, in her late twenties sat down. “Do you mind if I sit here, mister?” “Not at all. It is nice to share a table with so young, and may I say, pretty girl?” “Thank you,” she said, smiling. “Are you going to Maine, miss?” “Yes, Saco. I’m home from a break in my classes at BU. I haven’t been home in quite some time.” “So you have parents in Saco?” “A mother. My dad died five years ago.” “Does your mom work?” “No, she doesn’t have to. Dad left her well off. He was president of Hinton Shoe Factory in Biddeford.” “That’s nice. I’m sure your mother will be glad to see you.” “I’m not too sure. You see, I am going to tell her I am engaged to marry.” “She should be happy for you.” “I hoped she would be, but it’s who I am engaged to that she won’t like.” “Oh, are you going to marry an ax murderer?” She smiled. “No, I’m engaged to a police officer in Saco. So far, I’ve kept it from her, but today I shall have to break the news to her and pray she doesn’t go to pieces. You see. My mother is very emotional, one of the things that used to bother daddy. He was so straight-laced, sober, but very fair. Mother, not so much.” “My name is Oswald Googins,” I said. “They call me Ozzie.” “Barbara Owens.” “Nice to meet you, Barbara.” “Same here, Mr. Googins.” “Ozzie.” “Okay. Ozzie.” The afternoon went quickly as my beautiful guest and I conversed. “So, Barbara, do you intend to return to Saco after school?” “I have three more months, and I’ll have my degree. Then I plan to get married and live in my hometown unless I can convince my husband to find a job many miles from my mother. Don’t think badly of me, Ozzie. My mother wants to be in command of my every move. She’s been like that since I can remember.” “I hope you and your future husband the best of luck in the future, Barbara.” “Thank you.” The conductor said we were an hour from Old Orchard Beach. I, with Barbara, was enjoying another cup of coffee and a bag of potato chips, an odd combination I know. But when I eat chips. I like a beverage as well, and today; it's java. “Do you drink much coffee, Ozzie?” “More than I probably should, four or five cups. That black, rich brew gives me the get-up and go I need every day.” “I learned in my studies, coffee is a stimulant.” “There you see. I knew it was a healthy habit.” "But it is also a depressant that can lead to panic attacks, anxiety, and even loss of sleep.” “I am aware of the side effects, and I do sometimes feel the effects of the caffeine.” “You know you can substitute some herbal teas. For instance, Chamomile tea is a calming brew with no side effects.” “I can’t drink tea. When I was a young lad, many years ago, my mother would give me tea to drink when I had an upset stomach. You can only guess what the results of drinking that golden liquid was. And, to this day. I cannot drink tea.” “Hey, Ozzie look at those beautiful maples with their reds and yellows. There is nothing like God’s paint strokes on His creation.” “You are right, Barbara. The scenery is magnificently displayed, showing God’s handiwork.” “Old Orchard in twenty minutes,” the conductor announced. “Well, Ozzie I’ll soon be getting off this train. I just want to say. It has been a wonderful trip. I have enjoyed our talks immensely. You are such a kind man, easy to talk to.” The trees along the railroad tracks with their bright colors were, along with meeting Barbara, the most desirable part of my trip. As Barbara exited the train, she turned and smiled, waving her small, lily-white hand. I waved in return. I shall miss that wonderful young lady. I can only hope and pray her life is full of love and happiness. I watched as she stood waiting for her luggage. Coming up behind her, I saw a tall, handsome man in a police uniform tap her on the shoulder. She spun around and the two kissed. I could almost see the stars in their eyes light up. I shall never forget this train ride when I met Barbara Owens in the dining car. It shall ever be considered my finest hour. When we were nearing the station where Barbara got off the train we both took a few minutes to take in God’s wonderful landscape: tall, colored tree leaves matching the green fields, and as if waving good-bye to us, the grass swayed in the afternoon breeze. It was a picture of grace and beauty. I could not tell you the ecstasy that, at that time, welled up in me like a hot flowing lava stream. My heart was on fire. Barbara’s beauty and God’s magnificent glory shining forth through His handiwork. It was the best day of my life as I watched Barbara exit the train. I said, “There goes my everything, all that I have ever wanted in life. I got off the train in Portland and drove home to an empty house. But, I thought. I was glad I’m me with all my ups and downs. I still have a roof over my head, food in the Pantry, and Goldy my orange in a bowl swimmer. “Good night, Goldy. Pleasant dreams.

Imagine you are an immortal chimp working to support your chimp family. Your chimp wife and children need the money. One day your chimp children will go to college and support you and your chimp wife when you are too old to work any longer. It's truly the perfect chimpanzee dream, just like the movies. You work in a never ending cycle of tippity tapping away on a keyboard. You're not alone, you are surrounded by a seemingly endless supply of fellow simian laborers, all typing just the same. Work consists of pressing buttons and submitting a plethora of unreadable garbage to meet the yearly quota. Life is good, it's easy work. One day, management decided to make better use of you and your ape compatriots. You are assigned with one task and one task only; write the entirety of Shakespearean literature. You can exit the building only when you have completed your assignment. Sounds time consuming but simple, right? Wrong. Your small chimpanzee brain can not yet process the meaning of the strange symbols on the keyboard in front of you. You try to quit, “I can't write Shakespeare!” All that comes out is incoherent screeching and wailing. You are quickly escorted back to your seat at gunpoint and reprimanded for your behavior. Surely the other apes have something to say about this new turn of events? No, your ape coworkers are seemingly unbothered and continue to smash their keyboards. You panic, you haven't had to exercise your brain in decades. Now they expect you to write full english sentences? Internally screaming, you type frantically and randomly across your keyboard in hopes that you may get lucky and write a legible sentence or two. You won't, at least not for another couple of eons. Only now do you survey your surroundings, desperate for a way out. The door, locked. How about the windows? Seems like you never looked up from your computer for long enough to realize there ARE no windows. Maybe the ventilation shaft? Bolted and secure. Maybe you can break the door down? Nope, the years of endless office work has shriveled your body into a husk of its former self. You can barely support the glasses you wear on your head, let alone a steel door. Looks like you're out of options. The chimps alongside you work diligently and happily, unaware of the dire situation. You try typing, for only a bit. The constant mistakes and deletion of your hard work grinds you down. You work for hours at a time for zero gain. The end is nowhere near in sight. Only now does it truly dawn on you your situation. You sit down and cross your arms in protest. You will refuse to work until they let you see your family! Except, no one ever comes. What's one monkey refusing to work in a sea of countless others who work with no complaints? Eventually, you lose all hope and spend countless decades, even centuries, doing absolutely nothing. Time truly has no meaning when you are immortal. Luckily your small ape brain is easily entertained by throwing assorted objects around the room and screeching at the top of your lungs. Even that however, gets old eventually. One day this repetitive cycle ends. An announcement, over the intercom. “Chimp #72938403 has completed his work. Congratulations!” You are dumbfounded. Chimp #72938403 waltzes over to the exit doors. You seize this opportunity and make a break for it. You see the outside world. You see sunlight again. Just as quickly as you gained your temporary freedom, you lose it again. You are thrown back into the endless cubicles of your workplace. Seeing a fellow monkey make his way out of this hell, it determines you. “If he can do it, I can do it!”, you think. You must get to work if you ever wish to live again. Despite the overwhelming odds against you, you begin. You imagine your loving family’s embrace after you finally conquer the dreadful workload. “It will all be worth it in the end”, you tell yourself. Yet, you have a creeping thought in the back of your mind, “will there be an end?” Time passes, slowly you see yourself make progress. Another announcement, yet another ape has regained his freedom. This drives you to work harder than before, soon you will be free. Yet more time passes. Another announcement, and another, and another, and even more. The ape to your left leaves you, then the one to the right. Soon enough, you are completely alone. What did you do to deserve this divine punishment? You weep, your keyboard getting soggy. Yet, you type. You stop thinking. One day, you do it. You place the period on the last sentence of the last book of Shakespeare. You can't believe it. You don't believe it. You get up and head for the exit door. Locked. Confused, you yell out into the open air. The voice on the intercom starts speaking. You erupt into celebration. You are free. He says, “Three Witches, act one, scene one.” What? What does that mean? You rush to your computer and scan through your work. Oh god. You read aloud, “Fair is fpul, and foul is fair.

Lin blew her lies... You talkin ́ ́to me, hu? At that point Lin came up with an assumption, that British people were mighty high up. She, Lin that is, had no single clue at first of how to get rid of it. Rid off it, the problem itself? That Aristocratic lady, Mrs Willfear, was a nobility of seldom seen stardom. In Lin ́s Sweden the hight and mighty came closer to being more pragmatic than lofty. So she had to face the issue in another turn of the screw. Heck it! Of course Picasso had it written down: ”Art is a lie that force you to see reality...” So now we have to tap into the lies to get to the several British conclusions. Lin sat in that humid and hot, not to mention it, the very British classroom up somewhere, far from Denver, further off from Pennsylvania Road, but pretty close to the moors of Yorkshire. Oh, you must boast about having been mad in this remote place, where everyone comes and everyone goes. Lin started making up stories about this and that and her and him. At a point in the plot the hat bowed its head down to the gutter, and that is a mise an etyme, or how is the figure of a word would you suggest? Lin was no scholar, and was no material for the high court. She was only Upper Middle Class in Sweden and now she faked class. She faked it so well in that Scarborough place that a cloak made of no seam came to be hung around her white shoulders. Is that a fake? Lin had to pretend being a Working Class. It began with something that could have turned out to be a debate, cause Lin had read all the reviews in the evening papers that had showed how the wet stone sharpen the knifes, the very tool in a hot debate. But hot is closer to Britain than to Sweden. Anyhow. Pretending no-rule-for-men meant that she had to stand out for no reason at all... We have simply to express the Swedishness. There is an unwritten law in Sweden: ”Don ́t believe too much about yourself...” Have you ever been abroad you might understand. It is that in a foreign place the very near and dear land of yours come so close it could tip you in just about any abyss on any map. So Britain compared to Sweden had to join in several seldom seas...Viking you know! Sitting there as Working Class meant that Mrs Willfrear, the one, had to point out things in all and each direction. Lin took the bait at the top of it, swallowed and got fat in a brilliant second of now time at all. Big lie, isn ́t it? She had no job, or had a stupid kind of job. And she was a kind of a pink rose. That is having been raped it got her to the worst nightmare of all: Love was a joke to a bloke in town! And Mrs Willfear had a vision about being the high ranked when it came to poetrie. She blew the nose when teaching how to behave and how to sit and how to shake hands. And it was all and everything with this high dame that was a curse. The nobility in Britain is highest ́mong seven different Continents, which is a tale as tales go. She was amused and used to faking with her passion. She had for a reason or two been married to a cultivated man. And now her shame was hidden off the course on the road to Mandalay. Off in a remotest place, where the game of Colonialism had started. Which meant in the end that all stories about it all had to be shaped in seven different angles, with squares and with round-abouts and with different tale-tellings that combined the figure three in one. A lie within a lie within another form. Screw my ball-of-the-eye, she yelled, this Lin. My whitest eye-balls. Funny to be spoken like that. Fun of a pun. Working-Class Lin had to get hooked on the discussions, saying null and nothing. Her idiom was bought and sold off the coast in Stockholm. Her hips no more. Her tits could never more be. But a lie on the top of the glass-mountain was a rare fable in a history of Swedish people. So. Her dad was a man selling clothes. Nothing else. Now, apart from Lin, our conclusion of the moral is - see? Mrs Willfear had lies down her DNA. It was dioxyribonacid-whatever! At that school, in that very classroom she taught manners of how to overcome each and any prejudice. So she had to sell lies everyday at that very place. See? Going around in the streets of your mind every day, every week, every godamn minute bring about lies to every occupied person out there. So Lin picked up Mrs Willfears tools, as Lin, being born in Sweden, having Polish and Sicilian ancestry, she ? She was prone to learn an idiom and an idioticism, right in the face of the mighty High-borners. Every day at that spot Mrs Willfear gave room for ideas to every student. Her feminine touch had to lie, because that stiff upper lip was related to castles and mansions that no other country could boast and brag about. Every day a feminine lie, hiding behind the persona of a Scorpio. Where was the point in teaching Lin that - oh, how very much Working-Class you are little silly girl! She taught Lin how to behave, how to dress, how to talk in a proper manner. She taught with the signum of a dear lie. Her tales run wild thinking about letting out people with a Cambridge exam afterwards. So Lin stole that paper of an exam. The rest was haunting her down the British lane, because she had to lie about being a someone without any moral. See, the moral was a hardcore value up in Sweden. But values in Britain was their biggest lie. Or all those lies going in an export trade from harbour to port, from port to harbour. What could Mrs Willfear learn in the end of the tale? In her very own fable? Suddenly all pieces fell together in a fable, more so cut in an American mode, up the Pennsylvania road. The day the British people came to know that Shakespear had a spear of a lie, they had to begin to adress the blacks with no more than truth. A stiff upper lip among the nobility was a game, a joke, a choke in the gutter of it all. Sad, bad and mad sat Lin up in a lonely Sweden pondering about how to roam the seven seas, chasing after her one and only enemy. No, Lin should ever never again talkin ́ shit about her Viking mum. It would have dragged out her brain, for sure. But somewhere deep inside she felt a cruel wish. To let Mrs Willfear ́s lies being told in an English, let us call it British, mode. Tell it with no hooked feeling. Telling it in a distance that a lie comes after you. As Sweden says: ”What is hidden in snow comes up in thaw...” If you think low about someone without the correct manner or the correct speech, then all of a sudden comes the next year when all snow turn into April ́s bitter flakes. And Mrs Willfear had to face her own culture this time. It is no lie that weather and wind is a hard fact today, better understood in Russia, America and Sweden. Burning forests came about in the wake of the Colonialism. And Colonialism had to sell lies on the market to godamn everyone. But sometimes when there is a sad sunshine in Lin ́s eyes and high on the sky, she come to think about being Working-Class. It was a cruel game, but it held a sceptre in its hand. It was no lie at all that her mother came from them. Pooor, but never starving. Her lie had turn out to become a treasure. To having learnt British gave her backbone a way to sit, in a lofty manner. And her stiff upper lip lost its way to address the people. But back in Yorkshire there was an attic with a madness. From a famour novel, one can tell. With a famous novel that taught you should never keep madness hidden on the attic. Mrs Willfear ́s lies had turned into a moral of the plot. Her lie was a poem, an object on the Literary market. It was a poem about Lin, a lie about everything Lin had said and done. And the poem sold and become so famous that a Viking bay came up to the high level of a Viking crew. A Fantastic poem about a girl. And one day the world will figure out who it was addressing. A poem about a poet in her own right. Lin is, yes, writing her own stories. In British of course. The conclusion: Never tell lies in a British mode just to teach a language to the low girls!!! The lowest one who learnt British lies in a queer mode could beat out the words in a manner of a Swedish style. And high up there is just sun up to us all. We need some stormy weather. We need a man to turn the history back in order of our Earth ́s Nature. Perhaps with honesty this time. Or rather we might need a Black Vice-President who adress facts and figures - in English! One might wonder if the President of the Unites States bring back facts - with an English language? This might be no lie this time...

It was a bright and extremely hot Monday morning. Shielding his eyes from the unrelenting sunlight accompanied by heat threatening to burn the hair on his head, he soldiered on towards the towering building looming ahead. The pavements seemed to be absorbing all the heat as they enveloped him in an embrace that felt like he was bathing in a volcano. Once again his poor planning had got the best of him and he was penniless forcing him to walk all the way to his destination. “Damn! I hope my armpits don’t just pour open, “ he thought to himself taking a quick sniff in his armpit. What had seemed like a short stroll that would not make him break a sweat turned out to be a lot further than anticipated. He stared at the tail lights of a beautiful, brand new Mercedes-Benz that whizzed past him even before he could turn his head fully to admire it’s beauty. It was at that moment that he realized to his dismay that he had made his seemingly accurate calculated guess concerning distance while he was sitting in the back of a taxi moving at full speed. Nonetheless, he marched on with a confident gaiety stride that reflected none of his personal woes or internal turmoil. Donovan cursed silently under his breath as he stumbled over a stone that left a visible mark on his not so well polished shoe. Stooping to fix the dent on his attempt to look immaculate, he instantly felt light headed and two stepped off the road desperately trying to fight the feeling that held him in a hostile grip threatening to drag him into the underworld. Donovan allowed himself a little smile. Nothing was going to deter him from making it to the interview for a job he so desperately needed despite the activities of the previous night. He smiled fondly at the memory of consciously making a bad decision to have subsequent shots of Tequila and Jaeger in an utterly pointless competition with a stranger who turned into a best friend the very night they bumped into each other. The stranger had turned out to be the son to a prominent politician in the country. What was important about that was his struggle to shine under his father’s shadow. A struggle Donovan knew all too well and could easily relate to. It was refreshing to know he wasn’t alone in the fight for independence and individual identity. In his defence how was he supposed to know that he would be called for a job interview so soon. The economy was so screwed up it took months to get any feedback. Life outside his comfort zone had been full of unexpected and consistent struggles. “How come there’s nothing free?” He often wondered to himself. “You literally have to buy everything from the food you eat, transportation all the way down to the line you hang your clothes on,” Donovan complained to himself. One of the many lessons he was learning the hard way ever since he made the headstrong decision to become independent was how tough life actually was. However, this was a welcome challenge to the determined young man who took it all in as a life lesson. Being the last born in a highly authoritative family was way more of a strain than a few bills which could be handled with a proper plan and budget. Donovan was tired of being controlled by principles and philosophies that were clearly not doing the family any good. The level of dependency was too high and no-one was allowed to nurture their personal ambitions. It was a one size fits all situation. All were expected to go to school, get good grades become a Doctor an Engineer or a Lawyer. Not that there was anything wrong with that, the issue was the compatibility of the plan and the intended audience. Donovan had an uncle who was nothing short of phenomenal at playing soccer. The crowd in his community was always more interested in watching him play than the rest of the team who were reduced to a supporting act. It was a small price to pay because you were guaranteed victory. Uncle Vincent literally needed an exorcism from the spirit of soccer that possessed him. He adapted to all roles on the pitch with ease and unrivalled sportsmanship. Much to everyone’s surprise, Vincent's skill was looked down on and any scholarship offers to groom him into a full-time professional were instantly rejected by his parents on the basis of the offers not proving to be able to stand the test of time. Simply because his path was unique it was discarded. Uncle Vincent over time succumbed to depression, he picked up nasty petty thief habits that often made Donovan’s mother who happened to be his sister burst into tears. Donovan was young but vividly remembered all the grief she suffered silently on her own.” I will never drink alcohol in my life or smoke anything,” he would often vehemently say to himself and declare to others. During his High school he was an active member of church and spent most of his time doing Christian activities. All in an effort to be different and make his mother proud. That was not the case now. He often joked about how he ended up being worse than all the people he endeavoured to surpass on a moral scale. In spite of it all he had decided he would keep his new found bad habits but with restraint. Combined with his decision to study a course outside the family expectations and his new found love for bad vices Donovan had become quite unpopular among his relatives. It left him vulnerable and further exacerbated his situation. Nonetheless, the sun shines on us all. The gods were not impartial to Donovan, he managed to graduate with a distinction much to everyone's surprise. He even got a job shortly after. Life was suddenly going great for the black sheep of the family and he soon became quite popular among peers and family members alike. This was the impetus that gave him the courage to move out of an all expense paid shared apartment with his cousins. A move which was shockingly received with heavy criticism, no one ever dared to venture out on their own. Nothing could stop the momentum of this new found man he was growing into. He loved the freedom that independence came with in his own little apartment. Even The process of finding the house was fun. Donovan and his workmates took a drive around town with an agent they had found on social media. They settled for a secure apartment exactly the right size for him. The yard had a series of identical apartments all painted blue. They had neat little flowers growing at the porch. The lawns were quite small but well maintained with a perfect carpet of grass. It gave off the vibe that it was a secure and decent place to live and raise children. Donovan despised the fact that he would have to squat in a bath tub but that was a small price to pay. There was barely any space between the toilet and bath tub however it was only his problem alone and no one else. The kitchen wasn’t perfect. It was small and had wooden beams and boards that looked better suited for a thatched house in a rural area. The sink pipes needed some work done because a few drops of water escaped and seemed likely to make a small puddle if left unattended to. On the bright side the rest of the house was perfect. White tiles adorned the moderately sized living room floor and bedroom as if it were reflecting the smiles of angels gazing upon it. He took in the sight with a huge grin knowing that the short falls would be a bargaining chip to reduce the price of rentals. Life had become difficult upon the loss of his previous job a month ago and it was necessary to take every opportunity as if it were the last. As he approached the company building, the air even felt cleaner Donovan was already happy to have such an opportunity. As he approached the large gate, his eyes marvelled at the large writings. “éxito- Definite Success” was written in bold blue letters over a red brick Wall. As if those words were placed there just for him his faith only grew stronger. Donovan proceeded to open the wide glass door that was architecturally placed right below the company’s name. A beautiful lady in a pink satin dress sat right in front of him. Her eyes appeared to have been cleaned by silk pearls. The white glistened from her Cornea as if life itself worshipped her existence. “Why now?” he thought. If God was tempting him he would be glad to fail as if he hadn’t had enough distractions throughout his journey. She smiled a smile enthralling he was taken aback. The lovely red ribbon that formed her lips revealed a dazzling set of teeth.“ Good morning. You must be Donovan. Please take a seat.” She motioned with her hand in a graceful movement directing him towards a sofa fit for top executives. “Mr. Carlos and his panel will see you in a moment.” Her voice was so angelic. “Was she singing or speaking?” he asked himself as he walked towards his seat still bewildered by the lady who seemed to be in her mid twenties. Barely 10 minutes had passed before he was ushered into a conference room. The dark hard wood floor echoed his steps as he proceeded to a chair that had been placed at the far end of a large rose wood table fit for Kings to dine on. Donovan sat down and raised his eyes to finally see the panel set before him. “Good morning. Welcome to éxito. We are glad to have you.” The first speaker demanded respect and from his tone and demeanour it was evident that this was Mr. Carlos, the man he was meant to impress before the rest of the panel. The questions immediately began to pour out and Donovan ensured that he was calm before each response to ensure that he always appeared confident. As he responded to all the questions he thought deeply of what he would expect to hear on the other side as an interviewer. The team appeared pleased but there was one lady. She barely smiled and she had a follow up question for each of his responses. However, Donovan felt that as long as Mr. Carlos liked him, he had achieved his goal. The rest was in God's hands.

We all have plans, right? We want our lives to be the way we wanted. But hardly ever that happens! “I am really worried about you dear. How long are you going to do this job?” My mom’s voice was quiet and heavy. She has been this way since I left my hometown. I know she doesn't like this. She always wanted me to start my own business in Nashville but I wanted to start a new life in a big city. I am from a small town and I do love my place, but when you want to finish your debt as fast as possible, a big city like Brooklyn only comes to my mind. I just want to get rid of this debt as fast as possible. “You are hearing me, right?” When we grow up, our mom thinks we are still in school. She worries the same way she used to when I would leave for school, which was a five-minute ride from home. “Sorry, mom. I am at work,” I said as I wore my apron. I hate this because it's so tight, and sometimes I cannot breathe. It has my name and the cafe’s name on it. It's custom-made in rose gold color. Whenever mom asks me how long I am going to do this, I seriously don’t have an answer. Getting a job is easy here. But a job that will pay all my bills? It's really hard. It’s been three months and I am still stuck at this job. “I have started sending my application. So fingers crossed.” I stacked the dishes and waited for my order to arrive. I have a morning shift here at A Cup Of Joy. It's 7 am and I have not yet had my coffee. “Mom, are you there?” I stopped my work and waited for her to reply. When I was in Nashville, it was easy to look after her. I know she is not old yet. She married quite young and she is in her early 40s now but still, if she doesn't pick up my call, I’ll be calling my neighbor to check on her. She is active and in good health but sometimes I worry about her. I never thought I would have to leave her alone like that. “Yes, yes. I am okay.” I heard the door open. It's old and makes a squeaky sound. It’s scary when you are alone in the house and it's raining outside. I still have memories of living alone at my place. Many people in Nashville always used to ask me and my mom about how we lived in this old house all by ourselves. They think it's haunted but actually, we never felt that way. I have stayed a good 20 years of my life there and it's the best place I know. “Mom?” I could hear some voices in the background. I think she is talking to someone. We live in an amicable neighborhood. It’s a very common thing to visit each other’s place throughout the day. I am not surprised that she had a visitor at this time of the day. “It's Miles here. He came to help me out in the garden. You wanna talk?” I bit my lips because it makes me nervous to talk to him after the incident. It’s been so long since the last time we talked. Although I have known him throughout my life, the incident back then is making me nervous. “Hey hi, Josie.” His voice was looking normal now. “Hey, how are you?” I asked, trying to be as normal as possible. “Fine... actually really okay now. Better than before.” He was as nervous as I was. He was hesitant to talk to me. “My mom’s still there, right?” I know when my mom is around, we can't talk openly. “Yeah, yup.” He paused for a while. “Hey, is Lizzy there?” he asked. I almost forgot that Lizzy hasn't updated her relationship status yet. “She has got a boyfriend here, Miles. I am sorry.” “Oh wow!” He gave out a short laugh. “The world is moving faster than I expected. And here I am still in the same place.” I feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for him. “Hey, Josie. Would you mind taking my place? I have to drop Ben to school?” I looked back and Ava was cleaning some stains from her apron. Her name was written in Purple sparkle. “Yeah sure. Hey Miles, would you mind if I call you later?” “Yeah. No problem.” “Tell mom I’ll call her tomorrow. It's my holiday.” “Okay, I’ll tell her. Goodbye, Josie.” “Take care, Miles. I hope things will turn out in your favor this time.” “I hope that for you too, Josie.

I'm not even sure where to start. This last month has been one that I wish I could erase from my memory. I wish I could just abandon all reason and crawl back into denial, but there's no denying the wreckage that stands before me. The bodies strewn on either side of the street, and the rivers of blood that run forth from them. And so here I stand before what will surely be my final moments. I draw what would be my last breath as I charge forward, running towards what you may perceive to be a honorable death. You would be wrong. This is no act of courage, this is an act of cowardice. Everyone I know is dead, my wife, my children, my friends, everyone. I'm charging forward because I don't have the courage to continue to fight, because death seems so comforting next to the alternative. Massive hands wrap around me, crushing me, and the last month replays through my mind like my own personal horror show. Exactly one month ago the human race met God. He was not loving, he was not gracious, and he sure as hell wasn't forgiving. But he was powerful. Beyond belief. He created us in seven days, and washed away our filth in less than thirty. Now I stare into the face of our creator, and an inferno stares back. It sears and burns away my clothes, and I'm naked before him. My frail body breaks, and cracks in the palm of his hand under the weight of every sin I've ever committed. One unintelligible word breaks forth from his mouth like a tidal wave ripping away my flesh in its wake. My eyes roll back into my skull as I fade from light. I have no idea how long I was out, or if I'm even still alive. I'm writing this now only in an attempt to cling to sanity for a while longer. I think I'm dead. I think I'm dead. I'm dead, and this must be hell.

Once more he set on the trail. The smell of pine and the brown tint of the forest were as familiar as they had ever been. Through all of the seasons of life, that had never changed. The warmth of the summer day danced with the gentle breeze that could be heard before it could be felt. He had been on this trail many times on many different days. Days where the winter stripped what green the trail had to offer, and where the night brought on the full bitterness of winter. Days where the sun deceived one in the morning, hiding the storm that was to come. Days where the arrival of spring, lit up the forest in song and color. Throughout all of these days, the trail remained the same. It was not a complicated trail by any means; however, it was an unconventional one. Whereas many trails sought the path of least resistance, this trail sought to make the simple, difficult. Instead of climbing once to the ridgeline and plateauing as long as it could, this trail went up, only to return down. Over and over again, the trail followed this pattern, exhausting the ones who sought to conquer it. The trail cut through many different scenes of life. Travelers would find themselves in the old familiar pine forest, and then turn a corner to feel the thick heat of a swamp. Only to travel up a hill and be caught up in tropical scrub. New travelers would look unknowingly at a map and believe they know knew the trail, but to know the trail, one would need to be on it. The man knew this trail though, and he knew it well. As he crossed through the pines, admiring the small, dirt cliffs and the tall, lanky trees, he thought back to a different time, the first time he conquered the trail. He was just a boy, unaccustomed to the outdoors, and unaware of what pain a trail can bring. He went with friends, and because of this, the trail was nothing more than competition on who could prove themselves to be the strongest. This competitive drive brought nothing to pain for the losers and indifference to the strongest. As the boy climbed the hill, and the saw palms cut his legs, the allure of being the strongest was lost. The boy trudged on because of the competition, but there was no meaning in it. Because the boy did not believe that the trail had meaning, he could gain nothing from it. The bright white of the dogwood flowers and beauty in the song sung by the wind and the birds were nothing, but a background to pain for the boy. His inexperience in life stole the moment from him, but a memory was made. The years went by, and the memory of the trail slowly cut out the pain and left a faint impression of the song of that day. The humble beauty of that song would lead him back to the trail. As the man continued on the trail, he stopped at a creek to rest. The creek was surrounded by rock and moss, creating a dark palette for the water to flow through. As he watched that eternal creek flow, he thought back to the second time that he visited the trail. It was when he was in his youth, not quite a man, but not quite a boy. This time he was once more surrounded by friends, but they did not drive each other through the trail through competition. This time they went through the trail in fellowship. He was full of youth and love, and this allowed him to witness the beauty of the trail for the first time. There was no pain then. Every hill was taken on slowly so that he could witness the life that is offered to its travelers. Every song was listened to, and every turn brought continuous wonder. The thick scrub that the trail would present to its travelers was not a hindrance anymore. Instead, he was in awe of it and the strength that the forest contained. The night was not full of pain, it was lit up by fire, whiskey, and laughter. The morning did not bring dread, it brought excitement to begin once more. The man thought back to that time on the trail, and he thought of how romantic he once believed that life was. He continued on the trail, leaving the sound of the stream behind. He went up a familiar hill, ignoring the cuts of the saw palms, ignoring the trees, the birds, the world around him, because he knew what the top of the hill offered. As he trudged on, he thought back to the last time he was on the trail. That time, he was fully a man and this had changed the meaning of the trail. He carried more than his pack that time. That time he carried the loss of love and life with him. The birds' songs were perhaps more beautiful this time, but they sang a sadder song, one that must come to an end. The blossoming flowers sprouted from fallen trees. The fire at night was there to light the forest but also to warm the man. The whiskey was there to laugh in friendship, but also to forget. The joy of the trail was not lost, but this time the man knew that there cannot be joy without suffering. The man finally came to the top of the hill, and at the top, he fully returned to the moment. He felt the warmth of the sun come down in large beams from the narrow shade of the pines. He felt the breeze bring calmness to the stirring forest. The man heard the sparrows sing life, and the fallen tree gave the man rest. From the first time to the last time on the trail, this place brought nothing but peace. The sufferings of the outside world could not reach there. There was nothing else, but this moment and there was no place, but this place. He sat there for as long as he could, as time passed without his notice. Slowly, the sun began to lower, and the end of the trail was near. Once more he set on the trail. The smell of pine and the brown tint of the forest were as familiar as they had ever been.

\[ I \] Matilda stood atop a hill staring into the void where the ocean and the night sky met. She often waited by the shore and dreamed of the day she would get to leave her cursed land. Her disparity was as sharp and painful as the crisp morning air and held tight within her upper chest. She had longed to break free of the chains that imprisoned her to the land of her ancestors, and felt ashamed upon their defeat in a sense. Her village had been burnt to the ground by savage invaders and she lie witness to the mass slaughters as they had served as a second sweep in the night. They went around raping and finally decimating her and the remainder of her Tribe following the settling of the fires they had cast in the dead of night. She had dreamed of her capture and sexual assault systematically by each full moon, and found insanity lay with those who avoid sleep. She walked down the formed paths that she had once fixed with her cousins and admired each Redwood tree she passed knowing that they were the only living organisms that witnessed and could confirm that all those who’d she had lost were indeed real at one point of time. These trees she had once climbed upon in playfulness now only reminded her of that night when she lost everything. They had ransacked her village with no remorse or reason that she could understand...and left only two out of every ten of the village. She was one of the last 200 of her Tribe, and they narrowly escaped with barely even that before the wave of disease hit. The evil spirits brought forth by these men with the skin the color of dead fish bellies and the eyes the color of death itself. They had done this on purpose and she knew it. She had also initially known why they were there, as her father had told her that this day would come. They had came in search of her Golden Fleece. As the fire roared in her dreams she reminded herself of the last command she was given by her father to run. She shook anxiously as they made eye contact for the last time and she had no room to object as his fellow Warrior took the lead and threw her over his shoulder and whisked her off into the night as had been his orders. They had made the strategic plans and moves to help her and select few others climb up the giant 200 foot tall tree. They climbed for what seemed like forever and remained in the softened trellises of the heavens until they learned the language of the enemy. This too was command by her father and she was too afraid to disobey the orders of their leader. Her father had been right so often in the past that it seemed detrimental to assume he knew what he was talking about this time around. Time passed and it wasn’t until it was only her and one other left alive that she felt it were the proper time to descend from the giant Redwood. They had both mastered the language of the dead-eyed savages and she felt comfortable waiting on her yard to proceed to fulfill her following commands to guard the Golden Fleece. There along the shore she continually paced back and forth maddened by her grief...screaming into the crashing waves. They argued with her relentlessly and she often left the beach deterred and defeated that she had lost her voice screaming into the void whilst the ocean continued on with its reckless clashing. She was told her howls were the screeches of nightmares, but each night she would return to try and cry out each tear as though she were reuniting her lost family with the ocean. She felt her eyes swell like the waters she stood in, and felt nothing as time never waivered the sadness she felt deep in her heart. The second she stood outside of that ocean she felt a massive indescribable weight bearing down upon her shoulders and crushing her spine with the weight of the world. She held herself responsible for the death of her village and felt the empath disease cripple her as though she were caught in an unpredictable tide along the shore. It was a burden she carried from protecting the Golden Fleece. The details of time were not hers to worry aboot, as she had the body of a child but the sharpened mind of Warrior having recently returned from combat. She felt indifferent to the now lazy and pretentious dead-eyed savages all around her, and found it ironic that they had campaigned across her land stating that they were superior to her and all those who didn’t look like them. In this time of ignorance they had lost sight of their initial goal to retrieve what they had came for, and sat down and turned to stone with no intentions of standing up unless they had to. They had come for the Golden Fleece and forgotten mid search as they were busy boasting of their victorious conquests to one another until they forgot how to fight all at once. It was none of her business to judge these heathens who continued to rape women and children, but still she found it hard to not stab an obsidian arrowhead into their throats at times. She would postpone on acting on this compulsion as her sole purpose was to hold her position near the void until the Warriors of the sky came to retrieve the Golden Fleece. How had she came to be in possession of such a sought after article? It was a late gift from her late father, and a priceless family heirloom carried down through time since the beginning of the existence of the Earth. It was gifted to her Tribe after they had saved a woman from drowning soon after they witnessed her falling from the sky into the ocean. She said that if she would have died that the flood that followed would have washed over all of the land because of how high she had fallen from. She was hysterical as she often clenched a box and argued with the severed head of her dead husband. She managed to speak Yurok with aid of this corpse and spent copious amounts of time giggling at her husbands non-verbal jokes. Since her crash landing our Tribe watched as our trees began to grow at more rapid pace, and took it to be a side effect of the sky woman and whatever magic she had carried with her in her leather bag. Our tribe found it best to leave her in peace as she wandered around yelling orders at her husband, and they often jested that her poor husband must have known she was darkened in the mind when he agreed to their nuptials. She would live the rest of her days hiding in our trees, and was said to have used her magic to shrink our Tribes people, as we too had been given the same growing properties that seemed to have accelerated the growth of the Redwoods. It was done out of her compassion for us, as she worried there would come a day in which those who she escaped from in the sky might find giant trees guarded by eight foot Warriors to be a giveaway of the presence of magic. We were reduced to the heights of neighboring Tribes and our trees continued to grow without us. Upon her old age she felt safe enough to sit down and explain the importance of her mission and finally told us of the curse brought by the Golden Fleece. Before the world had started turning there had been nothing but chaos amongst the Gods. They seemed to argue about what to do with a rogue star and they worried it would cause damage to the other surrounding worlds if left unchecked. The sky woman had decided that the only way to slow down the star was to add weight to its tail and she appointed herself in charge of making the star slow down. She made many magical items and crafted them from objects found only on living planets. By the time she had fashioned the Golden Fleece the other Gods had decided they wanted to sell the star for profit and that her project was no longer relevant. She attested this deal because they knew nothing about the star and its potential to collide with everything. She explained that it was on a collision course where if it met another star even half the size head on...that the stars and worlds would be swallowed up by darkness and nothingness. She pointed out the precise time when and where the two stars were calculated to met but the Gods only cared about their own selfishness and chose to continue with their bargaining. She stated that one of the smaller stars following the wake of the destructive star had water on its surface and an island where she thought she had seen life. To this the Gods laughed and made fun of her active imagination. She set out to prove that life could exist on the star and decided to help it grow into a planet. She with the aid of her now dead husband worked to make a series of devices that held up the golden net that surrounds the Earth, and this net kept life safe to flourish as the star continued to chase the star of destruction. She had put a Golden Fleece on multiple stars trying to get them to spin just enough so that she could figure out which held water. She needed the clouds to prove that there was enough water for her and the Gods to live, as they were looking for a new home to settle on as refugees. Her family found out that the clouds had appeared and that the couple had been correct and decided to call off the trade. To this decisions the sketchy buyers lost their temper and demanded they continued with the sale. They found out what she had done and so they took her and her family captive where they are chained to chairs held down by magic lighting. The Gods remain stuck asleep talking to one another and conversing with no one all at once. Her husband came to save them but only managed to save his wife before getting caught. They captured both and chained her to a wall and raped her as he was forced to watch in horror. When her spirit remained unbroken and she fell into shamelessness they thought the only way to break her was to make her watch as they ripped each limb off of her beloved husband and threw the long limbs into the sky so that he would cease to exist. This was too much for her and she became so enraged by what they had done and with that unmeasurable rage: all of the devices she had made began to power-up and work all at once as her screaming voice commanded them to retrieve his body from the darkness. The devices stored her orders and held her operations secret until they could give her enough powers to move metal into any form she needed. She fell into madness until a soldier who kept guard for the traders took shame on what they had done to her and he hid away two pieces of her husband to bring her back from cusps of insanity. This act of defiance and rare selflessness gave her the ability to remember her husband and she was able to ward off all those wished to rape her, as she was still chained to the wall. The soldier helped tone down her anger and often brought her kindness with his company whenever she asked for him by name. There they stood learning aboot the sciences and laughed at her troubled youth together, and so they continued to do such as they waited until her devices had enough magic lightning stored to break her free from the metal chains. One day she ripped her rosey hands from the walls and directed the soldier to guide her to where he had hidden the two pieces of her husband that he had salvaged, and thanked him for his ability to break protocol to save her and her beloved husband. She promised she would return the favor in kindness and that he had given her hope in people once more by his actions. The intelligible soldier had never been acknowledged for his originality and was confused by her praise considering he was still a soldier. She left him to dwell on her appraisal upon retrieving the two decapitated pieces and then proceeded to mold a sheet of metal around her husband's head and another piece around his severed penis in order to preserve them. She felt embarrassed for her husband as she knew he was modest and prudish to the extent that he’d be annoyed how much others had been talking about his penis up until this point without his knowledge. For a scientist and a male: he didn’t seem to find penises as funny as she did, and it gave her moderate joy knowing this would be mortifying for him to learn once she figured out how to resemble him. She would often chuckle to herself and mumble disapproval that his penis was unhelpful when it was not attached to the rest of him, and that he already had a difficult time keeping his pants on. She continued rummaging the sky in search of her Golden Fleece needed to help mend her broken husband and find route to escape the prison in the sky. She became frustrated as she rushed aboot and eventually slipped and fell from the sky into the ocean. She explained to the locals that she fell in conical black shell in the sky and had fallen out of a conjoining shell that allowed them to shape time in form of an hourglass. She had lost control falling in noticed it were the wrong shell she had exited, as there was no moon in the sky where she had landed, and it meant she was stranded with no way to return home. Here is where she came to be as she mourned her lost love and found the courage to make one more last device: a Golden Fleece that would be the most powerful in comparison to the others. She spent the rest of her life building the device in the shadows of the Redwoods, and finished just in time to give it away before she died of grief and she resorted to casting herself from the widows peak and fell up into the sky where she had originally come from. Long story short: that’s how the Yurok Tribe came to be the protectors of the Golden Fleece. Matilda had always loved that story growing up, but she often was left mourning the fact that she’d never get to hear her father retell the story over a fire. Upon mastering English she continued to abide by the orders to keep details of the Golden Fleece and its location between her and the Tribes until the sky people returned. She often admired the sky woman and her journey and also avoided romance because she too feared her future husband would be ripped to pieces if she ever wed...as had been taken aside and warned that she had the same curse that the Golden Fleece had brought upon the sky woman. As time passed she found it safest to take the Golden Fleece and tack along the outside of a book so that it wouldn’t be recognized by the dead-eyed savages that roamed aimlessly on her yard. She had learned the method of consolidating as it were passed on from the sky woman, and did this task by hand before she climbed down the Redwood tree. The book appeared to be an ordinary looking book, but it was lined with gold as this was the magic bestowed upon the book by the Golden Fleece. The gold that brought the book alive had once been the exact gold that was historically reaped from her own river by the dead-eyed strangers...as they came in droves from far-and-wide looking for fortune yelling “Eureka” whenever they found smallest amount of gold pieces settling along the straits and narrows of her river. How odd these dead-eyed savages appeared to her, as she watched them drink poison and fall to the curse of Hera. They would destroy and rape whenever they drank the poison of Heras bottled rage, and in turn their hair began to fall out over time. Their children would also be cursed by this voluntary poison drinking and so would their children, but no matter how much she tried to tell them about this gene alteration, she was only met with contempt. They assumed her broken English meant she were challenged mentally and her demeanor too guile to ever be taken seriously, and so she began to simply stare at their thinning hair to point out their inadequate genes nonverbally. The pale-skinned visitors became offended by this and decided it best not to talk to those who still lived in the Redwoods. She watched quietly from the shore as they left the river in flocks...bored of the scavenger hunt they had given everything up for a few bits of gold. She came to the same spot where the river meets the ocean and waited patiently for the Warriors the sky woman had been promised would arrive as to assists the last commands on what to do with the Golden Fleece. One day she became burdened beyond consolement walking with the ghost of her father but he was unable to speak to her despite her desperate listening. She fell crumpled in a ball of shame for having forgotten his voice and became ill with a curse from Hera, as she had wished to try and force Matilda to admit that she was not worthy of her father. She left with the Golden Fleece and traveled up north where the village was filled with more lights than the night sky. She kept walking until one day she came across a drewery place where it seemed to rain whenever she was near a large dirty river that divided the land. She found comfort in the fog and enjoyed how the murky skies matched her grieving heart. She set forward a plan to learn all that she could about the gold that powered her device and decided she could probably build her own if she had the proper parts. She began asking those living in the rain for help until one day she met a strange man who called himself a Viking. This term isn’t commonly used as they had once been defeated by the Tribes in the North and were rumored to be a myth, so she began to question if he was really a Viking. She observed him quisically and remained doubtful that he was Viking, as he seemed impartial to social injustice and chose to stare downward at his feet wherever he walked. His vanity was noticeably more important than hers and he seemed to bask in the attention given to him by females who took note of his broken sharp eagle eyes and the stump leg that he often hid. He seemed to demand her attention at all times as he was unaccustomed to be ignored, and often resorted to booming orders if she playfully ignored him. It wasn’t until she saw him running one random rainy day that she was almost convinced that he may have actually been a Viking at some point in his younger years. She consulted her magic book and was enamored by the image of him trying to smile when she searched for his battle history as a Viking. She became infatuated with him and fell under a spell that caused her to sleep whenever she wasn’t crying, as she became bored without the Viking yelling at her for no reason. She told him of this weird new development and he began to laugh at her as he was just excited to see her openly admit that she cared about him. As he laughed she began to smile for the first time and they both noticed that the rain had finally stopped. They made habit of awaiting the other and began to test if the rain only came when she was not near enough for the Viking to be content with the day. She often took joy in knowing he thought the rain only happened as proof that he missed her, and with that: she learned to love the rain. She didn’t tell him about the device in her possession, as she had became attached to the Viking and still dreaded the fate he might face if he decided he still wanted to wed her as they had previously agreed upon. He told her of his wish for a son and she became ill and frightened that he actually looked forward to fulfill his intent to wed her, and she began to destroy the land and dreams of everyone around her. She knew she could never wed the Viking and he became offended by her absence and began to yell at anyone near him, as he secretly hoped she would appear by his side once more giggling and softly informing him that he needn’t yell before walking away until he was left with only the option to follow. The secret of her curse lead her to withhold more secrets from him and he grew angry with her for all the things she wasn’t allowed to say. In the meantime she had helped construct a new device with the aid of a kind-hearted couple who used music to cast their magic. She and the kind-hearted couple found the finest materials and made her a new and improved Golden Fleece. She ran away from both the rain and the Viking as she had found out he had grown bitter towards her many secrets and given up on her all together. She knew it was for the best, and lived each moment hating how much she missed the Viking, and knowing she had given him reason to hate her. She found it best that she return to the trees and continue to await the Warriors who were to hail from the sky. One day she returned to read her magic book and was surprised when a man who resembled Mars appeared under a chapter marked the book of faces and said hello as he introduced himself as an Argonaut. He invited her to join him in battle as they marched the streets demanding justice for the children that lived with little hope. She had known the terrors of injustice and decided to take up arms and join the Argonauts in battle, and appreciated that they too wore skirts in battle and donned war paint on their face. They gave her shelter and food as they prepared to storm the land, and even found way to introduce her to their leader: the First Minister. They fought side by side trying to save the children of the Argonauts homeland and were left retreating until she could return the next year. She felt guilt leaving them so soon but knew the children were in good hands under the protection of the Argonauts. She felt the one who resembled Mars saddened by her leaving in a way that reminded her of the Viking and decided it’d be best to tell him of her quest to protect the Golden Fleece. Upon learning her secret he grew more comfortable with her and she found his heart was hardened from his many years in battle before her arrival. He found her interesting and at some point had attempted to call her out by her Yurok name. She was amused by his frugal speech, and informed him that her true name was not meant to be said verbally, as it kept her awake at night whenever people said it aloud. He was confused by this and the man continued to tell her how he had found out her real name by researching her battle history and relentlessly struggled to pronounce it with his thick accent. She fell tired of this quickly and explained that her name was the Yurok word for “Sir” and that he was to address her by her English name: Matilda unless he would find resort and be comfortable enough to call her by her real name which was “Sir”. She told him and his comrade (who is known as Hercules by some): informing them of the origins of her name. She had been born with no name and date of birth, and received her name after she was raped as an infant at the age of one and a half, and then left abandoned on the side of the dirty river where it now rained. She avoided looking at them as she informed them both that her father had once called her “Sir” to make others stand at attention, and then gifted her with the Golden Fleece as a means to provide her further strength to heal from having her sexuality stolen from her soon after birth. The name was to remind her that she was not a victim to her circumstance but a person that other men commended and her endless might was why she was chosen for the task of protecting the Golden Fleece. The Argonauts understood and felt off-put by this tragic history, and fell back into the habit of calling her by Matilda out of their own comfort. She fixed her unkempt hair and wiped away her teary eyes and they continued to enjoy each others company instead of dwell on her quest. She wished that the one who looked like Mars had never brought it up, but was ok with letting him know her secrets. She worried his rage would manifest if she didn’t continue to embrace him, and found it silly how he enjoyed hugging her as often as he did, as though he wasn’t sure she were real and physically standing next to him. She realized upon having the discussion surrounding her Yurok name: that he stood a bit taller taller and his laugh seemed more bolstuous, and this made her smile sincerely in the same way that she once had with the Viking. He became less enraged as they walked, and she remained persistent and calm while listening to his resolve of conflicts unending. She seemed distracted by his earnest and polite demeanor and gifted the him the honor of the secrets she had once kept from the Viking, but avoided telling him aboot the Viking himself for a reason still unknown even to her. She found herself blushing and decided that she’d be honored to run beside him in battle but knew they held no romantic commitment to one another. They argued about a conversation she had held with Captain of the Argonauts, as she had updated him on the details of her quest and lack of success thus far. She found she admired this leader and laughed with the captain as she finally began to ask if he knew of the random Viking wandering around on her land yelling. They held a conversation of friends who had known one another their whole lives and she felt safe enough to provide secretive details that she knew could never be revealed to the other Argonauts at any cost. As she told the Captain she was relieved to see the Captain had a Redwood figurine nearby and she remembered that the Viking still needed her help because he was old and his leg had began to transform into a tree trunk. With that she began to miss the Viking she still loved and left the one that resembled Mars to continue brewing in his need for hatred. She wished the Argonauts goodbye and promised to return, but only after they came to her shore...to this deal they all agreed. She felt her heart was a bit more heavy from the battle they fought but knew that her aid was appreciated mostly by the Argonaut who resembled Mars and his Captain. She knew she would miss him and the Captain at her side but knew that if she were to stay she would be left probably wanting to wed the one who bore resemblance to Mars, as hoping to stop him from returning to his battle ways. She dismantled all thought on the matter as she worried this fate would conjure whatever curse was projected by the Golden Fleece. She returned to her land near the shore, where she was greeted by fire. Her yard had caught aflame while she was gone and the leader of the dead-eyed savages was now standing too close for her comfort as he pretended to have not taken part of setting the fire. She stepped begrudgingly off her sky boat and found that everything in her yard was now on fire and/or racists. She grew impatient with Argonauts and secretly worried that they had forgotten her soon after her departure. She could not yell across the ocean and was left and to make the rational choice by herself as whether to suit up for battle, and lastly found it wise to consult and ask for the support of the Argonauts leader: the First Minister. This was a woman of high respect to all Argonauts and Matilda had been very impressed by the leader she had briefly met on her travels. She wrote the woman who lead the Argonauts and held her voice loud enough for the world to hear, and waited by her magic book for any word pertaining to tactical advice the leader could provide for such a predicament. She had never seen a fire grow so wildly, and watched as it swallowed people whole with no intent of apologizing. She sat tight and waited for both suggestion of the First Minister and for reply from her respected Argonauts as they all were still left fighting in the dark trying to save the children along the land of what is now known as the North Sea. She sat impatiently trying to learn how to be helpful in a time of great danger and noticed that her magic book somehow had physically become lighter in weight. She had asked the Argonauts for their help casually at some point on her journey, as the music had made the her magic book too heavy for one person to carry. She decided to lament her true darkness to these friendly Argonauts and how the quest had been delayed due to her curse that caused her to weep stronger than any sea, and the boredom she fought as she struggled like a child, fighting to stay awake. They showed no hesitation in handling the task of lightening the payload of the weighted contents and helped her fix the item that had began degenerating the strength along her spine under its massive weight. Time seemed to quicken its pace since her return when she had been cast into a fire, and she grew frustrated that the thickening smoke lingered enough to obstruct her view of the stars. The Captain of the Argonauts had once told her that he’d remember her each and every time he looked up at the moon, and they left knowing one anothers darkness and the understanding that he too held curses from the Gods. She missed her Argonauts each night as it lay eight hours East to her time and since she had only broken the sound barrier once...she already doubted her abilities to even begin design on a sky boat that could fly fast enough to catch the up to the Argonauts in time for Christmas. \-A Traditional Yurok origin myth composed and re-mixed with Greek myth by: Matilda Brooks US Federally Recognized Property #562-6146, Yurok Tribe, CA.

It was a breezy autumn day in Paris, France. People bustling on the streets, cars honking, birds chirping. Just a regular day. A young girl, Ava, was looking for a coffee shop to stop by. She wanted to find a peaceful place to do her homework, since she had a pop quiz the next day. Then she noticed a little coffee shop hidden in the shadows. It was almost smaller than an apartment house, and was painted a soothing brown color. Planks of wood lined the walls, and a a sweet but bitter aroma of coffee came through the windows. She could see people gathered together buying drinks in the corner, a bench with cream and sugar, and polished tables. There were also a few light red and white umbrellas in front of the shop, above some wooden benches and a round table. But one thing caught her eye. It was a sign, and neon letters were written on it, along with drawings of leaves and drinks. “NEW AUTUMN BASED DRINKS! LIMITED OFFER, ONLY $4.99!” it said. “Mm, that sounds delicious! And it's a little shop too! A perfect place to study!” Ava thought. So she entered the store. It was dark at first. After her eyes adjusted to the light, the first thing she heard was studying music playing quietly. There were people buying frappuccinos, people wearing headphones and just laying there, people typing on their computers. The coffee machine was grinding in the background. Ava immediately loved this place! She walked to the front and looked at the menu. There were so many things to choose from! Hot chocolate, Americano coffee, lemon tart, cookies, tuna salad, espressos, cappuccinos, sandwiches, macaroons, frappuccinos, drinks for dogs, and finally, the special autumn drinks. There were three to choose from: the Pumpkin Spice Latte, the Hazelnut Frappuccino, and the Autumn Coffee Special. “The Autumn Coffee Special sounds most appetizing,” thought Ava. “Hello, welcome to the Coffee House. What would you like to order? My name is Noah.” Noah said through the counter. “I would like to order the Autumn Coffee Special, and a tuna salad please.” Ava replied. “Umm...t-that will be $3.99 please...” “Okay?” Ava was very confused. Why was Noah acting like that? It was just a purchase. Later, Noah handed her a paper bag with the company’s logo printed on it. When Ava looked inside, there was only a tuna salad! There was no Autumn Coffee Special! She stormed to the front desk again, staring at a nervous Noah. “Why is there no Autumn Coffee Special?” She demanded, but still kept her cool. “I’m very sorry, but we are out of stock! It turned out that this drink became very popular.” Noah exclaimed. “Oh, then in that case, that’s alright. Thank you for telling me and giving me the tuna salad!” Ava replied nicely. Then she walked away. Noah gave a sigh of relief. He thought Ava would get mad and report to the manager! Then he would get fired! “Heh, why did I ever think that Ava was trying to get me fired? She’s such a nice person!” Noah thought happily. On the other side of the building, Ava was thinking too. “It was just a drink after all. Nothing to be sad about,” she whispered. She settled down at a nice desk to study for her quiz. A young man named Benjamin was sitting right next to her, signing some documents on his laptop. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a yellow t-shirt below that, a pair of dark ripped jeans, and blue sneakers. He had blonde hair, mixed with hints of blue from his previous hair dye. He had heard the whole conversation between Noah and Ava, and he felt bad. So he got up and exited the store. 10 minutes later, he came back and had a cup in his hand. It was full of a drink of some sort. He went to Ava and lightly tapped her shoulder. “Hey, umm I heard that you wanted the Autumn Coffee Special so I bought you one from the other store!” he said. Ava was stunned. She couldn’t believe that somebody would do that for her! And especially someone she didn’t know. It's not like she wanted it that much. Ava blushed, and accepted the drink with a warm smile. She was very embarrassed, and to thank the stranger for his generosity, she invited Benjamin to talk the next day. She wanted to buy him a drink and talk about their day. Benjamin happily agreed, and they went their ways for the day. They met every single day from that day on. They would talk about how they failed on tests, how their day was, how they forgot that their lunch was on the stove! They exchanged numbers and addresses; sometimes they even went to each other's houses to have lunch or to study together. Soon, Ava caught feelings for Benjamin, but she didn’t tell him. She was too worried that he didn’t like her back. Sometimes she would show signs, but she didn’t think that Benjamin noticed. In Benjamin’s brain, he noticed everything. He thought it was cute of her to do that. But he never considered that she liked him. One day, Benjamin didn’t come to the Coffee House. She waited all afternoon, just sitting and waiting. She even bought some salad and just stared at the door. She sat there until one of the workers came and asked Finally she had enough and went to his house. His parents answered the door. “Where is Benjamin? He always comes to the coffee shop with me, is he alright?” Ava asked. “Oh yes, he didn’t tell you? He’s going out with-” his parents replied, but was cut short. Ava stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her, just as Benjamin’s parents finished the sentence. “I can’t believe I ever loved him!” Ava shouted to no one in particular. She ran to the closest bench, sat down, and cried. She thought that Benjamin was having a date with some other girl. Ava didn’t care if people were staring at her. She was just so mad at Benjamin! “Calm down, Ava. It’s not his fault, you never even knew he liked you or not.” Ava thought. She then buried her head in her arms, crying in distress. Benjamin was running as fast as he could. When he got back home, his parents told him what had happened. He thought that the only place that Ava could have been to was the coffee shop. So he ran faster than the wind to find her. On the way, he heard sniffling and loud crying. At first, he thought it was just a random kid crying over a lollipop or something. But then when he slowed down, he recognized the voice. It was Ava’s! He found her crouched up on a bench, crying her heart out. “AVA!!!! It’s me, Benjamin!!!” Benjamin yelled. Ava looked up, wiping away her tears. Then she got up and turned the opposite direction. She didn’t even want to see him, let alone talk to him. “Ava, PLEASE, let me explain what happened!!!” Benjamin pleaded. “What is there to plead about?!?! You were out with a girl who’s got to be your girlfriend! What else is there too?!?! Get away from me!” Ava screamed. “Just let me explain! And please lower your voice down people are staring at us a lot-” “I DON’T CARE IF THEY’RE STARING!!!! All I care about is getting away from you, jerk!” Finally, Benjamin had enough of her. He wanted to explain what really happened!! He didn’t want her to take it the other way! “If you won’t listen to me, I’ll just tell you!” Benjamin replied with the slightest hint of a smile, then grabbing onto her arm. “Hey stop it! Get away from me-” “I was out with my little sister on her field trip! I needed to volunteer because they needed a counselor!” Benjamin blurted. “H-huh?” “Yes, and I’m very sorry that I didn’t tell you!” “Oh in that case that’s alright, I forgive you!” Ava exclaimed, smiling. “W-w-what? One moment you're super mad at me, and now you're all smiling and forgiving me?!” Benjamin stuttered. “Yeah, but you're just volunteering right? So that’s no problem,” Ava said, “But, don’t, ever do that again!” “O-oh right, yeah!” Benjamin said, putting on a smile even though his brain was whizzing with confusion. Then Ava skipped right down the road, a big smile on her face. Benjamin, on the other hand, was in complete confusion. Ava was just yelling and crying at him a few seconds ago! And now she’s all happy?! “Enough of this nonsense,” Benjamin thought, “It’s time to do my real job now...” Ava stopped in a dark alley. There was a person dressed all in black- black hoodie, black sunglasses, a black mask, black shoes, black pants, black hair, and even black socks! “Well?” The mysterious person asked. “Did you get him?” “Yes,” Ava replied, “Come on... let's go kill him.” Ava finished with a grin. Benjamin looked around for anyone staring at him. Then he casually walked to a nearby corner behind a building. He took a walkie-talkie out of his jacket. “Is she ready, sir?” Someone asked through the walkie-talkie. “Yes,” Benjamin replied with his eyes closed. “Let’s go finish her.”

Rolly looked up through the leaves of the elm at the small, dark, tee-shaped figure soaring graceful figure eights high above against a backdrop of fresh, fat spring clouds. The hawk sent a cry down to earth, high-pitched and slightly raspy. Rolly’s siblings shivered all around him and emulated frightened turtles ducking into their shells. The six baby starlings that surrounded him whispered amongst themselves as if afraid the great hawk in the sky could hear from that far away. Maybe he could. His sister Serry whispered, “It’s him . It’s the Black Hawk,” as she huddled even closer under Rolly’s left wing. “Shhhhh!” whispered Hod. He pecked ay Serry and said, “he’ll hear you---” “Don’t be silly,” said Rolly, “he’s too far away.” “The Black Hawk has super hearing powers,” Big Mot said and Hod added, “yeah...and eyes like high-powered radar.” Rolly said nothing but stared at the hawk in awe, wishing he could someday soar like that. He knew that that was an impossibility. A single tear leaked from his eye as the hawk soared out of view. He focused on the clouds that had now blotted out the last blue from the sky, their bottoms grown heavier and darker, and he felt that at least one of his prayers had been fruitful. It would rain this afternoon and hopefully throughout the night and next morning. The young starlings unhuddled and looked towards the west. They could see little except forest and as they watched the horizon darken to dusk, they detected the ozone scent of the water gathering in the sky. The indigo light of dusk made them excited. It meant momma and poppa were coming back with dinner...it made them nervous too, worried that momma and poppa would not come back...after all, the Black Hawk had sounded ravenous. Rolly’s two sisters began chirping soft wailing little cries of distress as they always did as the sky grew dark. His four brothers’ heartbeats were as fast as the sisters, but they would not weep. At last, a cry from the east behind them, “Tooooweee ta-wooo!” Momma was home. An answering cry, “Taweeee-tawoooooo!” was Poppa, farther away but on his way. All seven baby starlings warbled happily. There were no stars that night and no moon either, the cloud cover efficiently curtained their brilliance away. Come the next day, Poppa flew off at the first hint of a paler shade from the east like a black dart shot from a crossbow. Momma stayed behind and spoke to her brood, “I’m sorry children, as you know, it will soon rain.” She lifted her sleek head to the sky, her glossy ochre feathers speckled black and gold, were already dappled with beading drops of drizzle. She puffed out her feathers until she was three times her size to keep her babies warm and dry. “I know you were all anxious and excited to test your wings today for the first time, but we will wait until the storm is over.” Rolly hoped it would never stop raining. Fat drops pattered down on the leaves all around the starling’s nest, as hypnotizing as ancient tribal music. By noon it had escalated into a symphony complete with the clashes of thunder like cymbals, and shrieking wind like arias. The wee starlings shivered but were not afraid. Momma told them stories. “But what if the ending isn’t happy?” It was Hod. “Like what if the Princess Sparrow gets eaten by something evil?” “Yeah,” piped up Terry who was neither boy or girl starling, he/she hadn’t decided yet. “Like what if the Black Hawk swoops her up---” “---and chomps off her head!” finished Fuzzy Mot. “Children! Where do you get such imagination?” But she chuckled softly above them. Hod said, “the Black Hawk was up there yesterday. We were worried you two were gonners!” Serry and May stifled sobs. “Now now children. The Black Hawk is old. We are so much swifter than he...” The girls dreadful sniffling stopped and Hod said, “But he is evil Momma. We heard he ate his children...” “And tore up his wife with his own talons,” added Serry shrilly. Rolly shivered and looked up at the sky. It was getting dark. The rain was letting up at last. He shivered again though not with revolt but with fear of the dawn. Momma Starling said, “Well yes, he has done some unforgivable things. Rumor has it, he ate a poisoned rat and took over the sickness of it.” The children nodded as if they understood. “Please just stay out of the sky when he’s circling.” “He’s so graceful and his arcs so elegantly...perfect,” Rolly whispered softly, he was half- napping. Big Mot pecked him. “Ouch!” “What the fern are you sayin’?” he sputtered at Rolly. “Oh. Uh...nothing! I was dreaming. About...uh...” “Nevermind, you useless gimp. After tomorrow we will all be forced to abandon you.” Momma sighed but did not argue. The rain stopped as if on Big Mot’s side. He smirked at Rolly and shrugged. And though it was near dark, the Black Hawk’s lonesome shrill cry sounded from high above. Rolly thought so high, he was over the clouds. Another tear trailed down his black feathered face. He’d never get there. Come the morning he’d commit to his death. Call it suicide...call it just surrendering...he’d known from the time he had hatched he was different. All the other chicks had normal bodies and normal feet and beaks...and wings. He did not. His right wing seemed to be lagging a muscle or ligament or something. It was shriveled and drooped. When he lifted it, it flopped. Big Mot was right, they would peck his eyes from his head to save him from seeing his terrible fate. They would defecate on his back as they all flew away, as a way of leaving him with a part of them as he was left to die. Die he would, with no water. He could eat bugs but why bother? What is a bird that can’t fly? A useless gimp as his brother had aptly pointed out. The Black Hawk cried out again and Serry asked Momma, “Tell us about the Black Hawk Momma...did he really attack the Wherrywill Owls? Did he really tear the eyes from Prince Egon?” Rolly listened in wonder. His siblings all around him oohhhed and aaahed...he was surprised to find himself adding his voice. That hawk was truly evil. He’d obviously sold his soul to Mother Nature’s nemesis, Satan. And even in the pitch blackness, the Black Hawk's cry instilled ever more icy terror in their hearts. Only an insane hawk would fly at night. His Momma said, “Stay away from him. He may rain blood from his last victim upon you!” The starlings shivered as at last their father came home with crunchy green crickets for dinner. The sky grew light. Rolly’s siblings trembled with excitement. He was trembling with the anxiety of his coming death. On a whim, he stood up and flapped his small wings. One flapped with the power of a turbine engine, the other waggled a little bit. He sighed. He heard his father’s voice in the distance and prepared to say goodbye. Then he heard the cry of the Black Hawk. His father screamed. The hawk screamed in triumph. Rolly’s mother cried out in anguish like a siren on the sea. “Is he---?” a sister queried. “Quiet!” Momma screamed. “Today you will learn to fly. Tomorrow, you will feed yourselves.” No one spoke. Momma’s eyes were blazing with non-compos mentis. The overcast sky was as dour as Momma Starling’s mood, she would mourn later, when the nest was empty and her babies soaring all but one. Momma Starling nudged Big Mot and Hod to the edge first, as they were the biggest and would set a fine example. “Remember your lessons children! And be brave!” His brothers did not hesitate, they flapped their strong new wings and flew high over the trees. Rolly hid behind his mother. The girls went next, to prove they were just as strong, and they soared even higher. Fuzzy Mot and Terry swooped dangerously low before remembering their lessons, they flapped furiously and cried out with relief when they recovered and flew after their sisters and brothers. “Rolly. I’m sorry but you must leave the nest.” Rolly came out from behind her tailfeathers. “You’re not sorry. Why’d you even bother to name me?” “Your father,” her voice faltered, the word fractured, she cleared her throat... “Your father named you after his favorite uncle, Roland. He thought you’d be special. But you turned out to be afflicted as his grandfather had been. He also had a cousin with Lame Wing. That one refused to leave the nest and was pecked full of holes, they snapped his legs as well, leaving him an eyeless broken thing when he hit the ground.” Rolly shuddered. He would leap bravely to his death and die with honor...and his eyes. “I love you son.” He had never heard her say that to any of them. “Go be with your father now.” Rolly leapt from the nest as far out as he could, with his beak held high and his tail feathers spread wide. His good wing was strong, he instinctively flapped it madly... inevitably, he spiraled towards the earth. His lame wing curled under his belly, the wind from his passage held it there as the ground came up fast. He looked down and writhed to avoid a thick branch. Better to die quickly in a splat on the ground than to break your back on a branch and lie paralyzed for days. He missed the thick branch, only to whack his head on another. The lights in his world went out. When he awoke, he was flying! He was looking over the tops of trees and fields and a great silvery-blue river. “Whaaaaa?” he croaked, “Is this heaven?” “Shush.” Came the voice from above. It was deep and calm- the voice of his father! He slept more soundly than he ever had, all his anxieties gone. The flight he had thought a dream turned into a nightmare when he opened his eyes at last. He lay in the shadow of an enormous black hawk... the Black Hawk! The great old bird lowered his head to study the starling, late afternoon sunlight pierced Rolly’s eyes like shards of red-hot glass. Rolly, now frustrated for not being in heaven, said bravely, “Just get it over with. Eat me already.” The large bird of prey chuckled softly, grandfatherly, and said, “ Eat you? Don’t be silly. I’m no filthy cannibal.” He cocked his head. “Oh. I see. You have heard stories of me. I suppose I could have put an end to all that hullaballoo...” he flapped a wing and a gust of air pushed Rolly nearly over...”but the truth is, I simple wanted to be left alone.” He stepped aside and into the ray of sunlight and Rolly saw that the bird was not black at all, but steel grey, his wings brown and speckled with red and gold. Great dark eyes shone with wisdom in a somewhat scruffy face gone frosty with age. “Name’s Fisher by the way...” Rolly sat frozen, glaring, trying to comprehend... Fisher understood and nodded. “I saw the raven come after your father and cried out a warning to him but was too late. Rest assured that raven will prey upon starlings no longer. I watched your nest afterwards. Starlings can be quite high-spirited and emotional, many come unhinged when they lose a mate...irrational even.” Rolly swallowed. Fisher spoke the truth. “What a brave little bird you are. I witnessed your gallant leap just seconds before...well, nevermind about that. But why waste something so precious as a life?” “Perhaps your old eyes can’t see this ?” Rolly flopped his deformed wing and could not help leaking tears. “What? A little wing that needs some attention?” Rolly goggled at him, confused. “What?” Fisher looked around, his head swiveled around to his back comically, like an owl’s. “Have I got crawdads crawling from my ears?” Rolly felt the tension burst from him in an expulsion of laughter, he felt a hundred times lighter. “I’m serious young man-bird. While you were sleeping, I took the liberty of inspecting your infirmed wing...” “Infirmed?” “Well, yes. As in ill. An illness can be cured. Your wing needs to stretch to its full capacity, that’s our first step. Then we will exercise the muscles under it until they are atrophied no longer.” “We?” “Well, you can’t do it on your own...” “I thought you wanted to be left alone.” Fisher puffed his somewhat scrawny old man-bird’s chest until he looked twice his size, his eyelids lowered to half-mast. Rolly feared he’d overstepped his station as a child bird, “I-I-I’m sorry. None of my business.” “That is correct young sir. And what do I call you anyways?” “Rolly, sir. But I’d prefer Roland.” “Well, Roland. No time like the present.” Four hours later Roland’s curled up wing was stretched straight and bound to two straight twigs with scraps of twine pulled from Fisher’s spacious nest. It hurt at first, but Fisher was patient and gentle, flexing the little wing further and further until stretched to its maximum length. Rolly winced at first, then sighed as blood rushed to the atrophied muscles. When it was splinted at last, dusk had fallen. They ate apples and lettuce and fish for supper. Roland ate ravenously though his wing throbbed. “There’s a farm over that hill you see on the horizon.” Fisher pointed a wing towards the moonlit hill. The farmer leaves me a selection from his crop, I eat his rodents. But it is fish I truly crave.” “I’ve never had it fresh like this before. This is way tastier than maggots.” “It’s trout from that river we flew over yesterday.” Fisher talked about trout and gobies and carp and catfish. Roland dozed off, his mind and belly full of fish and fresh veggies. He shivered in his sleep when the wind flew in from the north and registered Fisher covering him with his substantial wing. He was awakened by a rumbling in his ear and realized that Fisher was talking in his sleep. ‘ Not just talking...he’s sobbing.’ “Yasmine...no, don’t...” Summer sun on a spring morning awoke Roland. He was shocked to find he’d slept past the coming of dawn. He was alone in the large aerie. The distant cry of the old hawk brought him happiness instead of fear, it came from beyond the hill on the horizon and Roland wished for more fresh produce. That day, all throughout grueling physical therapy sessions, Fisher answered the boy bird’s endless questions. “...but why do some birds migrate in winter and not others?” “Well, some birds handle the cold better than others. Hawks migrate where there is adequate prey. If it were to snow in this territory, I would migrate south. It rarely snows here, and I am old, so I do not. But I do know of some younger of my breed that do. Many small birds stay because they are simply too small for such a taxing flight. They have special feathers. Ever notice how fat they appear in winter?” On and on he talked. The old bird knew everything! Early one June morning, Roland awoke alone as usual, but witnessed a dark cloud in the midst of the pale cerulean sky. It covered half the sky with blackness. It wafted closer in slow motion, rising, spreading, then falling into a dark tartarean wave. The wave swooped upwards again, and Roland’s heart swept up with it. They were starlings. Hundreds of them...perhaps a thousand! His kin were performing a grand murmuration, and he longed to fly with them. “See that one in the front?” Fisher’s voice had startled him. The old hawk was quiet as a ghost. It was a quality Roland had gotten used to and admired. “Yes, it’s like a maestro conducting an orchestra.” “Well, that could be you.” Roland once would have argued, demeaning himself, but this day he said, “Yes, I would like that.” He flapped his two turbine strong wings and darted off like his father had- an arrow from a crossbow- into the cloud of his clan. He soared through them and upwards... they all turned and followed. They followed the one who could soar like a hawk. *** “Yes Yas...I did as you asked. May I come home now?”

Someone was sitting in her chair. Sigh. She looked around trying not to get overwhelmed at now having to pick a different place to sit. She always sat there. It was this beaten up and torn vintage brown leather chair in the corner of the café with a window facing her favorite tree and near the bookshelf. Also it was perfect for people watching and she didn’t have to worry about anyone really disturbing her. Normally she came in the early mornings and would work on her writing or sketching and then read for a little bit while enjoying a couple cups of coffee. She wished they would put a reserve plaque for her reflecting: Ellie’s Corner. That shouldn’t be too much trouble since she came here so often! Right!? Right, Ellie. First world problems right here. Not getting to sit in your favorite corner of the world, because this person just had to sit here. How did they even get in here this early? “Hey do you want to sit here?” She didn’t know what to do. She froze. Was she really just standing there staring at this girl angrily because she wanted her seat? What happened to sharing is caring? Now what was she supposed to do? If she said yes, would she be considered rude and snobbish. If she said no, would she just look like an idiot? Crap, Crap, Crap!!! “It’s ok. I’m about to start my shift anyway. I know you normally sit here, I just wanted to see what was so great about this corner? I think I understand now.” “Umm thank you.” She mumbled shyly gripping her notebooks tightly to her chest. She sat in the chair and set her books on the wooden round table underneath the window and groaned inwardly. That was embarrassing. Should she just leave now. Would she have to find herself a whole different Coffee Shop to go to from now on. She just wanted to curl into a ball and die. “Hey, sorry if I seemed so forward and startled you earlier. I know you normally enjoy drinking our Pumpkin Spice Latte but I thought you might enjoy trying this new drink I came up with called: The Pumpkin Surprise! I hope you like it!” She started walking away before she could say anything in response. Great now she had to try a new drink! Today was just not her day! She Always got the same drink! It was so scary trying something new! No, she was going to do it! The girl, the barista with the pretty green eyes, wow she didn’t even know her name. How self centered was she? No, She wasn’t self centered she just struggled with her mental health and that was ok. Just a year ago she wouldn’t even have let herself be out in public. So this was good! She just had to try not to be so hard on herself. Maybe she would even try to ask what the green eyed girls name was today before she walked home. Sniffing her pumpkin surprise she felt like she was being hugged and as she curled up into the giant comfy chair she looked outside at the oak tree with it’s changing autumn leaves falling to the ground. She smiled. “Hi can I have a peppermint white chocolate mocha with skim milk and no whipped cream? Oh and I would also like an egg croissant sandwich please?” “Sure, that will be $8.95. Cash or Card. What name would you like for the order? Thank you and have a nice day!” Turning from the customer Maddie sighed, blowing her bangs off her forehead. Today was busier than normal for a Tuesday morning. As she finished gathering her customers orders and finally the store came to a lull she had a moment to breathe. She supposed that was ok, that it was pretty busy. More money for the store and it just meant she would be less distracted by. Shaking her head with a small smile she glanced over at Ellie in the corner looking out the window. She was so shy it was adorable. She had been coming in here for about a year now and the only reason she even knew her name was because she asked what name she wanted for her order. Ellie always came in at the same time, ordered the same drink, sat in the same seat and always did things in the same order every time she came to the café. Maddie was a patient person and thrived on chaos. She was always busy with working at the café, going to full time college, working out and volunteering at the animal shelter on Friday’s. She had a few couple close friends and would spend time with them when her schedule would permit. She always looked forward to seeing Ellie every time she came into work. Her friends had tried encouraging her or rather teasing her about when she was going to ask Ellie out. Maddie would always laugh it off. Her schedule was too busy for a relationship and she had a feeling Ellie had a lot going on emotionally and didn’t want to be another complication in her life. She always seemed to have this aura around her that was bittersweet. Like she was bearing the weight of the world on her shoulder and just needed someone to share the load with. Over the course of the year of serving her drinks and observing her. Ellie seemed to be improving. She was starting to look around the café more, sketch more and seemed to be blossoming into herself more and more. Ellie didn’t know it, but she secretly always made sure that that corner of the café was reserved for her and was her spot. She just didn’t want Ellie to feel self conscious. She hoped that her sitting in her spot and bringing her a new drink wasn’t too much for her. She was almost about to graduate college and apply for teacher positions but she still wanted to work here part time mainly so she could see Ellie. Pulling her shoulder length shiny wavy black hair into a messy ponytail she looked up to see Ellie staring at her from her chair. Cracking a smile at her and tilting her head. Ellie blushed and turned away. Yawning Ellie smiled with satisfaction. She got a lot of writing done today. She was going to try and submit some of her stories to a women’s magazine later this week and was trying not to be excited and nervous and trying her best not to talk herself out of it. She gathered her things and was about to head out the door when she took a deep breath and turned around walking back to the front counter. “Hi, I... uhh...” She stammered. This was a mistake. What was she thinking. She couldn’t.. “Hey Ellie! How did you like your coffee?” “It was uhh..good. Thank you. How did you know my name?” Ellie asked nervously. Her brain thinks stalker, stalker, stalker... Maddie pointed at her coffee mug with the sticker saying Ellie on it, smiling. “Oh, right sorry about that.” “It’s ok! You’ve also been coming in here for the past year and this is your favorite drink you always get right? How’s your writing been coming along?” “Good, I..think I’m going to try and get some of it published this week!” “Congratulations! I’m graduating college this week!” “Oh wow! Congratulations! That’s great!” “I’m Maddie by the way.” “Sorry a year of coming here I should know your name by now, I’m so selfish!” “You aren’t selfish for not knowing my name! Don’t worry about it!” “Thanks.” “Umm do you think you would be up for..” “Well I have to get goi...Sorry what were you going to say?” “Oh, nothing, don't worry about it! Have a good rest of your day Ellie!” “MMmm ok, You too!” Ellie stammered walking out of the cafe mentally hitting herself in the head. Maddie sighed. She finished closing up shop, locked the door and dropped her keys. Bending down to pick up her keys someone was bending down to pick up her keys with her. Ellie? “Hey Ellie, thanks! Didn’t you go home earlier?” “Yeah, I just...I just..I wanted to say thank you for always being so nice to me! I tried baking some pumpkin bread since you always seem to have that when you work..And was wondering if you would want to hang out sometime after you get off work?” Handing Maddie a box with a piece of paper on it with a phone number. Maddie and Ellie stared at each other for a while. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to..” Ellie said, embarrassed starting to shift away. “I would love to.” Maddie said smiling. “Ok great, see you tomorrow then.” Ellie said. Maddie smiled to herself, shaking her head in awe. Ellie was so lovely. Looking at the autumn leaves starting to appear on the trees next to the cafe Maddie was filled with a sense of excitement and happily headed home. She couldn’t wait for this new chapter in both her and Ellie’s Journey.

Reposting to adhere to guidelines :). This is inspired by the prompt: "A dating guide for the recently resurrected". Enjoy! **Love After Life After Death** Dating was awkward for Taylor long before he was killed by a metro bus, but it certainly hadn’t made things any easier. He checked his watch. She was fifteen minutes late and the waiter was beginning to throw him pitying glances whenever he passed. It wouldn’t be long before he was getting awkward stares. To pass the time, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small handbook. *Love After Life After Death* was a short read by any stretch of the imagination, but it had given Taylor hope in what had otherwise seemed like a bleak situation. “Whether you’re a shambling corpse resurrected by a necromancer, or some science experiment gone horribly wrong, your love life doesn’t have to be over,” he repeated the words under his breath. It was the opening line to the manual, written in big, friendly letters. The vision of the resurrected wasn’t the best, so big print helped. “Taylor?” asked a distinctly female voice. Taylor jumped and looked up into the eyes of a beautiful woman. He stumbled to a stand, shoving the book in his pocket, and held his hand out to greet his date. “That’s me,” he mumbled, a little awkwardly. She took his hand and shook it. “So formal,” she chided. “S-Sorry,” he stammered. “I just haven’t been on one of these in a while.” Her hand was cool to the touch. *Is it possible?* He wondered. In the book, it had listed several key phrases to look for when trying to find a resurrected partner. Adeline’s profile had used three of the five. Taylor recounted them in his head as he sat back down. ‘Recently returned from a long trip.’ If the manual was to be believed, that meant she had been dead for quite some time, but looking at her face, he saw no signs of it. Her skin was pale, sure, but in the Pacific Northwest, that wasn’t an indication of anything. There were no abnormal lines in her makeup betraying the marks of an autopsy either. *Did I misinterpret things?* ‘Looking to meet someone fresh, but not too fresh.’ That was signaling her level of decay. One of the key rules laid out in the book was the Rule of Descending Composition. The author advised to approach people who were at or below your current rate of decay. This prevented those who looked mostly normal from being approached by a bunch of shambling zombies reciting love poems. Apparently, it caused some issues back in the day. Finally, she had said: ‘Let’s not bring our parents into this.’ That meant that she was likely the result of a necromancer and didn’t want to meet someone raised by the same means. Necromancers tended to fight with one another when encounters occurred between their creations. Adeline cleared her throat, peering over a menu at Taylor. *Shit, how long have I just been sitting here?* He had been so focused on figuring out if she was undead, he had forgotten to say anything. “Sorry... again.” It felt lame, and came out lame, but she smiled at him and his tension eased. “No need to be so nervous.” She laid the menu down on the table. Even as he tried not to, he assessed her face again, scanning for anything. By all accounts, she looked alive, and that wasn’t a good sign for him. Luckily, before he could make more of a fool of himself, the waiter came by. “Can I offer either of you anything to drink?” Taylor looked to Adeline. “I don’t know, Taylor, think a drink might loosen you up a bit?” Ever since his resurrection, drinking hadn’t been the same. Occasionally after four or five beers, he would start to feel a tingling sensation, but it passed just as quickly as it arrived. Nevertheless, he grinned and said: “It’s worth a shot.” “That’s the spirit.” Adeline looked over a small drink menu and ordered an old bottle of wine. *How old is that bottle? Does it mean something? Probably not, right?* No matter how hard he tried, Taylor couldn’t seem to get out of his own head. He ran through the guide’s list of questions to ask on a date and pulled one out at random. “So, Adeline, where are you from originally?” It sounded corny as he said it, but at least he was talking. “It speaks!” she exclaimed, bright mischief burning in her eyes. Taylor felt as though he would blush but knew he couldn’t. The woman who had brought him back had fucked up his facial capillaries. Without tastefully applied rouge, he looked like he was suffering from a fatal disease. “Central Romania,” she answered. “But I’ve been here for a long time.” *Central Romania, well that’s a good sign.* If there was anywhere known for ghosts, ghouls, day walkers, and the undead, it was Romania. Taylor quickly shifted to the next obvious question. “Are you close with your family?” if she really was undead, he was coyly asking about her master, or raiser as it were. If not, it was a simple question with a simple answer. “Not so much.” There was a twinge of sadness to her voice. “Let’s just say the man who raised me was more than a little mad.” Her eyes briefly went to the table, but quickly returned to meet his. Taylor’s heart did a somersault. That all but confirmed it. She was a member of the recently deceased. “Taylor,” started Adeline, “Would you like to ask the question that’s really on your mind?” Her gaze was piercing and froze her heart. “What would that be?” A tremor had crept into his voice. *You’re blowing it, man.* “I think we both know...” “Are you,” he started, but she interrupted and finished. “Yes, I’m a Capricorn,” she replied, throwing up her hands. “I know, you’re a Libra, and things can never work out between us.” The look of confusion on Taylor’s face must have been easy to read, because a smile spread across her lips. “Relax,” she said. “I’m fucking with you. I was raised by a necromancer about five years ago. This isn’t my first time on one of these.” She motioned to the table. “So, why don’t we just relax, have some wine, and we can dig into our afterlives a little bit later?” “Okay,” said Taylor, grinning from ear to ear. The waiter arrived and poured them both a glass. Adeline raised hers, winked and said: “Cheers to Love After Life After Death then.

The Ghost Who wanted a home Nicole jalonen in honour of black lives mattering A woman dressed in white with blonde hair ran down a dirt path carrying a crying infant girl in one hand and a lantern in the other. She was a African American women who had to obey a white family who were very wealthy. Not only did she race through the foggy stormy night with her crying infant but she carried with her scars from whips and a dark secret she knew she would be beaten for if her mistress caught her. She could hear her pursuers right behind her as she ducked low branches and raced through puddles , then she saw it the boat her daughters way out to freedom!....,,,,, Centuries passed and it was 2020 . In Boston massetutqtes. Where a twenty two year old African American woman was struggling to make ends meat for herself and her twin boys . Being a women of color in this world was not easy. Though slavery was not permitted anymore African Americans were still treated differently and were slmost demon used by the media saying that an average of crimes like assault and murders were committed by black men . Yet when white people made it to the news their crimes were always downplayed it seemed. Or African Americans were called vulgar names and were accused of stealing always. So Nia Miston and her sons Devahn and Shawn ages 10 years old were always careful and kept there heads down . For fear the same thing that happened to poor George Floyd would happen to one of them!Nia had a degree to become a lawyer and wanted to start her own practice but knew it was going to be an uphill battle for any firm to even hire her. But she and her boys had moved recently so she hoped by the move she could find a job as a paralegal . The first few weeks they spend moving their furniture and belongings in their four bedroom house they were now renting and during the move Nia noticed things like dishes and cds and pillows and hammers being moved around the two story house. She didn’t think much at first maybe her sons moved them or the movers. Then the house was moved into and everything was put into its place and it still happened . Remotes went missing , and would appear in different rooms all the way up stairs. Or into the attic or the basement . Eventually as the weeks went on and Nia came home from her temp job as a dog walker . She came home for lunch peered up to the second story of her house and saw very clearly a ghost of a African women in a rag brown dress. And very messy wavy black hair staring straight at her through the bay window ! No sooner had she saw the ghost women the Nia stopped dead in her tracks and thought fearfully that a homeless women had broke in her house! Heart pounding in intense fear she raced up the front steps and into the upstairs brightly lit with sun room but the women was gone ! A month later after that and Nia never saying anything to her sons about what she had seen her son Shawn was at home alone while she was at a friends place with devahn . Shawn was a thin African American boy of ten years old who loved soccer and painting and watching horror movies. Right now while his mom was out he was watching seteven kings it even though his mom had forbade the twins from watching that movie until they were older. Right at the part where never saw the clown and all the blood in the bathroom sink he heard a strange woman’s voice yell. “Bad boy shouldn’t watch that!” Yet he knew his mom and brother were not home yet . With his heart pounding so loud he thought he could hear it in his ears he tiptoed up stairs and down looking for an intruder !thinking someone had broken in! But the ten year old found no one til he was in the dark cold basement with a flashlight because the bulb didn’t work down there it only ever flickered on and off! Once Shawn entered the basement the boy felt a rush of cold wind push him backwards and into the brick wall . No bleeding he heard a cruel man shout . “You don’t belong here !” So he ran out of the house and waited outside til his mom and brother came home! Now that one of her sons had gotten pushed and hurt by the ghost Nia called in paranormal investigators to search her new house and what the team of psychics found and a priest was not only did a African woman from slave days still inhabit the house she worked in but so did her white rich master! Suddenly the psychic women were hit with a vision of a young blank women in brown torn dress running through a first with a baby as her mistress the wife of her master hot on her heals with a whip yelling vulgar things at the women and saying the African women would not bare his child and he and his wife murdered her because she had given birth to her masters child but they never found the new born baby girl !” Then they had another vision they assumed from the women spirit in the house showing a black wound in brown dress racing through the woods with a caring infant with the master close behind her until she lost him and found her way to a vhurch where she left the baby girl just in time for her master to Find her mom and murder her but her baby daughter grew up safe and happy and the servant women said she wanted to tell someone her story and had guided her descendant Nia back to her masters house .” So the priest exercised the masters spirit out of the house and Nia allowed the servant women’s ghost to reside in the house with the family ! The end

Poncho sat, crisscrossed applesauce, on the carpet, slamming two toy trucks against one another repeatedly. He had been doing this for hours without getting bored. He liked the sound they made. He liked the anticipation of the moment of impact. He wondered how long it would take before one or both broke. He didn’t want it to happen, but he was surprised it hadn’t and was curious if it might. He enjoyed breaking things and seeing if he could put them back together. He noticed that this did not make his dad very happy, but he couldn’t help himself. He liked creating messes and then seeing how effectively he could clean them up. He paused as his father came in through the front door, briefcase in one hand and phone in the other, speaking softly to the invisible person on the other end, “Trust me, I’m trying. Look, it isn’t as easy as you think...” his dad stopped. Frozen. He glanced at Poncho and quickly put the phone behind his back. As if trying to hide it. As if to disguise the fact that it was really there. Poncho couldn’t raise his eyebrow just yet, but if he could, he would have. He had seen the phone. Did his father not know that? “Hey buddy,” his father said in a voice that was too loud and a smile that was too big, “I didn’t see you there...” Poncho stared and said nothing. He had realized at a very early age that if he said nothing, people were bound to say more. To speak faster. To reveal secrets. “Are you here by yourself? Where’s your sister?” his dad asked, realizing suddenly that his young son was seemingly in a house by himself. “Reyna’s in her room. Talking to boys,” Poncho said the last part with a smile. He watched for his father’s reaction but there was none. His dad just nodded, looking around some more. What he was looking for, Poncho didn’t know, but he was disappointed that nothing came from the, “talking with boys,” comment. That usually sent his dad into a frenzy, where he’d storm into Reyna’s room and take away her phone which caused an even bigger scene and from there it spiraled into beautiful chaos. “Ok, well,” his dad said, “...I’m going to go to my room...take a nap...you good?” Poncho nodded. “Who are you talking to?” Poncho asked. “Huh?” his dad said, finally looking at Poncho. Poncho could see that his dad was upset, maybe even scared. And as much as Poncho liked to make a scene, he didn’t like seeing his dad afraid. It made him afraid. “Nothing,” Poncho said, deciding to just forget the phone. Most adults, he noticed, didn’t talk about what they wanted to talk about. They skirted around things or didn’t mention it at all. They ignored until they couldn’t. His dad nodded, visibly relieved. He gave Poncho an awkward pat on the head and walked to his room. As the door closed, Poncho could hear his dad’s muffled voice. Poncho knew he should stay put. He should just keep banging his trucks together. But what he should do and what he wanted to do were two different things. And being a child, a young child, despite the fact that he was a very smart child, what he wanted to do usually won. He crept toward his father’s door, the sound of his dad’s voice getting clearer as Poncho got closer. He sat, crouched near the door, ready to flee in case he heard his father start to leave the room. “Of course I love you, baby,” his dad whispered. Baby? Poncho thought. Why was his dad speaking to a baby? “You know there’s no one else. Why would you say that?” his dad asked, his voice growing more desperate. Poncho was confused. There was a baby. And his dad was telling the baby that there was no one else. But his dad was lying. There were others. There was Poncho and Reyna. Why was he lying to the baby? “I do want you,” his dad continued, “More than anything. More than anyone. You know why this is hard for me. I thought you understood.” Poncho sat stunned. His dad wanted this baby. More than anything. More than anyone. More than him? And was that why it was hard? Poncho closed his eyes, fighting back tears. It was hard for his dad because of Poncho and Reyna. Clearly Poncho and Reyna were obstacles to his dad’s happiness. Poncho leaned his head against the wall and sighed. He knew that his dad was tired. Constantly tired. Working all day and taking care of Poncho and Reyna in the evening. Reyna was 15 so she kind of took care of herself but she still needed to be fed and driven places. But then recently, his dad seemed good. Awake and happy and energetic. And Poncho thought that maybe work was better. Or maybe his dad was eating better. He had heard that could change things in a person. But he was wrong about everything. His dad was happy because of this new baby. Which still somewhat confused Poncho who had heard that babies were a “handful.” If that were true, why did his dad want this baby so much? Was it that great of a baby? Was it better behaved? Maybe the baby didn’t break things. That was probably it. “I’ll tell them,” his dad said, “I promise. I’ll tell them tonight...you want to come tomorrow? Well, I don’t know...” Poncho could feel his heart pounding. What was his dad going to tell them? Was there going to be a new baby? Or was his dad going to abandon them? What then? Poncho couldn’t imagine Reyna taking care of him. And he didn’t want her to. He wanted his dad. Maybe if he promised to be better. Maybe if he swore he would never break anything ever again. It would be hard, but he would do it. Poncho stood and took a deep breath. He was going to go in. He was going to tell his father that he knew and that he could change. His dad didn’t have to leave. Didn’t have to get a new baby. Poncho jumped as Reyna came out of her room. “What are you doing?” she asked, seeming to know that he was up to no good. Poncho said nothing, hoping his expression portrayed innocence. She glared and he knew he failed. “Poncho, what...” she stopped talking when she got close to the door and could hear her father’s voice. “Baby, I promise,” his dad said, “I already said I’ll tell them tonight. I’m not sure what else I can say to make you trust me.” Poncho looked at his sister, watching her eyes get wide. He grabbed her hand and she looked down at him. “I know,” he said. “You know?” she asked, “You know what?” “About the baby,” Poncho said slowly so his sister could understand. “The what?” Reyna asked. Right then, their father came out, causing all three to scream in surprise. “I wasn’t listening!” Poncho shouted, which he immediately regretted. He knew that anyone who said they weren’t listening was probably listening and he knew that his dad knew that too. But it looked like his dad didn’t hear him because his dad and Reyna were staring at each other. Well, his dad was staring, and Reyna was glaring. “Did you hear?” his dad asked Reyna. “I heard enough, I think,” Reyna responded, arms crossed, looking like she was shooting daggers at their father’s face. “Why do you want a new baby?” Poncho asked. He figured the worst was already out there so why not ask? His dad looked at him confused, “What?” “The baby,” Poncho said, feeling frustrated. Why must adults avoid the truth? “The baby,” Poncho repeated, “I heard you talking to the baby.” “Yea, dad,” Reyna said through laughter which confused Poncho even more because he could tell his sister was upset. So why was she laughing? “Tell us about your new baby,” she continued. Their dad looked at both of them. Poncho could tell his dad was afraid and though he didn’t like it and he wanted to say or do something to break the impossibly heavy tension, he stood there and waited. “It’s...she’s...” his dad stuttered which scared Poncho even more. His dad was usually so clear, so confident. And twice in one day he’d witnessed his dad afraid, unsure, and Poncho didn’t like the way this felt. He could feel his sister growing more agitated and he reached for her arm. She jumped a little and looked down at him. She must have seen something in his face because her gaze softened, and she relaxed her shoulders just a bit. She turned back to their dad, eyes still narrowed but less angry. “Spit it out dad,” Reyna said. “I’m...seeing someone,” their dad said softly, “And I want you to meet her.” “You want us to meet the baby?” Poncho asked. “No, no, buddy. There is no baby,” his dad said, “Baby, is...it’s something adults say sometimes when they like each other.” Poncho stared. There was no baby. Like with everything, this was just another example of adults being confusing. Of not saying what they mean. So, his dad was speaking to...a woman? “Is she going to be our new mom?” Poncho asked and looked up when his sister scoffed. Reyna huffed and kept looking at their father, and Poncho couldn’t quite understand the look in her eyes. There was a lot going on there. He could see that she was angry and sad and scared and he didn’t really understand why. Wasn’t it a good thing if they were going to get a mom? “She doesn’t want that,” their dad said, “And she knows that. But...At least meet her. Give her a chance?” “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Reyna asked and Poncho noticed the change in her voice. She was looking at the floor and Poncho could see the tears forming in her eyes. “I didn’t...I was scared of how you would react,” their dad said, “I know how close you were to your mom and I...I miss her everyday, but Jocelyn. That’s her name. Jocelyn is a wonderful person. And I think you’ll see that when you meet. No one will ever replace your mother, Reyna.” Poncho looked at his sister. It was different for him. He had never met their mother. Not really. He was too little when she died. And he could only remember certain things. The way her hair fell across her right shoulder. The smell of peppermint whenever she walked into a room. But he also wasn’t sure if he actually remembered these things or if he remembered because of the stories his dad and sister would tell him. But Reyna knew their mother and loved her fiercely. And now, for the longest time it had just been the three of them and someone new would change everything. And his sister didn’t respond well to change. He had heard her say so many times. “I...I guess I can meet her,” Reyna mumbled. It wasn’t the greatest response, but it was something. It was the best response their father was going to get. Their father nodded and smiled. Smiled in a way that Poncho hadn’t seen in a long time. “Great! Great. I’ll tell her,” their dad said, “You guys will see. She’s great.” “Great,” Reyna mumbled. “Great,” Poncho chimed in, wanting to be included. The three of them stood awkwardly for a few moments. Their dad smiling. Reyna looking sullen but accepting. Poncho looking between the two of them to see who would move first. “Well...I’m gonna go in my room,” Reyna said. “Ok, yea,” their dad said nodding vigorously and then, “...I love you, mija.” Reyna stopped in front of her door and looked at their dad, “I love you too.” She rolled her eyes at her dad’s smile and walked into her room, closing the door firmly behind her. Poncho and his dad looked at each other. “Did you really think I was talking to a baby?” his dad asked. Poncho nodded. His dad laughed. Poncho walked over to where his two toy trucks lay and went back to slamming them together. “You’re going to break those, if you keep doing that,” his dad called. Poncho nodded. He knew that. He knew that the trucks would probably break, but he also knew he could put them back together. It was his gift.

"I can’t sleep," Dahlia lay restlessly in the dark confines of her bedroom, her plea for sleep falling on deaf ears. With desperation, she pulled her beloved orange flat-faced cat, Hamms, closer to her. In response, Hamms let out a shrill meow, expressing his indignation at being prematurely awakened from his slumber. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on Dahlia's mind. Having made the difficult decision to drop out of college, the consequences were now becoming starkly apparent. Her mother’s resolute stance on not renewing the apartment lease left Dahlia with a looming possibility: the prospect of reluctantly returning to live with her parents. "At least we can still afford food," she said scratching her kitty’s head. She gathered her unruly hair into a scrunchie, jumped from the bed in underwear and an oversized black T-shirt, and made her way to a cluttered desk, switched on the laptop, the blue light casting a glow on her face. With nimble fingers, she typed away, steadfastly searching for a job opportunity deep into the night. Just as the sun began to rise, she stumbled upon it, a job listing that read, 'No Experience­ Will Train.' She swiftly submitted her application and within minutes, an email pinged her inbox, bearing detailed instructions on the venue and schedule for her evaluation for the position of, Assistance Technician. Monday dawned; Dahlia steered her vehicle onto the grounds of Richmond College. She located the Medical Technologies building, parked, and paused to take in the picturesque campus. The brick buildings stood proudly among expansive, rolling green lawns, intersected by pathways sheltered by a canopy of trees. It was a scene that exuded an air of scholarly charm. Across from campus she noticed a crowd of protesters in front of a steel and glass building but paid the scene little attention. Dahlia entered the building and stood in the bustling lobby with dozens of applicants, she wondered, are all these people here for the same job? The receptionist’s words cut through the chatter and answered her question. Her words carried a sense of purpose and direction. "If you are here for Nursing, take the corridor to room 108. Imaging Tech is in room 204, and Assistance Tech follows Mr. Jade to the elevators." The receptionist pointed to a tall thin man with a shaved head. Dahlia and a small group followed Mr. Jade into the elevator and descended into the depths of the building. With a composed demeanor, Mr. Jade led each candidate to their individual rooms. Alone, Dahlia found herself immersed in a flurry of medical procedures and inquiries. The sterile environment buzzed with activity as lab-coated individuals probed and prodded, extracting samples and delving into the depths of her personal history. Each question felt like a tiny invasion, leaving her vulnerable and exposed. As the hours passed, time seemed to blur, merging into a haze of anticipation and fatigue. Dahlia glanced at the Band-Aid covered cotton ball on her arm, her thoughts swirling amidst a sea of uncertainty. The room held a lonely silence, broken only by the distant echoes of footfalls in the corridors beyond. Mr. Jade entered the room. "Your group was the last we had time to screen before classes start, and you are the only one who made it." His words carrying a weight of significance. "Take this key," handing her an unusual, circular object adorned with bumps. "Next Monday, show the key to the receptionist. She will grant you entry. In the elevator, use this key to access B2. The button won't illuminate without it. I will meet you in the second basement at 5:00 AM. You did well." "I’ll be here," she whispered, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions. The tears lingered at the edge of her eyes, but she willed them to retreat, refusing to let them betray her composure. Mr. Jade's words had ignited a spark within her, an ember of hope that whispered victory and achievement . It was as if she had stumbled upon a prize, a hidden treasure that only she had the privilege to claim. The elevator doors slid open, revealing the familiar presence of Mr. Jade, who greeted her before she could cross the threshold the first day of class. His appearance offered a sense of familiarity. He guided her to an auditorium. "The real work starts today. Be seated." Dahlia settled in, her eyes sweeping across the room. Sixty fellow students populated the auditorium, their ages and genders spanning a broad spectrum. Each face held its own story, a unique tapestry of life choices that had brought them to this moment. Mr. Jade climbed the stairs to the stage and took position behind a podium. "Assisted Suicide is legal as of 2031. The Death with Dignity Act, or DWD for short, has spawned a cottage industry for us Dark Angels to help the sick and dying with their passing." He looked out over the room. "It's not for everyone. Statistics show only ten percent of you will make it to graduation. My job is to try to get that number higher. I will push you hard, so when the day comes to bring your sickle down, your training, your mettle will be enough to show mercy." Mr. Jade took a clicker from the dais, and a slide projected behind him titled ‘Process’, "It works like this: a person with a terminal illness can apply for assistance once their doctor signs off." He pressed the clicker, the screen now displaying an excerpt from the DWD act. "If an applicant is approved, they have Seventy-two hours to complete the end-of-life process; that is where you come in." "Suicide Inc., our employer, has partnered with Richmond College, to provide you with the necessary training to attend to your charges. Sidebar here. We know it's a terrible name. A couple of brothers started the company. They were bought out but were known for getting the job done, so the name stuck. We are working on a rebrand." With a swift transition, Mr. Jade explained, "Within these boxes lay the tool that will soon become an extension of you." Assistants efficiently moved through the room and presented each recruit with a black box. "The box contains your sickle. Retrieve them. I will teach you how to calibrate it to your partner, load the sickle with the dose, and administer it." He paused. "It's not easy to swing that sickle." Mr. Jade admitted honestly, his voice tinged with a sense of weight. Listening intently, Dahlia's eyes focused as she pulled the lid from the box, recognizing the gravity of its contents. The corners of her lips lurched up, as she beheld the tool within. The sickle boasted a sleek titanium handle, adorned with two triggers, and a few lights, but its most intriguing feature was a stainless-steel tentacle, culminating in a menacing stinger. They want me to kill people with this, she thought. Cautiously she tested the weight, appreciating the natural curve, she brought it close to her arm, and the tentacle sprang to life, wrapping tightly around her wrist. Startled she instinctively jerked back, her heart pounding within her chest. "The little guys are quick," Mr. Jade smiled at her. Two other students raised their arms to show they were also entrapped with their own sickle’s. "Both triggers together to release." The smile now gone, "If you listen and try, I can get you Ninety-nine percent of the way there." He flipped to a slide of a horse chained to an old man. Three demons, their claws, dug into the man, trying to keep the horse from pulling him from his pain. "I look at it this way. Your Charge is ready to pass. A mighty horse is there pulling them to their rest, while the demons of ignorance, cruelty, and fear try to hold the Charge in the world of suffering. The horse is not strong enough to overcome the demons alone; that last one percent is you and your partner." "Do you always work with a partner?" Dahlia turned her gaze towards the source of the question, her head on a swivel, curious to hear Mr. Jade's response, her attention returned to her mentor. "Yes," he replied. "Anyone know why?" A young woman with long black hair raised her hand, and Mr. Jade acknowledged her, "The two Dark Angels administer their sickles, each loaded with a dose from a packet of two. One real, one fake. That way, no one knows who the lethal dose came from." "Very good. The lethal and placebo doses can only be administered when both triggers are pulled. It is a fail-safe mechanism designed to ensure that both Dark Angels are fully committed to the action," Mr. Jade flipped to another screen. The new slide displaying the cost to die per state. "Death with dignity is not cheap. Congress has set the tax on an assist at ten thousand dollars, and some states have added heavy local taxes to drive that price even higher, making death another luxury only the wealthy can afford. Luckily for us, private organizations often pay on behalf of the applicant once a request is approved. Groups like Angel Song, The BlueSky Union, and the Satanic Temple will cover some or all the cost to help the suffering pass." "What about resistance?" The young man from earlier asked. "Religious fanatics often camp out in front of the houses of people who have applied, and they may try to block your entry. You may have noticed them in front of the building across the street. Don't engage with them; don't touch them, even if they touch you." Graduation Day. Richmond, Virginia, March 3, 2033, 3:33 PM. Dahlia stood with her eight remaining classmates, who crossed the stage when their name was called. A woman in full body armor passed each of them a sheepskin, pulled the black hoods of the graduation robes over their heads, and gave them their Dark Angel name. "You are reborn as Destiny,” she told Dahlia. Once everyone returned to their seats Mr. Jade stood before the graduates, "Please rise, place your sickle over your heart." In unison, they recited the oath of the Dark Angels: "I am a bringer of Death. I do not pass judgment. Mine is to wield the sickle of mercy. Relieve the suffering of my Charge. For I am now and forever a Dark Angel A hand of mercy, I am Death." After graduation, Destiny embarked on her first working day at Suicide Inc. The journey to the office involved navigating through the elevator to B2 and then traversing a tunnel beneath the street. At roll call, she met her partner. A seasoned veteran, almost a foot taller than her, whose Dark Angel name was SoulDust. SoulDust was waiting for her when she arrived at the offices, his tone made even deeper through the helmet’s voice modulator. "We already have a bounty, and need to leave, if you are fitted and your sickle calibrated, we should go." "The armor is a little tight, but I am ready. How far are we from the Charge?" Destiny tried to adjust the pants of her armor. "About an hour. We have to beat the Thumpers there, or it will be a mess." SoulDust led Destiny to the garage level of the building and a matte-brown van with black trim. No company logo. They climbed in and passed through the security gate, where a group of protesters threw bottles of a yellow liquid that shattered on the van. "Don’t open the window, pretend it’s apple juice." When Destiny and SoulDust reached their destination in rural Virginia, they observed an eerie stillness surrounding the house. No signs of life or activity were visible from the outside. They approached the front door and rang the bell. Destiny stomach turned and her palms began to sweat. She took a deep breath; I need to manage my emotions. "Turn your cams on," SoulDust pressed a button on his bracer, a piece of armor that ran from his wrist almost to his elbow, that housed a phone like screen. "Is no one here?" she asked. Activating her helmet and primary camera. "They're here. The bounty is only a few hours old." SoulDust's attention was drawn to a gathering of dark clouds in the sky. A gentle rain began to fall as if responding to the somber atmosphere. A middle-aged man with red, puffy eyes answered the door wearing khakis and a blue sweater. "We are here for the Applicant," SoulDust said. "I know what you are. Follow me. My father is this way." "Sir, sometimes fanatics will storm the property, could you lock the door?" Destiny asked. "Of course." the man said, locking the door and leading the two to a first-floor bedroom that faced the street. "He’s in here." There, they saw an old man propped up in a hospital bed. "Do you need a minute?" Destiny asked. "No," the bed ridden man spoke. "We have said our goodbyes. I love you son." "I love you too Dad." The son hugged the old man and kissed his head. As Destiny observed the tender moment, her resolve began to waver. Cracks began to form in the walls she had built, fortified by months of classes and conditioning to detach herself emotionally from her work. That one percent was feeling like a much wider gap with every moment. Hidden beneath her helmet, tears streamed down Destiny's cheeks, her heart ached as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her, adding to her sense of vulnerability and doubt. SoulDust processed the man's fingerprints and ran a DNA comparison, his actions were driven by the need to confirm the identity of the individual they were there to assist. Amid the emotional turmoil, the protocols and procedures of Suicide Inc. served as a grounding force, a reminder of the importance of ensuring accuracy and safeguarding the integrity of their mission. Waiting for confirmation, SoulDust approached the window and pulled aside the curtain, a disheartening sight unfolded before him. A van adorned with a church logo came to a stop in front of the house, and a swarm of Thumpers, driven by their own convictions, poured out and hastened towards the front door determined to enforce their will upon the dying man and his heartfelt desire to bid farewell to his son one last time. "We have Thumpers." The veteran Dark Angel crossed to the bedroom door, shut it, and locked it. "You should call the police now sir." The sound of the front door smashing open and the mob scurrying through the house reached the room. The old man's resolve hardened his face, flickering with the memory of the strong person he had been in an earlier life. His tears stopped. "Do it now," he said to the Dark Angels. Destiny’s and SoulDust’s bracers glowed with the affirmative for prints and DNA. SoulDust opened a case from his belt to reveal two identical vials. Destiny deftly loaded a dose into her sickle, while the two Dark Angels positioned themselves on opposite sides of the bed. With their sickles in one hand and gently holding the old man’s hand in the other, the tentacles of each wrapped securely around his wrist. Suspended menacingly the stingers hovered just an eighth of an inch above the man’s skin. Voices from the hall penetrated the room, and the bedroom door shattered into splinters, scattering debris throughout the room. Startled, Destiny was knocked off balance as two men and a woman forcefully burst into the room. She heard SoulDust in her helmet. "Destiny, now!" he yelled. The lights on his sickle indicate he was committed. Time slowed. She watched as the two men moved toward SoulDust. Destiny felt a hand pulling on her bracer. The woman was trying to pry her sickle from the Charge and struck Destiny with a book, the helmet easily taking the blow. "You have no right!" the woman screamed. The son screamed at the Thumpers, "Get out of my house. We don’t want your thoughts and prayers! This is none of your business! Leave us alone!" He dropped his cell phone, the screen showing a completed call to nine-one-one. Destiny struggled to hold on to her sickle but hold she did. Despite her vulnerability, Destiny recognized that her emotions were not a sign of weakness. They were a testament to her humanity, her capacity for empathy and compassion. The image from class appeared in her mind. She saw the horse pulling with everything she had. SoulDust, his hands wrapped around a chain, straining to pull the old man through the veil. The Thumpers twisted into the demons: Fear, Ignorance and Cruelty, and Destiny knew what she had to do. She pulled her trigger, and both sickles flashed for a moment, and the old man was gone. The son retrieved his phone, "We have had a break-in, send the police immediately." The Thumpers screamed and spat at Destiny and SoulDust as the son ushered them out the door. Once inside the van and the doors locked, “How are you holding up?” SoulDust started the van. "Those people are horrible. It was awful." She wept. The voice modulator made her sound like a crying demon. "You saved a man from enduring months if not years of suffering. You did what most cannot. In many ways, you are a hero; don’t forget that." "Hero, huh?" She sniffled, still choking on her words. The numbness passed, running low on tears. She sat up and wondered, Should I return? Could I willingly feel like this again, even to help another? She watched the trees go by as the rain picked up, a single drop slowly running down the window, catching her eye like a tear from a cloud. Suddenly, she understood the oath. Today, she was Death, but could she be Death tomorrow?

“Our new, innovative 2023 Life Glasses model allows instant real-time display of personal achievements of any one you meet. ONLY $5.99!” I don’t usually do internet shopping but I don’t know...seemed like a good prank gift for my mate Jimmy. There was just something about them. Looked like the photos were ripped off from the old Google Glass website or something. Even the company seemed strange, “Enhanced Life Technologies”. There was a legit webpage, with unique images (thanks reverse image search) but everything seemed so...manufactured. Like it was all so artificial. Ah well, I’ve got six bucks to burn and the look on his face will be priceless: Hey, here’s app-enabled smart glasses. Nah, jokes, only some cheap knockoffs but at least you can google stuff if you blink I think. When it came in the mail just two days later, I discovered how wrong I was. Amazon’s smile logo was almost mocking me as I tore it open and found a pristine silver rectangular box with the Enhanced Life Technologies logo emblazoned on the front. I had trouble unwrapping the plastic film but found the Life Glasses inside, exactly as depicted on the website. There was only a single sheet of paper with the instructions: 1. Turn them on. 2. Put them on. 3. Find out more about other people than even they know. Seemed simple enough. I know what you’re thinking: they’re a gift for someone else, you can’t try them on! Weeeell... they’re just six dollars, there wouldn’t be any real harm if I tried them. Looking at them closely, they were simple glasses with a small black box the size of the end of your thumb next to the left lens. After putting them on, naturally everything was out of focus since I don’t wear glasses. Underwhelmed, I took them off and then I saw the small red power button on the black box. After pressing the button, I put them back on to see my vison blurred at first but it slowly started to come into focus. I guessed these really were smart glasses. Not bad for six dollars huh? Bored, I kept them on and went out to do some shopping. There wasn’t any difficulty driving to the shops with the Life Glasses on but when I went inside that’s when they really went to work. Some teenage kid pushing trolleys had: “Has swam a total of fifty one miles during his lifetime”. An elderly lady walking out of the store had floating bright green text to her head saying: “Has travelled to a total of seventy two countries”. The girl at the checkout lane had red text next to her that said: “Suffers from globophobia”. I had to take the glasses off to make sure of what I was seeing, of course, as soon as I did, the text disappeared. I gawked at the checkout girl as I was processing this information. Were these facts really true about people? Can a six-dollar pair of glasses be this accurate? Unfortunately I got lost in my own thoughts and the checkout girl gave me a filthy look, sending me on my way, embarrassed. Walking through the fresh produce section only weirded me out even further. There was floating red text next to a six year old boy that said, “Total live spiders eaten: 3”, the floating yellow text next to his mother said, “Number of people bullied to tears: 5”. Really? Am I to believe the glasses can tell me that? The bald guy picking out apples was really concerning though. “Served six months for aggravated assault.” That can’t be true can it? I took off the glasses and stared at the guy. He didn’t seem dangerous. Maybe the way he’s holding that banana is kind of threatening? No. I couldn’t just assume the glasses are correct. I had to take them off. I had to stop worrying about other strangers. I had to get ready for my date that night... Internet match. Nothing unusual. She decided on a Korean-Mexican fusion restaurant (don’t ask) and I just went with the flow. She was a looker, no doubt, Before you ask, yes I wore the glasses. Now, hold on, there were several reasons why I wore them. One, they made me look smarter. Two, who’s to say that it actually works? I was thinking that it could tell me more about my date... Okay, there were only two reasons, but they were enough. When I first sat down with her the glasses popped up with the text, “likes wholesome memes”, which is okay but I could hardly use that in a conversation. Then there was a lull of information for the next five minutes. She ordered the bulgogi tacos, I ordered the French fries with kimchi. We really hit it off, then the next bit of information popped up. “Has kayaked 300 miles”. That was kind of useful. Outdoors kinda chick. I liked that. So I casually dropped that I sometimes went hiking then the conversation really started flying. Thought she was a real keeper. Then red text popped up next to her head. “Boyfriends killed: 3” Wait what? Did a double take. The glasses maybe got some things right about her but that was next level creepy. “So how did the breakup with your last boyfriend go?” I know, dick move, really soon, but... She just threw her head back and laughed. “It was pretty messy, I have to admit. Never had someone ask that on a first date before though.” I just nodded hoping to play it off. I mean really, was I going to get a full blown murder confession from her? Another red text popped up next to her. “Earliest date until murder of boyfriend: Third date.” At least I have some leeway...might give this another date. Would be cutting it close though.

A young boy and a slightly older girl are sitting on a burgandy shag carpet in a dim, fire lit room by it’s mantle. Behind each of them sits a brown leather chair, and outside it is dark and storming. The young boy had just finished a story. “It reminds me of Ina and the demon.” Says the young girl. “Surely you’ve heard the tale in classes haven’t you?” The boy shakes his head in response. “Oh. Well then, let me tell it to you. Ina was a young girl who longed so badly to be beautiful that she spent hours during the day every morning in order to make her hair look spectacular, because she wanted the prettier girls at school to notice her. And her hair *did* look spectacular. About 300 days out of the year. However on the other 65 it rained, and when it rained it frazzled Ina’s hair. And Ina did not like frazzled hair. Though nobody else seemed to mind. Their hair all got frazzled as well. Despite this Ina decided she hated the rain, and that she would do anything in her power to protect her hair on those days. “Then one day Ina met a demon-- “--and the Demon promised she could give Ina perfect hair every day--which of course included the rainy days. The demon only offered one catch, and that is that Ina must never ever be allowed to sleep over at a friend’s house. Ina agreed blindly and their deal had been made. “Now every morning the demon sends a chariot to Ina’s bedroom door, which will escort her from her home to the pavilion at school, which is covered. Ina was elated and surprised to find it outside her room on the first day of rain. She felt especially powerful when the girls at school started noticing her perfectly curly hair--despite the rain. When they would ask how she had done it she would just chuckle coyly and say ‘it’s my little secret.’ “Well one day a girl named Minnie invited Ina over to her parents’ house for her birthday. Minnie is the most popular girl in school, and *every*body was going to be there. Ina desperately wanted to attend. She told Minnie that she could come but she couldn’t stay over, which Minnie seemed unimpressed by. Ina felt startled by her possible lowering of status, and she amended that she *might* be able to stay over, depending on her parents, to which Minnie smiled and said, “Great!” Ina was feeling particularly high that day, until she met her demon in the chariot heading home. “You are not allowed to stay over at other little girls houses Ina. If you do, I can no longer protect you...” There was a pause and the demon thought. “Correction, I *will* no longer protect you. Do not break this deal, Ina.” And this frightened Ina severely and made her contemplate her next move. “The demon did not show up the rest of the week and Ina contemplated the decision quite studiously, and what she decided she'd go to the party and fake sick to leave early. Well the day came, and an hour into the party Ina knew she didn’t want to leave. Everybody was having so much fun. They were all laughing and playing games. The activities went on into the night, and before Ina knew it, she felt exhausted beyond belief. She decided half out of boldness and half out of fear to test her luck and stay the night, in order to maintain status. “Well at midnight, all the girls chanted that she be the first to play make up, wear the other girls make up each other’s faces. They wanted Ina to go first, and she felt elated at first, but then they strapped her to the chair and cut off all of her perfect hair. You see, the other girls were actually jealous of Ina, and so they planned this event to shave all of Ina’s hair. “Ina left the party crying and running home without calling her mother. It was dark out that night and she didn’t know where she was, but it was still summer and the weather was warm. It was also raining. Ina could feel the warm rain all over her naked scalp, and she realized it felt good. It felt clean. It felt wonderful! It felt right... And she remembered for the first time since school started, that before she cared about her hair, and before she cared about fitting in at school, Ina loved- LOVED- the rain. “She was smiling all the way home.

It all started when I was 5. My dad was picking up my sister from her preschool and I was coming along. Chopin was playing on the radio and I had a big cheese steak in front of me cut into bite size pieces. We turned the corner and I saw my sister. I waved maniacally to get her attention and she did a dance of recognition. I jumped out of the car and was about to go hug my sister when I felt a strange feeling in my arm. A burning sensation. I looked down and screamed. A wasp 5 times the size of a normal wasp had landed on my arm and began jabbing it repeatedly, lacerating it with skin tears and bathing itself in my blood. It cut a bone deep gash and started peeling off the inner layers of my skin. The weird thing was... I didn’t feel anything except a pleasant tingling. Nothing was hurting. I even laughed and ticked the wasp’s wings, which prompted it to stab my head repeatedly. I didn’t mind. When I was 9 years old, 45 doctors from 14 different countries would examine me daily, and on my 10th birthday, they diagnosed me with chromosome 6 deletion and subsequent nerve damage, described by them as the “Superhero Glitch.” From then on, I never felt pain. I was a playground legend. Day after day, I would slit my fingers with scissors until they turned white. I would purposely fall off monkey bars and rip the skin over my knees. My teacher had no clue because I would never cry, I would never yell. I would just take the hit. Bullies were no problem, neither were broken bones. In Grade 5, I had accumulated 17 doctor visits and feigned pain to get out of school. Life was perfect... until my 12th birthday. I was lying in my bed, devouring multiple slices of chocolate blackberry cheesecake when a thought occurred to me. *What is the pinnacle of pain? How can I test myself to the absolute limit? Or are there no limits?* Day after day, I began... experimenting. It started with a simple concussion. I felt a little dizzy, but still no pain. The next afternoon, I hit my wrist with a brick. Nothing major, just a few metacarpal fractures. For months, I confronted the world’s greatest pains, and each time I came out unscathed and relatively bored. The question had to be asked, and I asked it out loud while standing in the middle of the freeway, looking for snakes. Could I die? *Surely not,* I thought. *Dying is just a lot of pain at once. What if I didn’t? Better yet... what if I did?* The stage was set. I had walked to the nearest train station and waited. I looked at my watch. The express train was arriving in a minute. I took a deep breath. *Whatever happens here, you’ll be free of wondering. Think of all those years you took for granted. Think of all your memories. Think of all the mistakes you’ve made, all the pain you’ve endured for others. Think of how selfish, how self-centered you’ve been. You lived a hero, and now you will die a hero’s death. You won’t have to watch as others die around you. Whatever happens here, you’ll be free.* *I’ll be free.* I stepped forward and bent my head over the tracks. I could hear people screaming. I could hear the train, rushing towards me. But I felt nothing, dropping off onto the tracks. It was painless. I would never be free. Every one of my cells was screaming for death, every one of them slowly dying. And yet, I was still alive. Through all this pain, I would never die. I felt helpless, yet, ironically liberated. Because that day, I finally felt pain. I felt pain in knowing I would see my mother, my father and my little sister grow old around me before death finally took them away and I would watch as they were shackled and lifted to Heaven. I felt pain knowing that this torture would never end, I would grow old but never pass on, I would never die physically, but my soul and will to live would have vanished far before. My mind would be nothing more than an animal sent loose in a fenced paddock, I would never know freedom again. As my family picked me up, as I woke up in a hospital bed with cameras and distressed people all around me, I knew my time had finally come. I felt pain, and so I finally died.

Lauren twists the top of a pickle jar well she tries anyway. No matter how much she tries it won’t budge until she finally gives up and takes it to her boyfriend Paul. “Can you open this for me?” She offers the jar over to him. “Sure,” he gets a grip around it and twists hard. It pops and the faint smell of pickles fills the space. He hands the jar carefully back to her. “Thanks babe,” she kisses the air at him then turns and returns to the kitchen. She continues to make sandwiches for the both of them. Turkey and lettuce for her and corned beef on rye for him, both with a touch of pickle on the plate of course. She takes the plates and they sit on the couch together; channel surfing until they both agree on a movie while relaxing into each other. The weekends were the best because they didn’t have to stress about work or anything work related. After there were only crumbs on the plates and the movie was over Lauren looked up at Paul, “what do you want to do today?” He thought about it for a few seconds then pulled her closer, “can’t I have this just a little while longer?” Lauren giggled, “but we have the rest of the day to do this. Don’t you want to go outside?” He puts his hand over his eyes, “no, outside bad.” Laughing more she stands and grabs his other hand, “come on you big oaf! Lets go outside and soak up some sun.” She tugs at his arm to get him up. “No,” he announces like a toddler. “Come on, it will be fun. We could have a picnic...” He uncovers his eyes, “and you thought that would get me outside?” She groans and lets go of his arm. Then she comes up with a plan while going into the bedroom. In the closet she grabs two gloves and goes back to the living room. “Wanna have a catch,” she asks as she tosses a baseball up and catches it. He springs from the couch, “now you’re taking.” Packing up some things you both leave the apartment and head for the park. Holding hands and smiling the whole way they see it is practically abandoned. “I don’t get it,” Lauren looked around, “it’s a nice day why aren’t people outside?” “More park for us,” Paul tosses her a glove. Putting on the glove and a hat she squares up, “ready.” Taking the ball he nods to her and lobs one that nearly makes it. “A little out of practice aren’t you,” she chuckles back. Tossing it right back to him and he catches it. He throws it this time and it makes it and she takes her hand out to shake it. “That one had a little heat on it.” “Sorry honey,” he yells back. “You’re going to be,” she whispers under her breath. Throwing it back to him twice as hard as he did and made a loud crack into his glove. He slides his hand out of the glove and waves it around in the air and shaking it vigorously. “Good lord that was hard babe. You sure you weren’t in the majors?” “Sorry babe,” she yells back. Throwing a few more they stop for a snack. Finding a nice shaded spot under a tree they rehydrate and relax. A few more people in the park now, maybe they missed the memo earlier saying it was a beautiful day. “You know what sounds good?” Paul nearly whispered out as he wrapped his arms around Lauren. “What’s that?” “Eating some of your famous chicken fajitas for dinner,” he coos. Lauren sighs, “it has been a while since we’ve had those. Unfortunately that means I have to run to the store for a few items.” “I’ll go with you if you want?” “Nah, you can stay home and start chopping the ingredients,” she slaps his knee as she gets up. “Lucky me,” he gets up with a groan. They pick up the gloves and head for home. “Got your keys,” Lauren asks Paul. “Yep!” She pats his back, “good then you can go up and get started while I go to the store. Be back in a few,” she kisses his cheek and is off to the corner market. Once there she picks up a basket and skims the walkways. A short list of what she needs and knows exactly where things are. Grabbing the cheese she passes a stack of oranges, not needed for dinner but they looked so good. Picking up a couple she makes her way to checkout. The cashier scans the items and you could tell she was getting hungry from it. “Looks like you’re making something good.” “Chicken fajitas,” Lauren answers back. “That does sound good. Also looks like you forgot the chicken.” “That’s the one thing I had.” They share a little laugh then she reads the total. After paying Lauren picks up the bag and thanks the cashier. Heading back home she mentally goes through the recipe to make sure she didn’t forget anything. While listing in her head she steps on a rock and makes her ankle go a little sideways. Catching herself so she doesn’t twist her ankle she jerks back the other direction causing her grocery bag to go the other way. An orange lands out of the bag and rolls not far under the nearest car. She walks over to it and puts the bag down. Looking around before getting on her hands and knees she sees the orange ball just out of arms reach. With her right arm she gently puts it under the frame of the car and lifts up. The tires on one side leave the pavement and with her right hand she grabs the orange. Tossing it back in the bag she puts her other hand on the car to gracefully return it to the pavement. Getting back up she dusts herself off and picks up the bag. As she straightens up she sees a mother with her girl at the crosswalk across the street. The mother has her hand but isn’t paying attention as she gabs away on her phone. Lauren looks at the little girl who is staring and puts her pointer to her lips. The little girl smiles then Lauren turns on her heal and heads for home. THE END

CAUTION: Language and grisly images and reality TV Nothing had happened at the mansion seemingly in forever . Which kinda, sorta was the whole point. “I don’t give a fuck about manatees,” Mason growled. He then glanced anxiously down at the headset hanging about his neck with his $350 readers and the wood-gripped director’s lens finder that supposedly had belonged to John Ford. He’d hoped for a gig on Yellowstone or at least Yellowstone 1972 , and after some flunkie for Taylor Sheridan told him who John Ford was, figured it might help give him some street creed with the Paramount-Plus folks. It didn’t, and he’d never yet used the thing. There were apps for that now, as if Soul Survivor remotely required technique or artistry. Chest pounding, he flopped back in his Adirondack. “Swear to God, if my mike had been hot just then, I’d have fed you to the sea cows. Even if this is CBS, the whale-humpers on Twitter would have cancelled me quicker than MAX killed Batgirl . Fucking labradoodles of the sea.” Cayl took a measured beat. She’d been discovered by Jeff Probst after her work on Netflix’ Rudderless: Death of a Dolphin , which Probst had streamed while attempting to lure narrator Paltrow onto Glamping With the Stars . “Look, while we’re waiting out the strike, we could shoot some footage of the gang cooing over the manatees. Like you said, people love the, uh, fucking things - I could work up a stringout, maybe on the lines of the alliances forging a temporary truce after the blowout last ep. Harmonizing with nature, all that...shit.” Mason peered out over the ocean. He didn’t get it - he truly didn’t. But he could see it even without fucking John Ford’s magic kaleidoscope. It’s why they’d picked this location on the coast, aside from the fucking ghosts which had yet to show their fucking dead faces and the tie-in with Paramount’s new King miniseries. Public interest in the supernatural - at least among Viacom/PP’s prime demographics -- had surged following the president’s claim to have been visited in the Lincoln Bedroom by the spirit of Ronald Reagan urging closed borders and the sale of the Alaskan National Wildlife Refuge amid a wholly inexplicable spike in Fairbanks and Juneau polar bear attacks. Paltrow’s 60 Minutes comments on the matter tanked Glamping , opening a prime Wednesday slot for Soul Survivor . Which had gone on hiatus four episodes in, amid the network editor/programmers’ strike and the incident that had occurred moments after the network cut abruptly from the live feed to the highly touted NCIS: Key West/NCIS: Chicago crossover accidentally aleady in progress. If you rewatched the network feed, you could see Probst glimpse away without dropping the shit-eating grin. Mason pushed out of his porch chair. “Yep, sure, let’s go shoot some fucking sea cows. Oh, c’mon; you know what I fucking meant.” ** Actually, as Mason squinted down, he decided labradoodles had more intellectual bearing. But Cayl was right - the standard collection of beautiful morons Probst had gathered this time were entranced by the dumb cows. Cows with a Harvey Weinstein face and, well, Harvey Weinstein’s physique. The strike had stifled Mason’s creativity. More agile than Weinstein, though -- at least the enfeebled, bristly version of Weinstein the attorneys had rolled past TMZ during the trial. Had he directed it, he’d once told Cayl, he’d have lost the Goodwill walker with the day-glo tennis balls.“Looked like a fucking Lifeline commercial. Nobody thinks Harvey buys his lube and rohypnol at Costco.” Cayl could but silently concur. One of her greatest attributes as an assistant producer, Mason acknowledged. Right this minute, in fact, Cayl was silently assessing the trio of West Indian manatees cavorting at the edge of the ancient pier as Mason rallied the seven remaining contestants. “This is what the late Coach Hayden Fox would have called a team-building opportunity,” the two-time Emmy short-lister began soberly, assuming these Gen-Zers only knew Craig T. Nelson as Admiral Hornblauer on NCIS:KW/Chi/Hawaii/Vegas - if they even watched scripted shit any more. “I know we’re all pretty still pretty dazed by recent events, and I appreciate everybody keeping the faith while our brothers and sisters in the Editors Guild negotiate a workable contract. Word is, a new contract could be announced by week’s end.” Truth be told, there’d been a virtual network blackout since The Incident - given the unaired debacle in Episode 4, a blessing in disguise for Mason. As for the “talent,” there was a seemingly unending supply of high-end food and drink, the unprecedented on-air hijinks and Venn Diagram fucking that had dominated Season 3 had set most of the gang free of their external obligations, and nobody was in any hurry to leave even a ramshackle, ostensibly haunted Shangri-La. The NDAs had scarcely seemed necessary, and there’d been no inquiries or edicts from Probst or Network. “For right now, though, let’s set rivalries and alliances aside. Nature has given us a gift--“ Cayl snorted; Mason glared. “--and we thought we might capture this moment of contemplation and reconciliation for the winter premiere. Or, you know, the spring or summer premiere, or whenever. There’s no restrictions on shooting, as long as nothing goes into post-production. ” Mason paused, looked down into the blank, bovine faces, then turned back to the manatees. A bristled snout popped above the water, nostrils flaring, and the director moved back a step. Cayl had set him straight after his previous threat, but he didn’t trust anything that big to stay true to its vegan vows. “So what’s say we start the day with a moment of silence for Trey?” A couple of the assembled ghosthunter/warriors frowned, looked out to the roiling ocean and the rocky beach where a flamingo and a gull were tussling over a dead tarpon, back up at the mansion, trying to define that something that seemed to elude them. Then all seven heads dropped into an attitude of prayer Mason had neither requested nor was permitted to request under network HR standards. “Jesus,” Mason muttered, compounding theproblem. Cayl communed with the sea cows, who seemed oblivious to her human presence. ** There was a truly ancient comedy on one of the implant streams -- you could still find it if you were really determined, and if you could put up with the big hair, the outdated P9 references, the clunky coincidences and indecipherable callbacks that demanded the distractive FNote Track, and its quaintly sweet snark and naive notions of friendship and loyalty. Re had seen it but once, at the post-coital urging of an NYU broadcast history student he’d banged maybe 30 years before. A “cult classic,” a “social phenomenon.” It had in fact been a fairly tasteless affair, as it turned out , making light of the near death of a whale for the purposes of promoting a sociopathic liar’s sexual ambitions. Re’d interned with the Global Oceans Rescue Federation, and they’d parted company over breakfast, both agreed, none too soon. Based on amicus filings by the World Wildlife Foundation, Greenpeace, PETA, and Seaworld’s See Cetaceans campaign, the episode was permanently pulled from streaming archives along with the infamous “We had a deal with the squirrels” episode. But Re had savored and thus retained one quip delivered by the grandiloquent sociopath “George.” “The sea was angry that day, my friends - like an old man tying to send back soup in a deli.” The last true deli had been bombed by an extreme No More Methane cell following the U.S.’ fifth rejection of the Paris Global Climate Treaty, soup had all-but-vanished from restaurant menus amid the potable water shortages of the ‘40s, and in three decades watching the Atlantic become its own bouillabaisse and climate shifts rendering meteorology a dead discipline, Re joked (or considered joking) he’d never seen anything BUT an angry sea. There were so many things wrong there, but as a result, it was theoretically nostalgic. Re nonetheless had booked this coastal cruise as his sabbatical gift - a celebration of a life aquatic, as some old Wes Anderson movie had put it, with his guilty avocational pleasure. Processing his mother’s estate, he’d come across three boxes of OG pulp-paper books. While it took some adjustment deactivating his Kinductive Reader implant and fending off the stares on the Metroways and the Impossible Coffee shops, Re rapidly became addicted to the works of Stephen King. The late 20 th Century/early 21 st author had specialized in the horror genre, and had been a key social force in the years leading up to the Second Civil War. After an attack by a deforestation protester on the Times Square food concourse, he’d inloaded the collected digital works. He’d never devised how to disable the background audio track on the bone-conductive Kindle chip, but tolerating manipulative strings and creaky terror FX seemed a small price for keeping Re’s cranium intact. “To your left, you’ll see one of the highlights of today’s Tour,” his Carnival-synched implant murmured. Re perked and stared out the bubble’s hull, above the water line. The old estate was as virtually displayed on the website - a 19 th Century behemoth, weathered but steadfast and daunting on a bluff above the rocky shore. With one significant difference. The latest photo on the site had been taken in the early 2030s, and the fire-scarred clearing just west of the mansion had long-since healed over, if not the west wing itself. “I don’t know if any of you are old enough to remember the television series Soul Survivor, though I’m sure you history buffs are aware of the events of October 24, 2027, and the scandalous legacy of Brookridge Manor. It was here that nearly the entire cast and crew of the paranormal reality show perished in a fire bombing/shooting spree by Trey Reedus, an apparently disgruntled contestant who’d been ‘ghosted’ during the program’s Tribal Séance only moments before. Reedus, a photographer from Ocala, Florida, had been savaged across social media platforms days before for manufacturing a deepfake video of Kellem Brookridge, the manor’s original owner and lumber tycoon, walking the halls of the mansion. Unfortunately for Reedus, Brookridge had died peacefully in his sleep in 1886 after losing both legs in an 1843 sawmill accident.” A man of his time, Re reflected as a pod of dolphins glided below his feet. Reedus, not Brookridge. The Floridian’s photography had primarily appealed to lonely and libidinous web crawlers, and Trey was a member of several now-extinct cultural appreciation groups known for scrawling geometrically skewed swastikas on overpasses and synagogues and waging White God’s battle for the community expulsion of such literary terrorists as Judy Blume, Kurt Vonnegut, Charles Schultz, James Baldwin, and, of course, Father Stephen. Soul Survivor ’s screeners apparently were as well-read as Mr. Reedus, who as they later discovered also had a tendency toward badly filtered transphobia and misogyny. He had, nonetheless, been able to translate the writing on the wall, or Walls, as it were, and managed somehow to quickly stockpile guns and incendiaries in 21 st Century rural America after a failed Instagram campaign decrying “cancel culture” failed to command more than a few thousand likes and concurrent online threats against “the network Jews.” CBS carefully affirmed its steadfast commitment to the First Amendment, “if not to the specific views expressed by Mr. Reedus,” but the execs liked their viewership old and scared, not proactively psychotic. Luckily, Probst and Co. were able to hang their caps on outright fraud, which even by that point was a technical deal-breaker. Well, luckily . “An investigation into the tragedy revealed that the local realtor who leased the historic mansion had for years fraudulently claimed the Brookridge manor to be haunted, by her own admission to pursue historical landmark designation and improve resale appeal without having to make key code upgrades. At the same time, the families of the seven remaining contestants, crew members, and producers filed a multi-billion-dollar suit against CBS, Paramount, and the late Probst’s production company, and with public outcry narrowly edging demand for more of the same, competitive reality ended nearly overnight. As for Trey Reedus, authorities confirmed through dental records that charred remains found in the gutted parlor of the mansion were indeed the arsonist/murderer’s. “And ironically, because of his actions, Brookridge Manor was restored to the National Registry of Paranormal Sites 10 years ago, after an EPA hydrothermic research vessel spotted what looked to be trespassers on the condemned property, heavily dressed and without respiratory gear despite record October temperatures. In photos taken by the crew, the dozen or so trespassers could not be identified, and the crew could find no corresponding human heat signatures... The implant went silent, and for one moment, Re was concerned he might have to have the cortical chip recalibrated or even replaced. Then the AI voice returned, slightly and artificially breathless, with an edge of synthesized wonder. “Oh, my. We have a real treat for our Carnival Paranormal Reward guests today. If everyone could please focus their attention on the pier to the left of the mansion...” Re swiveled as the bubble rose a few feet above the waves. His heart quickened as he spotted it. A half-ring of figures, absurdly disturbing in jeans and flannel on a typical 120-degree October morning. He adjusted his glasses, and could make out that their heads were bent in, what, prayer? Officiated by a short, thin man in an expensive looking down vest, who stood out from the young, svelte men and women seemingly absorbed in his evey word. Several yards away, at the edge of the decipit old dock, a crouching ninth figure looked up, and Re looked abruptly away, uncertain whether what he saw under its shock of red hair was a refractive trick of the superheated water or some veil between spatial, temporal, or dimensional planes, or what he almost certainly knew it to be. Re suddenly felt something nostalgic. Empathy. For this creature, for the seven eternally lost souls seeking, what, release, mercy, forgiveness, just an acknowledgment of something, anything beyond? “The ship biologist informs me an aggegration of manatees has gathered at the shoreline, and although we have no way of confirming it, it would appear the entity you see at the end of the dock is attempting to interact with them. Now, of course, manatees are not at all uncommon in this area - global boiling off the Florida coast forced a number of species northward, and with recreational boating and commercial fishing curtailed along most of the Eastern Seaboard and their habitable range extended, manatee numbers have grown nearly tenfold over the past decade alone. Recent research indicates that like dolphins, manatees may be particularly sensitive not only to sounds beyond our grasps, but also to spiritual energies. Who knows?” Like a weak digital signal, the figures on shore flickered and eventually glitched out. Re fell back in his seat, incredibly both disappointed and...relieved. “Our captain informs me a rapidly moving hyperthermafront is moving this way, so we’re going to head on out. Just to remind you - complementary high-resolution photos of this morning’s occurrence are now available on the forward deck. We at Carnival’s King’s Tour of Paranormal Maine hope it made your voyage even more supernaturally special.” Re smiled despite himself. As the horizon darkened in prelude to the next onslaught, the next overture building to a crashing finale, he was heartened by the notion that there might be another stage, a life after extinction. As the bubble settled back into the cradling sea, Re glanced at the rising depths beneath his feet to find a trio of bristled, bovine faces staring right back up at him, curious perhaps, perhaps pitying. The manatees trailed the bubble as far as their considerable bulk and meager stealth would take them, and as the small aggregation disappeared into the murk, Re tapped his left temple, brought up his library, and, in a moment of impulse, bypassed King for something by Melville. ** Cayl looked up as the manatees abruptly pivoted toward the open sea. It all began to come back to her again, as it did more times than she knew, as she watched what appeared to be a huge bubble rise from the rough surf. Mason and the Beautiful Morons were still eulogizing the psychotic monster who’d somehow caused all this and praying for, what, a timely end to the strike and short network/viewer memory? Cayl shuddered as she reached out again to the pod or whatever they called a herd of sea cows whose GPS had gone woefully haywire, catching sight of the skin running from ruined nails into her jacket sleeves. The trio was about to bolt, and Cayl leaned over the dock to catch one last glimpse. The lack of a reflection didn’t register, and as the manatees retreated, she instinctively turned toward the house, toward the black hole that looked like some gaijin had emerged from this off-kilter ocean and taken a bite for the road. It was watching her, again, she realized. A mass of charcoal and dried blood, one arm now perpetually merged with a twisted, barely recognizable piece of metal. The redneck’s wet dream, Cayl mused, flipping it off two-handed. The briquette-thing’s jaws unhinged, and it mouthed something, vestigial lips pursing on the first syllable, popping on the last. Same thing it’d said to her leaving the Séance Circle for what would be his posthumous 15 minutes. “Wow, who writes your dialogue, you fucking overdone putz?” Cayl Rosenweig muttered.

My throbbing feet tell me I’ve been standing still, staring at the Departures screen too long. It’s decision time. Savannah or San Francisco? That’s the question. I should join the girls, but the City by the Bay keeps flashing at me--each blinding letter a lightsaber piercing my heart. I could go to the ticket counter, pay the change penalty and show up on his doorstep, ending this story -telling nonsense for good. If necessary, I could tolerate the pain of rejection. I stall instead, scour the gate area for a seat, open my laptop, and read. # Chapter 22--ORION and SONG. I prefer letters over numbers, but lately, my life can be summed up by the latter--one hundred eighty absent school days, twenty-two hockey games missed, seven nights in the Pine Grove Psych ward, and ninety-six days at Robin’s Nest Memorial. Finally, I’m home, but little has changed. I’m the same miserable kid I’ve been since the bathroom incident a year and a half ago, and my parents are still desperate for a cure. They’ll never find one because I’m not really sick. I feel fine. As long as I don’t have to go anywhere, see, or talk to anyone, I’m absolutely, perfectly fine. # According to Ms. Rhona Spiegelman, overpriced education consultant extraordinaire, The Red Earth Therapeutic Boarding School in Nowhereville , Utah, has a spot for me. I considered it, imagined a hell so much worse than the one I'm living in, and refused to go. I'd rather die, and I made this clear in the garage last night. I sat in the front seat of Mom's minivan with the engine running, and although I was afraid, I was also filled with anticipation for the end. Now I'm just afraid. Two testosterone-saturated silhouettes are standing in my bedroom. "Good morning, Orion," says the first shadow. "We're here to help you," says the second, and I piss myself. "Orion." It's Dad. He’s there in the darkness. "These men are going to escort you to your new school. They'll keep you safe." I've heard about this. It's called Transport . Before the break of day, hired thugs come into homes and take kids away. I never thought they'd come for me. Thugs One and Two let me change out of my pajamas, but the smell of urine remains on my skin. They each take hold of an elbow, one on my right and the other on my left. Then they walk me, prisoner style, out of our house. Mom and Dad say goodbye to my back. Eazy and Nance don't. Sandwiched in the backseat between my captors, I feel numb. They look straight ahead as a uniformed driver accelerates out of our driveway and onto the street. Thug One slips me a blue pill at the first intersection. "To help you relax," he says. It's a command, not a suggestion. So I take it, but it has no effect. # The air is thick with gray fog when the car stops in front of a woman. She’s dressed in a military uniform and a stern expression. The driver opens the door, and we get out. “Another one with no gear?” she grunts. Then she throws camouflage print clothing and combat boots in my direction. “Wear these,” she says, “it’s hunting season.” The thugs fade into the background, and twenty teenagers arrive at the scene. They are covered from head to toe in camo, and each has a shotgun. All I have is a bow and arrow. The woman, a sergeant of sorts, starts yelling. “Y’all are good for nothing! It’s time you learned to take care of yourselves. Today, you’re gonna learn to hunt for your food. If you FAIL, then you’ll STARVE. Do not shoot each other or yourselves. That would be a waste of bullets. Now go! And don’t come back till your carcass is butchered and prepared for roasting.” The kids are running in every direction. I hear gunshots. I run into the woods with my bow and arrow flopping noisily against my butt. I hide, frozen and barely breathing among the trees until I hear the click of a trigger engaging. Someone is aiming at me. I fumble for my bow and arrow, position my weapon, and take a shot in the direction of the sound. Instantly, I am in agony, my ear ablaze with fire. The arrow clipped my right lobe, leaving a throbbing bloody pulp behind. The car jerks to a stop, waking me from my nightmare, but my ear still burns with pain. The seatbelt has pinched it into a folded crease. I rub, gently kneading the hurt away, while my sense of doom lingers. # At the airport, the thugs resume their vice-like grip on my elbows as we inch closer to the security checkpoint. I scan the terminal for someone to help me, but the situation looks grim. Behind us, there's a family immersed in cyberspace and a man in a business suit who's invading his colleague's personal space. In front of us, a couple bickers. The woman wins the argument, and the man stares at his feet in silent surrender. He shuffles along the switchbacking cue, and our threesome follows him. Suddenly, the reality that I'm being brought to a school for psycho kids gets stuck in my windpipe, and I can't breathe. I'm choking on my immediate future, and the lack of oxygen makes me dizzy. Streams of sweat run down my temples, and my whole body trembles. I'm about to collapse in a heap when another option comes to me--I won’t go. I'll make a run for it. I tug against One's hold, and he tightens his grasp without even a glance in my direction. Then I yank against Two's grip with all my strength, and my arm slips free. He doesn't flinch. To my surprise, neither of them react at all. I see why. A ghostly version of my right elbow remains clutched in Two's hand. I stare at it, then blink, expecting it to disappear, but it doesn't. I look at the businessman, the cyber junkies, and the couple. They don't notice me. Nobody around me sees the magic. I twist and turn, claiming my left arm and wrenching my body free. Then I lunge forward and run. I duck under five security line dividers to get out of the scanning cue and make it to a waiting area before I stop to look back. What I see is incredible--I see, Me . A transparent version of myself is trapped in the line and transitioning to opaque. "Orion!" I whisper-shout. He looks straight ahead. "Orion!" I call him again, but he doesn't acknowledge me at all. I can't leave him. I backtrack as fast as I can until the sight of his changing body slows me down. He's fading as I approach him. I stop short when I can see through him and start to retreat. Me taking three steps in reverse causes his density to increase. I back up to the waiting area, and he's almost solid again. If I go to him, he'll disappear, and I will be in his place. If I don't, I will be free. I pause in confusion. He passes through the scanner and materializes on the other side, as real as me. # “Eeew! Naked boy!” A tween-age girl is shrieking in my direction. Shit! I assumed that my clothes were duplicating too, but they weren’t. Now I’m not only visible, but I’m also totally exposed. I cover what’s important with my hands and run for it. I take the down escalator three steps at a time. I spot the baggage carousel and dive for the conveyor belt just before it disappears into the hidden baggage handling space. Clothes, I need clothes fast! I tear open a suitcase--baby rattles, diapers, onesies, and a mobile with rainbow-colored ladybugs on it. The next two luggage bags are locked. I rip the zipper on a soft, brown plaid bag straight off--toilet paper, medications, and an abundance of toothpaste. I pray the next one, a large valise with a perfectly placed leather identification tag, will contain what I want. Inside are six pairs of high-heeled sandals, a cosmetics case, three bikinis, a shorty wetsuit with a fluorescent pink zipper down the front, and women’s, size nine, bedazzled flip flops. The contents are not exactly what I hoped for, but they’ll do. # Around me, throngs of travelers and airport employees make a commotion. The clamor of traffic wafts in through the sliding doors. Noise is everywhere, competing for attention with the sound of my heart beating in my ears. The chaos conforms to my right, where people are funneling down a hallway. The organized flow draws me in, and I follow the masses onto an AirTrain. I regret my decision immediately. The crowd is dense, aggressive, and agitated. A horrible boy with a tennis racket case slung around his shoulder glances, first at my feet and then at my face. The smoke from his vape makes me sweat. I turn toward a man in a tracksuit. Earbuds peep out from under his white cap. He leers, and a gold tooth that matches the emblem on his hat tries to snatch me. I tighten my white knuckle grip around the handhold. The train stops, the doors open, and a smell enters. It’s a stroller, and people are backing away from it. A rounded woman wearing pink lipstick holds its handle. She spreads her feet wide, taking advantage of the space that has freed up around her. I ride near the stench to the end of the line and follow it toward a turnstile. Hoards of people line up to rotate through the spokes, but I have nothing; no phone, money, or MetroCard. The stroller bypasses the turnstile and goes through a buzzing door. I slither through behind it, and we get on another train together. There’s not enough room for me. Hair and shoulders are filling my personal space. A purse shoves me against a coat. The coat shrugs, and I brace myself for ridicule, but there is none. There are only smartphone-hugging busy people who have no interest in me. I am safe until the masses unload into a dark tunnel that exits under the starry sky of Grand Central Station. Groups of kids everywhere want to drag me under and bury me in insults. The grand staircase invites me to escape them, and I’m up the steps and out the door in seconds. The noise in my head explodes on the streets of New York. I hear sirens and horns. I hear a whistle blow and a car’s sudden screech. I start to run, and the sound of my flip-flops slapping along the sidewalk is a constant that cuts through the mayhem of the city until a geyser of coffee sprays the woman I crash into and me. I didn’t see her coming out of the shop I was passing, and now her leopard pattern faux fur is dripping in latte. “God dammit, child,” she hisses, ignoring her coat and looking down at her splashed stilettos. I wipe my face and hold back the tears inside me. I dodge her giant shopping bags and forge onward toward the safety of my room. I don’t stop until I get to the trees. When the leafy branches give way to the water, the swans in the boat pond let me know where I am, and the familiarity slows me down. I’ve been here before with Eazy and Nance. I collapse onto a bench and suck The Rambles into my heaving lungs. When I catch my breath, I turn my attention to my throbbing feet where red, puffy skin is bubbling up at the flip-flop’s rhinestone margins. The constrictive neoprene edges of the wetsuit are ringing my thighs like sausages, and the pink zipper is digging into my chest. I want to be sitting on my bed in my clothes at home. Despondent, I drop my head into my hands and squeeze. When I raise it, I see two identical-looking swans waddle their way out of the water and think of my double. He will have to endure worse, and this realization makes me gather my strength. I stand up, point my gaudy feet West and head toward the Hudson River. Then I turn right and go North for hours. # I slam my laptop closed, then freeze, attempting to absorb the agony of defeat without attracting the attention of my fellow passengers. They don't know I spent three years writing a novel I can't bring to fruition, and they shouldn't have to tolerate my blubbering. It's not their fault I'm an unknown debut author--an imposter in the truest sense of the word. The crushing sensation in my chest leaves me breathless before I feel the burn. Then heat races through my veins, raising my blood to a boil. My neck, face, and ears simmer until rage lights a fire under my ass, making me jump to a stand. What a waste of time! Sweat, tears, and stupid carpel tunnel syndrome. For what? I'm a mad fool. No. I AM FURIOUS. I grab my purse, planning to go to San Francisco. Only I can't because my pocketbook is stuck, clenched in the hand of my materializing double. I recoil at the image of my faded fingers wrapped around the leather and becoming opaque fast. The irony is almost more than I can bear. Instead of finishing Orion's story, I've written mine, and now I'm the one who has to run.

Taking an old blanket, I pushed aside the carpet of dust formed on top of the heavy wood chest. My once trove of secrets and obsessions that morphed as I grew. At the age of seven it held Matchbox cars, wrestling action figures (and anything else I did not want my little brother to touch). Age twelve it held football memorabilia, at sixteen it held band shirt with dirty magazines folded neatly with them. Its final charge was to hold things I could not bear to part with after college and ready to take on the world. The lid squealed with surprise when I eased it open to reveal its hidden treasures. It had been abandoned in my parent’s attic for seventeen years. The attic existed over the house my father built and lost in the divorce, that my mother remodeled and lived with her new husband, Mark. My father never got his drinking under control and passed away from liver failure only six years after the divorce. I remember being conflicted on how to feel, alcohol always seemed more important than me, and Mark had never forgotten to pick me up from school or one of my science fairs. The attic was not as forgotten as my chest would mislead, Mark liked things orderly, some would say too orderly. There were shelves with labels, totes with labels, filing cabinets with--you guessed it--labels. Only my corner of childhood memories and random items from different moves or projects were left untouched and dust ridden. Mark’s motto has always been, if you care about something--take care of it. But it was not his job to care about my somethings. My argument remained, out of sight, out of mind. Well in sight and no longer out of mind, the chest lay bared open, patiently waiting as it had done all these years. As if not to disturb some waking creature, I plucked off the top quilt with gentle consideration and smoothed out the top, running my fingers along the different fabrics. My grandmother had made it for me. It was a gift for my college graduation. Made up of all my old band shirts, flannels, and jeans. At first, I had been upset because no one had talked to me about taking them (sure they had holes or were too small, but they were mine), after a couple weeks with it on my bed, all had been forgiven. It had been three years since my grandmother passed and I would still tear up if I thought long enough about it. That quilt and I had been through a lot. In college it proved a loyal cocoon while I ate my ice cream or boxed mac and cheese and binge watched a new series or the latest horror flick. It was there when I lost my virginity. When I moved out of state and back home. There until I met Hannah and she bought a new set. For a couple of years, it sat on my recliner in the living room, until Hannah’s interior design ideas covered the house. The quilt had made its way up here, when we got married and well, out of sight out, out of mind. I sat it aside. I will take that home. My fingers found the next item and at first my mind struggled for realization. I pulled them closer and felt a smile spread across my lips. Garbage Pail Kids trading cards. An entire binder of them. I laugh to myself as I open the cover and reveal the grotesque illustrations with clever names like Barfin’ Bart, Leaky Lindsay, and Slobby Robbie. That’s right, I even had an Adam Bomb . I used to save all my nickels and dimes just to run down to the corner store and purchase as many packs as I could. Over the years many friends tried to buy them from me, but no price compared to the shit eating grin inspired by Large Marge. I place the binder on the opposite side of the quilt, to put back in the chest. No way they would pass Hannah’s inquiring eye. The quilt I could lean on sentiment. “Daddy?” I hear from downstairs. “Yes, love?” “Did you find it?” I wait to respond because I can already hear small feet making their way up the steps and I want to make sure there are no slips. The stairs are kind of steep. When I see the blond pig tails bob around the corner, I smile and open my arms to receive our daughter Abigail, or as I called her Abs. Drove Hannah nuts. Even after five years, it still amazed me that Hannah and I created a tiny human and a damn cute one. Before I can shift Abs onto my knee, her neck is craning to peek into the chest, her brown eyes wide and searching. “What’s dat?” T with H’s were still a little tough. “Well, let’s see.” My hands reach back into the chest and pull out the next item. A shoe box. In it is old photographs, letters, lighters, cards, and other small mementos from high school and a little beyond. The span of time Hannah referred to as my idiotic years. Sifting through it, with a deep sigh, I agree with her and set the box in another pile to get rid of. Abs’s small hands sought the next item with eagerness, her fingers grasping onto another small box, about the same size as the shoe box, only metal and with a push lock. Its face is covered in bumper stickers saying things like, Thou shall not steal. The government hates competition. And Why does freedom cost so much? Memories of my college years flooded back, and the meetings held in the small cramped room that used to serve as a dark room, discussing different actions and political views. All nine of our members had a box like the one Abs held, not all made of metal, but containing, what we considered, essential items for a revolution. I did not have to open the box to know what I would find. A copy of Howard Zinn’s, A People’s History of the United States. A copy of Let Me Speak, by Domitila Chungara. A handwritten list of ten lessons from the Great Depression and how the people can survive it. A hunting knife. A magnesium fire starter. Newspaper articles and other obscure articles, and pocket notebooks filled with scrawling from our meetings different ideas, diagrams and statistics. We were gonna change the world and we called ourselves, The Working People’s Union. We were gonna change the world. “What’s dat?” “Love, this is dreams in a box.” An unexpected feeling of guilt washed over me as Abs traced the letters on one of the red colored stickers with a rose on it. I wanted to change the future for children everywhere so they would not have to struggle. All that ambition was shoved into a single metal box and forgotten when the system won and had me working over forty hours a week, making just enough to be comfortable. I had been comfortable. Out of sight, out of mind. I take the box from her hands and place it with the quilt. “One day, Daddy will go through the box with you. Know how I always tell you your gonna save the world?” A nod. “Well consider this a starter kit for when you are older.” “But I wanna save da world now!” So do I, I thought. “I can show you where to begin for someone strong, but pint sized.” “Okay!” I chuckle to myself and kiss the top of her head, breathing in the smell of Dove soap, the only Hannah approved soap for Abs’s sensitive scalp. “Okay.” My hand delved once again into the chest, this time rediscovering my old Philadelphia Eagles, DeSean Jackson jersey wrapped around my signed football. I put it to the side with the binder of cards and reach in again. Abs is squirming with impatience. My old Walkman came next and when I pushed the eject button to find a cassette of Bob Dylan. With a smile I hand the player to my daughter. “That will be your first lesson on saving the world. All we need are batteries.” “Bat-trees...” She repeated in a mesmerized whisper, taking the player and beginning to push buttons. I fondled around a bit until my fingers found the headphones, which I laid with the quilt. “John!” I hear Hannah call from downstairs. “Yes?” “Is she up there with you?” “I hold my finger to my lips to signal Abs to remain quiet. “Did you lose our daughter?” “John! I am serious. She begged your mother for this piece of cake, and she only took two bites!” “Only two bites of Mem’s chocolate cake?” I whispered with an exaggerated shock at Abs, who began giggling into her fists. With a glance at the steps, she whispers back. “I want to help you.” I nod and place another kiss on her head. “She is up here with me! I found the chest! We will be down in a minute or two!” “Abigail Maureen you are finishing this cake when you come down here!” Hannah called back with authority and I heard the door close. “I guess we better speed this up.” Abs nodded. I picked her up and sat her on the floor next to me. Pushing myself unto my knees, I gripped the edge of the chest and hoisted myself into better view. There were comics, my college sweatshirt, a few year books, An Airforce for Math and science award, my diploma (opened once on the day I received it), a few surviving band shirts, and books I considered necessary in case of power failure, Lord of the Rings: Trilogy, The Dark Tower Series (all seven books, plus The Wind Through the Keyhole, and a copy of Charlie the Choo-Choo), and finally Lamb by Christopher Moore (because it makes me laugh out loud). Nestled into the one corner is my desired object. My fingers feel a familiar fabric and I look at Abs, who senses my excitement. Her small fist smash into the sides of her cheeks, her lips pursing out like a fish. It took all my control not to laugh hysterically. I wanted to keep her teetering between suspense and excitement. “Did you find it?” She bounced up and down with expectation. “Maybe...” I said. “Can I have it?” “Depends...” I removed my hand from the chest and grasped within is my old friend. Puddles. Puddles was a stuffed dog. The simplest design, with floppy ears and rounded snout. I imagine at some point he had a nose, but never in any of my recollections and whatever length of fur he had was pilled tight to his worn body. His black and white eyes stared back at me through half lids looking as if I woke him from a peaceful slumber. My favorite thing had always been the beans weighted in his bottom. Given to me by my mother at birth, Puddles and I became inseparable around the age of two. I took him everywhere. The sandbox. The park. School. Sleepovers. The grocery store. My Mem’s. Everywhere. At sixteen, he watched as guardian over my room and through college he was our dorm mascot. Puddles was there the night my parents fought the big one , and when I scraped my knee something fierce trying to impress a cute girl down the street when I was eleven. Puddles watched me cry without judgement over lost friends, lovers, family. Proved a decent pillow on plane rides. A good listener for practicing speeches. He even helped me meet Hannah. A few of my buddies and I were tossing Puddles back and forth, a studying technique we used. Catch the dog. Answer the question. Our door was open, and I went to toss it to my friend Brian who had rolled his chair in front of the door, but I overshot it. It just so happened this cute blond from down the hall was walking by and it caught her in the hip. Lucky for me, she took it with a laugh and the rest is history. After college I retired him to the chest. I felt he needed safe keeping, while I collected my life and put in order. Years past and well, out of sight, out of mind. A week prior Abs was asking for a puppy. Not that I am against dogs, however Hannah and I both worked full-time, and a five-year old’s promise to take care of a living animal is not something to be trusted. So, I thought of Puddles. Maybe it was me wanting to take a trip down memory lane, or maybe it was the guilt I felt when I thought of the old dog stuffed in a chest for years after being number one. I know it is a stuffed animal, but he was more than that to me. He had been my partner in crime. My confidant. My best friend. Abs reached for Puddles, her little fingers opening and closing. I hold onto him a bit longer, but with some reservation manage to bestow the old dog into her awaiting hands. “What happened to his nose?” “I don’t know, love. I’ve had him for a long time.” “I like his fur.” “Me too. He doesn’t shed.” “Sed?” S and H’s were also a little tough. “No matter. You see he has beans in his butt, just like I said.” “Yeah...dat’s funny. How did get beans in dare?” “I don’t know. He came that way I guess.” Turning the dog around in her hands, she inspected him, and I felt my heart stop. What if she did not like him? What if she tosses him back in the chest and cries for a real puppy? She extended both of Puddles’s ears and swung him back and forth, a small smile playing on her lips. “Daddy?” “Yes, Love?” “Why is he named Puttles?” “It’s Puddles. Pud-dulls. And from what Mem told me, it was the first thing I did with him. Jump in mud puddles.” “Oh.” Puddles stopped swinging, and Abs head cocked sideways as she considered his dangling form. A deep breath filled her and then released with what seemed to be disappointment and my heart dropped. I never imagined she wouldn’t love him the way I did. “What’s wrong? You don’t like him?” “I do. He looks kind. I just...” “What, love? Just tell me.” “I wish it were raining. Den we could splash in mud puddles.” She then stood up and embraced Puddles as I had so many times and decided. “Come Puddles, maybe you can help me eat my cake!”

I sipped on the straw of my diet coke nervously as I took a bite out of that wonderful bit of cheeseburger. Every bite of it was like paradise, I swear! I could eat like maybe fifteen of this everyday and not get fed up at all. That’s how much I really liked it. I had been sitting here on my own for about ten minutes now as Bert went to the bathroom again to relieve himself for the fifth time. It could have been a bad case of dysentery, although I couldn’t image why that would happen. He hadn’t taken anything else other than a bottle of mineral water. Either he’s got severe diarrhea, or he could be plucking up the courage to speak for himself so that he could finally break up with me. I sighed deeply. And to think that I was having a rather nice time today! Bert and I had been together for five years now, and for the very first time, my lazy ass of a boyfriend had suggested that we take a sudden out of town trip this weekend. We drove fifteen miles just to get to this province, and we fell in line for about half an hour to get a bite at this posh-looking restaurant. As we neared the entrance to this building, my jaw dropped. I knew this place! I have never been in this province before, and I had never heard of this restaurant, but I am certain I have seen it! I am not the type of person who liked to experiment and go to places, so it was nearly impossible that I had been here, but I am certain that I have entered it before. As I began to recall why this place looked super familiar, I remembered the dream that I had days ago of going inside a high-class restaurant with Bert. Hell, I even laughed at it, knowing how my stingy boyfriend won’t even spend a dime just to get me an expensive anniversary gift let alone treat me into a place like this! However, here I was in the flesh at the restaurant I could only glimpse at when I was in dream land. I knew that the walls inside are teal and that there is a big mural with cats on the left side of this place. Gosh, I knew in my guts that even the restrooms here have scented, plastic flowers on its walls! No wonder Bert was spending a lot of time in the restroom... I gasped as soon as I entered. I was damn right! The walls and decorations were all the same. Seeing all these familiar sights was a sort of creepy but pleasant déjà vu. Bert chose a table overlooking the sea at the back part of the place while I continued to marvel at this seemingly happy miracle. So, I guess this good feeling that I had about this place would all be ruined if he would dump me right here. He had been having gas for like forever now. Bert should just get it out in his system if he seriously wanted his suffering to end. Before I took in another bite out of my sumptuous burger, an attractive-looking young man, probably in his early twenties, walked towards our table. His neon green Hawaiian shirt and long, khaki pants did not seem to match his tentative swagger as he edged towards me. He was looking quite strangely at me, as if I was some kind of angel. He sat down rudely from across me at the seat that was meant for Bert. “Excuse me,” he said with a voice that sounded like he was choking away some tears. “What day is it today?” I pouted a little. What a lame pick up line that was! However, I didn’t want to be bad-mannered at all. Although I can’t explain why, he does look somewhat kind of endearing. “Um, it’s July eighteenth,” I said. I took a bite out of my burger once more. With or without a hunk in sight, I’d still choose to eat my burger. It was really a piece of heaven! “I see... Are you with someone?” the young man asked. He had wavy hair that parted in the middle, just like Bert’s, and he had a pair of cute dimples in his cheeks, just like I did. He smiled so warmly towards me that I had forgotten he was positively intruding my date with this delectable cheeseburger. “Yeah, my boyfriend’s here somewhere, I think.” “That’s nice. I’m sure you’re glad to be with him here. This is a lovely place.” “Uh huh, this cheeseburger is really to die for,” I said nodding my head vigorously in agreement. It was weird that I warmed up to him just like that. I’m usually guarded when it comes to any man but Bert, but this young man had such a nice aura around him that I can’t seem to dismiss. I looked at his chest and a trinket caught my eye. There, on his neck was a silver ring with a big, fat diamond in the middle. The ring was fashioned like a tiara, which I absolutely loved! I had often looked at rings like that in the Internet, and I would show Bert a similar ring almost every time that we were together so that he’d know my type should he choose to pop the question. I guess that would explain him breaking up with me, if ever. I must have turned him off with my not-so-subtle push for marriage. “You’re ring looks lovely,” I said to him. “Thanks. I am going to propose to my sweetheart today,” he replied. I felt a little sad with that. Here I was, positive that my long time boyfriend was just about to dump me, but here was a boy who was significantly younger than me, and he was going to do just the opposite. Really, how can this day get any worse? “Actually, this is my mom’s ring. I wanted to use it to propose to Suzy. Do you want to see a picture of her?” he said. Despite my grim feeling, it seemed I couldn’t refuse this young man. I smiled pleasantly and nodded towards him. He unfolded a small piece of metallic-colored paper and proceeded to show me a picture of a girl with violet, wavy hair. Her clothes looked so ridiculous - her dress, accessories, and shoes were all in unmatched neon colors, but she had a beautiful smile written across her face that made her quite breathless to look at. I could definitely see why this young man would propose to her. I gasped as I stared hard at the picture. Was it just me, or did the person in the picture seem to move like she was in some sort of video - but on a flat sheet of aluminium-colored paper? “She’s pretty, alright,” I said. Man, I must have ingested too much sugar already. How can pictures in papers move like that? I wanted to ask what phone he was using, but that’ll just make my ignorance more apparent. He’s obviously using a new kind of smart phone. Ugh, I really should catch up more on technology nowadays. “I know. I’m sure my folks would have been happy to meet her.” “Why? Is something wrong with your folks?” I resented saying that as soon as the words escaped my lips. Gosh, how insensitive of me! The young man started to look downcast. “My dad’s around, but we are not that close. Ever since my mom died of colon cancer, he had become an alcoholic. I was eventually raised by my uncle, so we didn’t get to bond so much.” “Oh gosh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. I remembered Bert falling into the same temptation - alcohol. He was also a man prone to bouts of depression, but thankfully, he was able to pull through it. I couldn’t imagine if that were to happen to me, to us. I’m positive my carefree brother, Rod, wouldn’t be able to raise our child well. “How old were you when your mother died?” “I was five, so I didn’t get to see her that much... I really missed her...” he said. Suddenly, he burst into loud sobs of tears, and I was so surprised. Me and my big, thoughtless mouth just did not know when to stop! I offered him my diet coke, but he refused. After dabbing some of his tears away, he said, “please take care of your health. Cheeseburgers and other processed food really do kill. My mother liked processed food so much that she used to stack the whole refrigerator with nothing but hotdogs and hamburgers for the week.” Holy cow, how did he know I was just like his mother? A classical tune came by the intercom of the restaurant. The boy stood up after he heard it. “Well, that’s my cue. I have to get back to my future fiancé now,” he said, beaming widely. “Alright, best of luck,” I said. “Thank you! Please take care of yourself, Emmerine...” Oh my effing gosh, I didn’t even remember telling him my name! I stared wide eyed at the odd, young man and scratched my head as he walked away from Bert’s seat towards the door of the restaurant. He stepped out into the sun and started to blend in with the folks outside and the numerous passersby until he disappeared from my view forever. I haven’t sufficiently recovered from this strange encounter yet when Bert suddenly burst in with a bouquet in his hand. Walking closely behind him was a bunch of waiters and other restaurant staff. One of them was carrying a violin and the others began to throw petals of red roses around us. I watched awestruck as he handled me the flowers and as Bert knelt down on his left knee and pulled a small, oval box from his side pocket. He opened it towards me and spoke. “Emmerine Santos, I’ve known you for a long time. Will you marry me?” The crowd cheered wildly at us, but my eyes were stuck at the sight of the ring that was inside the box that Bert was holding. There, in the midst of it was a ring fashioned like a tiara, its big, fat diamond gleaming malevolently at the very center. I’m so throwing all the hotdogs in my fridge and the remainder of this cheeseburger away forever!

Picture a scene. A researcher looks at unsuspecting ants trough a looking glass, the ants working away above and beneath the earth, suspended in a narrow glass box. The tunnels under the ground are visible at the side of the glass box. Weaved into a complex cacophony of roads all intertwined. Above ground they surge upon their dead prey. Bit by bit eating away at the now rotting corpse. Imagine now this as a whole. The ants above ground a representation of a persons outer layer, and the underground maze the inner layer. Impacts are first placed upon the outer layer. The food, the interactions, a small shake of a hand, the way you look someone in the eye. In our lives it takes the same meaning as the prey does to the ants. It is then soaked into the inner layer. Our personality, the way we emphatize, our morality.... It all weaves into a person. And every other person is that researcher. He who tries to study the ants trough a looking glass instead of simply watching them burrow beyond the light. Sometimes i look at how the sun breaches the clouds, its rays shining with a force of a thousand suns. I wander if our little universe isn't an ant farm.

Starving is a painful ordeal. It had been days now since they had recieved some rations and Little Crow and his fellow countrymen, who surrendered to the Ulstermen to receive food and water were now finding neither. The war in the East was now in full swing and the Ulstermen had hardly the resources nor the interest in looking after their conquered subjects and as such the rations they were given were being rationed in turn. It was considered lucky for Little Crow to have been able to even find some hardtack in the camp, even if it was covered in weevils. He had found a nice spot by the wall of the barracks to protect himself from the wind and ate it in peace, bit by bit. It was then that the man he had been avoiding for days sulked over to him and sat down while Little Crow avoided making eye contact with him. It wasn’t that he hated Black Kettle. It was just that he knew what he was going to ask for, and while he couldn’t bring himself to say no to his old friend he didn’t want to say yes. “Please” Black Kettle pleaded with him as he scratched at his arms. He looked at his Black Kettle and his cut-up hands that held a piece of stale hardtack. “It’s been days since I’ve eaten, I don’t know how long I can keep going like this.” Black Kettle said with a withered voice. Little Crow sighed and turned away “I can’t keep giving you food. I barely have enough for myself and that’s something I need to keep.” Black Kettle however was not deterred and he looked at him with sunken eyes and pale skin. He was dying of hunger and Little Crow knew if he wouldn’t find anything soon, he would be as good as dead “you’re the only one I know who can help me. Just give me a small bit and I can make due for the next few days I swear it”. Little Crow sighed and looked around the prison camp. It was a warm sunny day and most of their countrymen were working in the fields where the Ulstermen in the guard towers had their focus turned. Little Crow then sighed and nodded “alright just a small piece then” Black Kettle nodded then as Little Crow took out a shiv and held it towards the hardtack on his hand before slitting his finger. Blood then began to flow freely and he held it over Black Kettle's throat as he began to drink from it. All the while the dark circles around his eyes began to reciprocate and his skin changed color before Little Crow jerked his hand away and the two men remained silent for a moment as Black Kettle wiped his mouth “thank you.. it means a lot to me.” Little Crow didn’t say anything as he sighed and pressed his bleeding finger to his coat while Black Kettle walked off avoiding the bright sun overhead in the process .

I know you all hate me, I know that I am the devil incarnate in your eyes, but I plead for you to listen to me one last time. I remember when I was a young boy, pure and clean, not like I am now, and I thought that the world would one day reach a state of utopia. A grand existence where no human would have to pay for anything at all, and we could all live in the free communion of each other's company. When I got older I fought for that dream, killed for it, was willing to die for it, but now I cannot look at myself the same. I thought they were all liars, I thought they were cheats and hecklers, all saying that the world had to have money because that's how it had to be, the world couldn't function any other way and nor should it. Even when I was a kid I was smart enough to know that that was bullshit, but then I too got it wrong, so how can I judge? I would go on to make the fatal mistake of seeing the world in black and white, one-or-the-other and no in-between. I think the first time I saw someone die is when I realized that that wasn't the case. *** It was a January, cold as hell and brutally windy. The dim sky was blanketed by that awful winter overcast that never seemed to truly go away. I was high up, as ordered, and waiting for my opportunity to do what was right for humanity. It was there that I could look around and see the hidden beauty of the world that can only be seen from a vantage point, a birds-eye-view. The city was white, snow-covered, and relatively quiet. The humble houses seemed to make wonderful large rolling hills of snow that decorated the cityscape. The typical Russian architecture was new to my eyes, and the large church spires and draconic stone streets delighted me, they were right out of a Dostoevsky novel. Below me I could hear the tiny ringing of a silver store bell as its door opened and closed -- It was a bookstore, selling the latest and greatest in Russian literature. I remember wondering if they sold any of the books I'd been reading recently, then I remember that Russia had outlawed them. In the distance I saw a crowd. They flocked the sides of the road like loyal dogs, patiently waiting in the cold and moving around ever so slightly to keep warm. I know I shouldn't have, but I spent a lot of my time looking at that crowd, seeing if I could find black sheep, dissenters of the status quo. I had seen a young boy dancing in the road, waving his arms around like a stage performer and smiling. I loved that kid. I also saw a man standing on a milk crate, screaming to the crowd like a mad man and undoubtedly raining down spit on those unlucky enough to be in front of his wrath. I couldn't hear what he was preaching, but It didn't really matter to me anyway. I was a poet back then, a lovely boy that saw the world through a romantic lens, and who tried to find meaning in ants. In my journal from that day I had written: Birds must be brilliant writers to be exposed to such beauty all of the time. I thought it was a delightful sentence at the time, but now I can only look at it with a shaking head. I also had a book next to me, a small, almost pamphlet-like book called The Great Lie. I had read it many times before, but often re-read it when I needed courage. It was then that I heard it, the echoing roar of engines and the dumb thudding of large tires rolling off of the stone roads. I turned my head and could see them, a river of black cars slithering around the street corner like a silky cobra. There were a lot of them, more than I cared to count. The crowd went ecstatic with their arrival, I could see hands raised to the sky and I could hear their desperate shoutings. The boy was yanked from the road. I remember feeling the sweat drip down from my forehead, and the nervous sensation of shaking hands. I tried to take a deep breath but anxiety filled my blood and doubt clouded my mind, as it often does in times of great opportunity. I also began to have that awful experience of feeling my heartbeat in my ears, a muffled thudding that almost felt like someone was physically hitting the side of my head. It didn't matter though, it was my time, my opportunity. I gazed down at the tattoo I had on my right forearm, the words of my leader: Opportunities can only be properly taken with fire, seize yours and be remembered forever . In my hand was a small black box, it was heavy and felt like a stone. It was awful. On its right side was a switch, and in the center a key to turn. I looked down at the street again and saw it for what it would soon be, a wasteland of bodies. I wanted to turn away, to avert my eyes and try and preserve my soul. But I had made a promise to myself long ago, I had made a promise to never look away from my own actions, and to always make sure that I knew what I was doing. So I turned the key. *** See that's the fucked up thing, that's the grand illusion that everyone is under. I used to dream of a world with no money, a world that had no cost to anything, and harmony could be achieved. The men of today's world dream of more cost, brutalizing their fellow man for more precious capital. I now know that both are wrong, that both are a lie. It all reminds me of a quote from a great man, it said something along the lines of: You can't see the world in black and white, otherwise you always end up on the extremes. You end up in the ditches of the road, the gutters. I used to hate that line, I had spat on it many times before, but now nothing is closer to my heart. I was in the gutters. You see, what I learned that day was that everything has a cost . Even an opportunity. And that by taking the opportunity that I had that day, I cost this world thousands of lives, and possibly more in the days to come. I thought I was a hero, a savior who would help the sheep remove the wool from their eyes and shatter the tower of lies that this world was built on, to be a shepherd for the lands of greater futures. I have only shepherded people into the arms of death. I have only realized that I myself was blindfolded. So, my final call to you, my last use of meaningful breath is this: We are all under wool, life is just many layers of confusions that no man could ever hope to penetrate. Do not fall under the illusion of men who claim to know all, no one does. Everything has a cost. And don't fall into the gutters. - Antonio Gavel Final words from the gallows.

Okay, so I was 18 years old, and I was dating this girl. And, like, dude, I’m not gonna lie to ya; I was just straight up, head over heels in love with this chick, man. Like, I swear to God, she looked like sunshine and smelled like the rain. And those are my two biggest weaknesses. So, I mean, what can I say? I was super into her. Anyways, we started dating in like August. So, by the time Christmas rolled around like five months later, I was just beyond smitten with her, ya know. And I just really wanted to make the holidays special for her. So...I decided I’d buy her four gifts. Why four gifts? Well, that’s easy. It’s because I’m a giant loser, and, even at eighteen, I already had a fucking weird obsession with making shit rhyme. So I decided I’d get this chick... Something Expensive Something Cheap Something Useful And Something Sweet And I know what you’re thinking; like, dude, that doesn’t even rhyme. But, whatever, fuck you guys, I figured it rhymed close enough, and either way it would look cute written in a card. Plus, I mean, it was a good excuse to buy this chick a bunch of shit, and I was excited to do that because she was dope as hell. Okay, so, first up, I needed to buy her something expensive. And that was pretty easy. I just went to this jewelry store, and I bought her this like really pretty, super sparkly bracelet. It was like $200, which at the time was like 80% of my entire life savings. But it was gorgeous, and I knew she’d love it. So I bought it. Next, I needed something cheap. And again that was super easy. This chick was obsessed with “Hugs”. You guys remember “Hugs”, right? They’re like those colorful fruit juices that come in the little plastic barrel-like containers for kids? You know what I mean, right? Well, yeah, this chick adored those things. So, I just bought her a whole bunch of them. And then, because I’m fucking adorable, I also bought her a big bag of Hershey’s Kisses. So, for something cheap, she was getting...”Hugs”....and Kisses. Okay, next up was something useful. Now, I gotta be honest here, this one was mostly for me. You see, like, this chick lived with her mom and sister. But, like, her mom was never fucking home. So we’d spend a shitload of time at this girl’s house, and I’d often end up spending the night in her room. And in her room...she had a tv, she had a cable box, she had a DVD player, and she had a speaker system. Which was neat or whatever. But, it also meant she had four different remote controls. And, dude, I swear to god, this chick could never figure out how to work any of them. So, every time we’d go to watch a movie in her room, it would turn into this whole fucking project about what buttons to hit on what remote. So, again mostly just for my own convenience, I decided for something useful; I’d just get her a fucking universal remote. And so I did. Okay. So... Something expensive - check Something cheap - check Something useful - check The only thing left for me to get her was something sweet. Now, you guys know me, I’m like the sweetest motherfucker of all time. I write love poems, I do a lot favors for friends, I take care of random old ladies who live near me. Sometimes I’ll just get bored and raise like 10 grand for charity. Like, your boy is sweet as fuck. But, for some reason, when it came to getting this chick something sweet...I was just drawing a blank. Like, I just couldn’t come up with any ideas. So, I spent weeks racking my brain, but by the morning of Christmas Eve, I still had nothing. And I was still one gift short. So it was just before noon, and I had pretty much accepted that I’d only be giving this chick the three gifts. But, either way, I decided to head over to the Lewiston CVS to grab wrapping paper. It was snowing pretty good outside, but I easily made the short trip. I walked into CVS, and then suddenly, just like that, BOOM!! IT HIT ME!! THE BARBIE PHONE!!! You see, back in October, this chick and I had stopped at CVS to get Halloween candy. And, at the time, she spotted this “Barbie Phone” in the little tiny CVS toy section. And she went nuts for it. It was like a real wall telephone, but it just had a Barbie theme to it. And there were like buttons on it that you could press to have Barbie say things while you were talking to someone. Like, dude, I know this thing sounds weird, but whatever, it was just a “Barbie Phone”. I don’t know how else to explain it, but the details really don’t matter. Either way, this chick had wanted the phone so much because she was a nerd, but I had refused to let her get it because it was clearly made for like 12 year olds. However, now, here I was, at CVS, in need of something sweet to buy this girl. So why not the silly Barbie phone she had made such a big deal about a couple of months ago, right? So, I enthusiastically walked over to the little CVS toy section to pick up my final gift... But there was no Barbie phone. Anywhere. I was like, “...........fuck.” So, now with much less enthusiasm, I walked up to the front counter. There were two employees there. I said, “Hey, uhhh, you guys had this Barbie phone here a couple of months ago, but I don’t see it now. Any chance you have one hanging around out back?” They were like, “A what now?” I was like, “Uhhh....a Barbie....phone?” They were just like, “Yeah, I don’t think we sell those.” I was like, “No, dude, you guys totally had one in the toy section back in October.” They were like, “Well, if it’s not there anymore, then we must be out.” I was like, “Damn, man. Is there anyway for you guys to check if the CVS in the Falls has it?” They’re like, “......no”. I’m like, “Awesome.” So I left the Lewiston CVS, feeling defeated. But, as I walked out, I saw a sign indicating the company’s Holiday hours. And it said they’d be open until 5 o’clock on Christmas Eve. And it was currently only about 12:30. So, I figured, fuck it, I’ll just drive up to the CVS in Niagara Falls real quick to see if they have this stupid phone. Unfortunately, it was getting snowier and snowier outside, so the drive was somewhat treacherous. But I eventually reached the Falls CVS. I went inside, walked right over to the little toy section, and.... No Barbie phone. .....fuck. Again. So, I once again approached the front counter and asked them about the phone. But, once again, they had no clue what I was talking about. However, they were still way more helpful than Lewiston had been. They said they couldn’t check inventory of an item without a barcode, but they suggested I try the CVS in Sanborn because it was the biggest one around. I asked them for the address, and they just printed it out for me on a list of all the area locations. So I left the CVS in the Falls. By now, it was about 1:30. And it was snowing really, really bad. But, like, dude.... I kinda wanted to find this fucking phone. So, I embarked on my trip to Sanborn. Now, keep in mind, I was eighteen at the time, so like I didn’t have an electronic voice on my phone telling me where to go or anything. There wasn’t any GPS. It was just me, winging it. So, it took some time and a little luck, but I eventually reached the Sanborn CVS. And I went inside... And...lo and behold... STILL NO FUCKING BARBIE PHONE!! So, driving to Sanborn through a fucking blizzard had taken me forever. It was almost 3pm already. Every CVS would be closing at 5. I was quickly running out of time. I checked the list of area locations. There were basically only two options left for me. There was Tonawanda. Or there was Newfane. I knew with the weather, I’d never be able to do both. So I had to choose. And I chose Tonawanda. So I left the Sanborn CVS and began my trip to the Tonawanda CVS. However, as it turned out, I had no fucking clue how to get to Tonawanda, let alone find the CVS there. And, it had begun snowing so fucking much that I literally couldn’t even tell where I was going. Before long, I was just completely fucking lost in white-out conditions. The time kept ticking away. 330. 4. 415. And I just had absolutely no fucking idea where I was. I was just like driving down random roads, trying not to die. And then... The craziest thing happened... I saw a sign that said, “Welcome to Newfane”. I was like, “Dude, what the fuck?!?” I realized I had somehow managed to get spun around in the snow and driven in the completely wrong direction. But...I looked at the time...and it was only 430. I saw a gas station and pulled in. I quickly ran inside. I shouted to the lady working, “Hey, is there a CVS near here?” She replied, “Yeah, it’s like two blocks down on the right.” I was like, “No fucking way”. I hopped back in my car, and shot down the road until I saw one big sign with three little letters. I pulled into the parking lot. It was 4:42. I ran inside. I went straight for the little toy section... And, guys, no fucking joke... I found the Barbie Phone. BOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!!! Dude, I was so stoked. Like, this is a true story, you guys. I legitimately drove all over on a snowy Christmas Eve looking for a stupid Barbie phone. But I actually fucking found it at the last second. Okay. So, it took me forever to get home that night. But I made it. The next morning, Christmas, I did brunch and presents with my family. Later on, I drove over to this girl’s house with her gifts. She was also having a big family thing, and as soon as I got there, we all sat down to eat. We hung out there for a few hours, but we were with her family the whole time, and we didn’t have a chance to do our presents. I ended up having to leave to go eat more food with my parents, but the girl and I planned to meet back up again afterwards. She promised she wouldn’t open her gifts until we were with each other again that night. Well, the night soon came. And I drove back over to her house. And as soon as I pulled into her driveway and got out my car; her front door burst open and she came running out at me. She barreled down the driveway, reached me, and just leapt into my arms. And then, on Christmas night, underneath the stars, we shared the type of kiss you’d normally only see at the end of an old Hugh Grant movie. We finally stopped kissing, and I asked her, “What was that for?” She smiled and said, “I got impatient and opened my presents.” I laughed and said, “Oh yeah? How’d I do?” She was just like, “Ian, I literally cannot fucking believe you bought me.... ....such an expensive bracelet.

Part one: Capers Harry had heard from God last night He hadn’t slept much at all that week, drinking every night to calm his nerves and to possibly coax himself to sleep. It wasn’t working. At the end of the week he was burnt out with hardly any money left in his bank account. When he arrived home that Friday he was debating whether or not he should use what scant money he had left to get more beer but then he would have trouble paying the bus fare to get to work next week. “Fuck, shit," he muttered to himself unconsciously, it was his most common verbal tic. He took out his phone and logged in to his bank account to try to figure out what he should do with his last ten dollars.There was $3.45 in savings like there always was, and in checkings there was $154.53. Harry closed his eyes and opened them. The money was still there. He logged out of his account and then logged back in. The money was still there. Had he some pending payment owed to him that was somehow forgotten? There was no reason he could think of as to why that money was there. He refreshed the page over and over again but it still showed the same results. It had to be a banking error in his favor, that was the only possible explanation he decided. The pale, bloated body he inhabited suddenly felt a burst of life and he shot up out of his house to immediately capitalize on this fortunate accident. At the corner store he withdrew all of the money so the bank wouldn’t be able to get it back until next payday then bought a six pack and a pack of Newport 100s. On his way back home the rush of energy that propelled him off the couch was starting to wear off, his steps slowed and his eyes became glassy. His racing mind has become quiet and serene, a trance like state comparable to meditation. Common sights were rendered unfamiliar. A peaceful and accepting air had engulfed him, he basked in the inner silence, relishing a break from the bad thoughts that he had to drink to silence. Then something happened. “You are dying.” It was spoken softly by a calm and certain voice. He looked around but the streets were bare this cold night. It must have come from his head but it didn’t feel like it was his own internal voice. Unperturbed by this development he continued on walking in his mindless state. Then not ten steps later in the same knowing tone: “You are dying and will be dead soon.” Harry stopped dead in his tracks.Standing there wavering slightly back and forth he started musing about death. In this hypnotic state he felt certain that he could accept death whereas usually he was terrified of it. But why be afraid now? There was no reason he could conceive of. But who had said that? “How?” He thought. A vision started to fill his mind, he watched as it manifested and began to play out like a movie. He was in a hospital bed, writhing in pain and clutching his stomach. His face was contorted into a wide twisted smile that was only interrupted briefly by a spasm of pain. A doctor entered the room looking concerned with a nurse at his side. Harry seemed oblivious to their entry. They parted at the front of his bed, each going to one side. Upon reaching his waist they leaned over and checked the restraints on Harry’s wrists. Satisfied that they were secure the doctor said “Come on in.” Harry’s mother came through the door. Harry’s body suddenly shot up, bound by restraints on his hands and feet his torso and legs formed a squirming upside down u shape like a yoga bridge. Then he let out such a howl it sounded not human. “KILL ME KILL ME KILL ME KILL ME FUCK SHIT KILL ME FUCK SHIT AAAAAAHHHHH MOM I AM SORRY MOM MOM MOM I AM SORRY MOM MOM MOM FUCK SHIT FUCK KILL MEEEEEE!!!!” His mother put her face in her hands and started weeping uncontrollably. The nurse ran over to her and led her out of the room by her wrist. The doctor leaned over Harry with a syringe in hand. The vision ended there.

It was during the second winter of the COVID-19 pandemic that we first learned of a deadly mutated strain of the virus. This strain the most terrifying yet. The virus not only mutated, it evolved. It evolved out of the realm of our understanding. Beyond our cognitive and scientific abilities. It no longer attacked the body; it attacked the mind. A catatonic like psychosis overtook its victims. A sinking heaviness would precipitate indefinite sleep that led to a certain early demise. All who contracted this mutated strain would succumb. It was theorized that the virus was ‘unlocking’ neuro pathways in the brain. Opening up channels previously closed. It started with a surprising increase in those effected by serious mental illness. A measurable surge of individuals displaying newly psychotic behaviors emerged associated with the evolving strain. A certain fatal mutated version however was thought to change the brains chemistry thus triggering a catatonic psychosis. Panic and fear spread faster than the virus, another virus of sorts. Those who became afflicted with the mutated virus would fall prey to the heaviness of sleep and lulling hallucinations. Sleep without waking until the prognosis of death. My job you see is to watch over those afflicted with this mutated strain. The ‘unclaimed’ as we call them. They are the homeless, the abandoned, the mentally ill, the elderly, the forgotten. Those who wither away in slumber, hundreds of them. I witness nightly the peaceful death the body surrenders to when asleep. The work fits with my solitary life. I have no real family to speak of, no significant other, no children, not even a pet. I have cultivated the ability to become invisible in any environment. A gift I have nurtured. I can stealthily move about a room. I have made my presence so small that others continue personal conversations in my presence. I am quiet and keep to myself. I am awkward and unbearably shy. Nightly I walk the rows of bodies in beds. My friends. They lay perfectly still, relaxed, the easy ebb and flow of natural breath. They lay perfectly still with the exception of one thing. A flickering smile. They all shared this feature. It does not seem to matter that the body was dying because they were happy somewhere deep in the mind. They would pass whilst they slept, the heart would slow over several days despite interventions that should have no physiologically reason not to work. Predictably the heart would slow to such a rate unsustainable with life, but a smile would still affix them all. In rigor mortis and on. When the monitor above a bed would begin to chime, I walk slowly to the bedside to hold the hands of the dying. For it was surely not long. But the happiness in their faces made me sad and only deepened my frown. One night I walked to the chiming bedside of a women. Her cheeks sunken, pale, dry skin. I silence the monitor and sit, her thin frail hand in mine. Her heart rate slowed. 50, 47, 44, 40, then into the 30s. Here she goes. I gripped her hand tighter. 38, 33, quicker now. I could feel the strong slow beats as her heart made its last powerful flushing strokes. Suddenly her chest filled with air! A loud powerful windy inhale! Her chest raised off the bed before she choked on the air. Her eyes flung open. Her heart raced. Grimacing her body became stiff and seizure like. We locked eyes both realizing the powerful grip we still had on each other’s hand. Her body quickly relaxed and she began to speak, “It’s an island. Oh GOD, an indescribable island! Oh GOD! I was warm from the inside out. I radiated the sun!” Her face grimaced and twisted an ugly contortion. Red blotches appeared on her face and neck, her lips sticking together with a thick white film as she spoke. Sloughing flakes of her lips fell off. She made no tears when she cried. “The island is everything. Everything you need it to be. I had no pain. None of the physical and finally relief from the pain of my mind.” As she spoke on about the island her eyes fixed on the ceiling tile above us never blinking, not once. Then suddenly, she became forceful, grabbing me tighter, pulling me in close. Her breath was foul, the whites of her eyes yellowed. I recoiled but her grip was stronger than expected. Panic in her eyes, she rapidly spoke, “I have to get back! I could have stayed forever. I don’t have much time I can tell! What have you done?” I shook my head rapidly my mouth parted but unable to speak. I heard the loud alarm of the monitors from above her head. I look up to see her heart rate dropped to 20 then to 15, finally resting in a flat line. But not before we locked eyes again. I saw it then, the island she spoke of. I felt its presence and saw its fleeting reflection in the blacks of her eyes before the gray film of death washed over them. Her grip on me loosened and her hand fell slack to her side. I sat back stunned. I felt I had just seen something forbidden. But seeing it in her eyes unlocked something in me. What was seen could not be undone. My thoughts, feelings, and emotions all barriers! I saw a place where you can be free from pain and mental anguish. Your body moves freely, smoothly without consciousness you are a pure free ‘being’. One with not a worry or care; because you simple never learned. The island welcomes you, warms you, the waves soothe your sorrows. Washes away years of hurt to reveal only you in your purest form. Stripped of pain both mental and physical. Shangri-La. She had reported a heavy dark shadow descended her, taking energy from every mitochondrial of every cell. “It was welcome. I was not afraid. My mind opened. You let it take you. Race, sex, social status, emotions, this matrix! All barriers! They fall away. And when the heaviness of my eyelids lifted, and it did, I was the most refreshed I have ever been. It was as if I had woken from a crypt like sleep and the cool ocean air was my first re-energizing breath. I was invigorated!” After, whilst I remain at her bedside, I imagined my pains were gone. I was purely connected to my consciousness; my spirit was free and lifted. I could breathe with ease, my body wrapped in the warm silky tropical ocean air. Feeling only pure love and acceptance. The warm sun filled me from inside out and I radiated! The sweet rhythmic sound of the teal waves crested and crashed around me. Pure tropical beach bliss. Eyes still locked I removed my ventilator hood slowly and placed it on my lap. My outer gloves then the inner. Gently and methodically, I removed the remainder of my protective equipment until my bare face gazed upon hers. A rare sight these days, one’s bare face. As one could predict, several days later I fell ill. A certain calm washed over me. I felt as if I lay on the islands ocean edge, where every waves slow recoil sunk me deeper into warm wet sand. And when the mental fog begets upon me, I let it. And when the heaviness encroached; eyelids being pulled closed by the eternal weight of deep sleep I found a small dark corner to hide away in. Where I could be certain no one would find my body before its organ’s came to complete rest. And just as the warm darkness descended, I could hear the softly crashing waves and smell the warm briny air. ‘Rest now, tired simple being’ the virus lulled. And I did.

 By C. N. Martin If I’d been given the choice between a punch in the face or a kick to the mid-section, I’d have gone with the punch. Ten years and fifty pounds ago my choice would’ve been different. That was before the beer belly, before I’d gone soft in the middle. I could’ve taken a kick back then. I’d have been more concerned with losing a tooth out of my pretty face than a cracked rib. A moot point I suppose, as the choice wasn't mine. I was gifted both. It was a fitting final jab at a life lived poorly. Bill was about my height, thicker around the middle and strong. He pulled me off the ground and walked me over to the side door and set me against the wall. “Joe, you okay, man? What happened?” “A meth-head asked me for a smoke, I told him I didn’t have any.” “He didn’t believe you?” “Apparently not,” I said. “You need a doctor or anything? You want me to call someone?” “No. No thanks. I’m good.” I pulled a Marlboro from the near-empty pack in my front pocket. My tongue pressed against the loosened molar and wiggled it, coating my taste buds in metallic booze-thinned brine. A cough rushed up my chest and I spat the blood into the rusted can of Folgers on the ground. The ache and stabs of pain crackled through my body like the cellophane around the misshapen pack of cancer sticks. It would have been much worse if I’d been sober. I lit the cigarette. At first I thought it was the soreness in my ribs that kept me from getting a good draw, but I was wrong. I hadn’t noticed the tear in the paper where the tobacco met the filter. Fuck it. I tore off the end, took a few puffs and threw the remainder in the coffee can. “All right, well I have to get back in. I got thirsty people in there. Let me know if you change your mind.” Bill put his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe as usual, and flicked the butt toward the bike rack where a little patch of dirt had become an unofficial ashtray. “Yeah, I’m heading back in, too,” I said. “I’ll finish my beer and get out of your hair.” “Stay as long as you like, brother.” The Corner was far enough away from the bustle of J Street that tourists from suburbia made only a rare appearance. They only came to midtown for the trendy brew pubs and coffee shops. This was a locals-only kind of place, my home away from home. Three blocks up, and three over and I was there. I shuffled in behind Bill, walked past the pool table, and into the bathroom. I hated that bathroom. The kitchen was the next room over and the heat poured through the paper-thin wall like a furnace. It was stifling even on a cold night, and the busted fan ensured that it always smelled like day-old piss. Its white walls and bright light were a stark contrast to the rest of the bar’s mood lighting and black paint. It was clinical without the cleanliness. After a couple of less than gentle taps from my fist, the dispenser coughed out a small mound of granulated soap. I pressed the chalky substance into my skin and washed the dirt from my hands and face. Shattered pieces of mirror clung to yellowed glue and cracked paint on the wall over the sink. I took an extra moment to examine my unexpected dental work in my reflection before I walked back to my customary seat at the end of the long mahogany bar. Tracy was right where I’d left her. “Bill told me what happened. Are you okay?” She ran her fingers through my hair and gave my scalp a quick scratch. “You need a haircut.” “Yeah, I’m fine. I just got sucker punched, and yes, I know I need a haircut.” I pointed to a heavy shot glass that sat next to the beer I’d left before I went outside. It was filled with a beautiful, amber colored liquid. “What’s this?” “It’s Buffalo Trace, from Bill. He poured it for you when you were in the bathroom. I don’t know how you can drink that stuff.” Tracy knew a lot about a lot of things. She had a sharp wit and a sharper tongue. She was a slave to just about every form of music, and she often spoke in movie quotes. Her curves fit her frame in just the right way and her style made her seem like a classic pinup girl from an old black and white poster made real. I’d never cheated on my woman. It was a principle thing and I suppose in a way I even loved her. But I’d thought about it, and I’d often thought about it with Tracy. Tracy was sex. She was all those things and more, but she was strictly a beer drinker and she didn’t know shit about bourbon. Truthfully I didn’t know much about it either, other than the fact that I liked it. That may not have been the best bourbon in the world, but it was damn sure better than the Canadian Mist that sat in the well. I raised the glass high as my ribs would allow. “Thanks, Bill.” The shot worked its way with the tender, caring burn of a well-remembered friend. “No problem,” he said. “You earned it.” He smiled and went about his business. Bill was studious in his work. Even on a slow Tuesday night he buzzed around the bar, wiped down the counter and polished glass after glass. He even made the occasional drink or two for the regulars. If it was busy I’d play the good patron and collect empty glasses from the tables and bring them up to the bar to help him out. It wasn’t busy. There was an odd quiet in the air, broken only by the infrequent cracking sound that came from the pool table in the back where Mike was practicing. “Give me a dollar for the juke box.” Tracy opened her palm to me. “It’s time to learn you some more music.” It’d come as quite the surprise to her that I didn’t own any music, or a stereo, and that the radio in my car was tuned to either sports talk, or NPR. It came as an even bigger shock when she’d found out I actually played a little guitar. The calluses that once graced my fingertips were long gone, and I wasn’t good by any stretch of the imagination. But I used to make a habit of teaching myself new things. Guitar had been one of them. She’d accused me of being a music hater, and while that wasn’t true, I clearly didn’t love it either. So she made it a point to school me on various bands and singers. I was especially bad about linking a band’s name to the title of whatever song was playing. There were five singles in my pocket, my net worth. It was all hers. I put the wrinkled wad of cash in her hand and she practically bounced the five-something feet to the jukebox. She hummed and bobbed her head side to side as she picked out a handful of songs. Her fingers flew across the touch screen faster than I could read the menu options, or what she’d keyed in. She caught me trying to peek, frowned and rolled her shoulder up to block the view. I turned my attention back to the beer in front of me. The vibrating sound of hard plastic against key and coin caught my attention and I pulled the phone from my pocket. I could never remember the zigzag pattern on the nine button lock, so I’d gone with a number password instead. Zero-seven-one-three. The German had sent me a pointed message. The text read: Tomorrow. 8pm. Your place. When I’d first met the man I was more than a little surprised at his brown skin, and the tattoo of the holy mother on his forearm. The matte black Dickies that hung loose around his waist and the plain white T-shirt he wore didn’t exactly scream of central Europe either. An acquaintance had told me he was given the alias because of his middle name, Klaus. Supposedly his grandfather was on the wrong side during World War II and eventually fled to South America. Twice I’d gotten extensions on the money I owed him, and all the while the juice had been running. And with those extensions came inflation. Two thousand became five. Five became ten. I’ve seen you at the poker table, he said. This shouldn’t be a problem for you. After my first couple missed payments I started to wonder if his nickname came from his sadistic predilection for dishing out pain. Twice he’d used a rubber mallet in an effort to collect; once on my left hand, once on my right knee. He reminded me that I didn’t really need those to bet, or fold. Perhaps his Nazi heritage wasn’t so dubious after all. I stuffed my phone away as Tracy meandered her way back. She raised her hands to the air, fingers and thumbs pressed together like the conductor of some grand orchestra. The music rolled in like a storm for the next two minutes. Thunder clapped over the speakers first. It was followed by the sound of leather boots making a slow march down a long gravel road. It was the sound of the old west. A solo guitar sprang up a sad, one-string-at-a-time ballad. Then there were drums, more thunder, and then humming in tune with a violin. Tracy was anxious; she wanted me to guess what song it was. She tried to coax the answer from me with a stare, shrugged shoulders and a waiting smile. I already knew the title. Of the few songs I did know, this was my second or third favorite. It might have been my first, either way it was up there. I waited until the last possible moment, and blurted out the answer before the lyrics came on. “Short Change Hero, by The Heavy.” “Yeah,” she yelled. “Get this man another beer.” Her hand whipped into the air to signal Bill we were ready for another round. “Guess you’re not leaving after all,” Bill said with a smile. His laugh had a short, choppy cadence, and it carried less bass than one would expect from a man with a neck as thick as his. It was a good laugh. He set the beer onto the bar in front of us and let the coasters soak up the foam that overflowed from the pint glasses. “That’ll be five dollars. Whose tab?” Tracy made a motion with her hand as if she were swatting away the question. “I got this one.” “Thanks,” I said. “Well you’ve had a rough day. I’ll tell you what; if you can guess the next two songs I’ll buy the next beer as well.” With my head cocked sideways I shot her a skeptical, bleary-eyed glance. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to guess the next two. “And if I get them wrong?” “Then nothing,” she said. “It’s just a reward if you get the right answers.” We sat and drank and laughed at little things for the next few minutes. We listened to the rest of the song, and for a moment everything that was wrong didn’t seem to matter. In the end though, she couldn’t see where I was coming from, and the Corner was no place for heroes. I managed to guess the next song as well. I’d seen a special on ESPN about Seattle fans chanting an elongated “Wilson” whenever their quarterback took the field. The opening bass lines of a song that shared his name brought the same response they received at a Phish concert. I told Tracy about it. She called it cheating. “Of course you only remember it because of football.” “Whatever works,” I said. If I’d won that battle, I lost the next. I’d guessed the song correctly; it was “Where Is My Mind” by the Pixies. Only I didn’t say it was by the Pixies, I’d said it was by the Pete Box. I was wrong of course. It was close enough for Tracy that she honored her bet, and Bill brought me one last pint. I took it down in three deep gulps. The clock on the wall showed 1:30am. Late for a work night, not that I was actually going in the next day. All the same, it was about time for me to get down to business. Tracy gave me a kiss on the cheek, I shook Bill’s hand goodbye, and waved at Mike from across the bar. The corner of the building was rounded, and made of thick glass bricks with a door that pointed a person to the intersection as they walked out. I’d always walked out that door when I left and I let the door lock behind me for one last time. I pulled a smoke from my pocket, and made sure it was intact before I fired it up. The draw was smooth and satisfying. The burn in the back of my throat was different from the bourbon, but it was just as familiar. The flickering neon sign above me set the shadows of the surrounding trees dancing on the blacktop. It was a silent dance, save the light whip of the pan flute wind against the leaves, and the beating drum in my chest. I stood there for a time and watched, mesmerized by the rhythm, and pondered my fate. I’d had the ten thousand just the night before. Twelve hours I’d spent grinding the table at the Poverty Ridge Poker Room, and I’d been killing it. The nervous, sweaty stench of a bluff stood out more than the obvious strength of a high pocket pair before the flop. I’d tripled my money. Then the whale sat down with a fat rack of chips and just enough skill to lose it. Of course I had aces. Every bad beat story starts with aces. I bet big, he called. The ace of hearts hit the flop with an eight of clubs, and a two of spades. I pushed hard and bet a thousand at a pot of eight hundred. I had the money I needed. I just wanted to end the hand and go home with a little extra. He should’ve gone away, but instead he did the wrong thing and pushed all his chips toward the middle of the table. Maybe he had an ace with a high kicker like a king or a queen. Maybe he called the raise with the dead man’s hand, ace-eight, and made two pair. Either way I was good. I called the all-in because that’s what you’re supposed to do. He turned over his cards and showed me his pocket twos; my best possible three of a kind, against his worst possible three of a kind. Of course he hit a two on the river. Every bad beat story ends on the river. My mind was already set on doing the right thing, that’s why I’d taken the day off. I’d wanted to see as much of my family, and as many of my friends as I could. I owed, and one way or another I was going to pay. I’d thought about running, but I’d given Tracy my last five dollars and the half-tank of gas in the Honda wouldn’t get me very far. The German would have found me anyway, or hurt people I cared about if he couldn’t. I really had only two choices. I could’ve waited for him to show up with his crew, but that would’ve ended badly. It would’ve been messy. He would’ve made an example of me, and he would’ve done it slowly. I didn’t want my folks or my sister to see what was left after something like that. The alternative was to do it myself, but I didn’t want people to think I was sad or desperate. I didn’t want any clean-up. That limited my options. No. The best kind of death I could hope for was an embarrassing one. David Carradine came to mind, the guy that played Caine, from Kung Fu. I thought about tying a belt around my neck with my pants around my ankles. It would’ve been pathetic, but it wouldn’t have been painful. It would’ve looked like an accident of sexual deviance instead of an act of desperation. It might’ve even made people laugh, and that brought me a strange sort of comfort. My train of thought broke when the neon sign shut off, and the last puff on my cigarette brought the taste and smell of a burnt filter. I spat, flicked the butt toward the bike rack and walked kitty-corner through the intersection. A bright silver Mercedes idled near the stop sign where I stepped back onto the sidewalk. The front passenger rolled down the window, and two large men stepped from the back seats as I approached. “Hey, Joe,” the German said. “Let’s go for a ride.

"Richard, as we established in your first session, they’re yours. The information you share stays in this room. We are now in your third visit, and it’s mimicking the first two. You haven't said a word for twenty-five minutes. If you aren't going to utilize the time--" "Well, Stanley," Richard interrupted. He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward on the small sofa, and continued. "As you just pointed out, it's my time. You're still getting paid, so what the hell do you care?" Not even trying to hide his smugness, he leaned back, and casually draped his arms across the back of the sofa. "It's Dr. Bennett, Richard. Please try to remember that.” “Who names their kid Stanle y, anyway?” Richard snickered, seemingly on a roll with his sarcastic wit. Dr. Bennett gave him a pensive look, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He set his notebook aside, and picked up the phone. After a brief pause, he said, “Amy, please contact Captain Sheridon at the 53 rd precinct. Inform him I’ll have my evaluation and recommendation on Richard Sullivan’s return to work status by tomorrow morning.” “Yes!” Richard blurted out. With a wide grin, he shook his fist in triumph. “Finally, something positive comes from this total waste of time. I should have been back on the streets two weeks ago.” Dr. Bennett removed his glasses and took his time polishing them. Putting them back on, he looked across his desk, and said, “Richard, you have no idea what my recommendation will be, and the only person who considers this a waste of time is you. Have you forgotten why you were sent here in the first place?” Richard’s grin slowly faded. He looked down for a second, then up again with a serious, defiant look. Shaking his head, he said, “No, I will never forget the day I thought that son of a bitch was going to hack me to death with a machete. It was a righteous kill.” “No one has ever said it wasn’t,” said Dr. Bennett in a soft tone. “So, what’s all this psychobabble bullshit for?” Richard raised his arms in a sweeping gesture, then ticked off points on his fingers. As he did so, his voice grew louder. “The guy was high; he came at me with a machete; I told him to drop his weapon, but he kept coming. I fired my weapon, as I was trained to do. End of story.” Richard opened his hands like a book, then closed them. He stared at the psychiatrist. The doctor nodded, then said in a low, calm voice, “Except that guy who came at you with a machete was only fourteen years old.” When there was no reaction or response, he kept going. “Even though your own safety was at risk, finding yourself in a situation where you were forced to shoot anyone, but especially a child, had to be the most difficult circumstance anyone could imagine.” Richard still said nothing. His gaze moved from the doctor to the floor. Neither spoke for several minutes. Eventually, and in that same relaxed, comforting voice, Dr. Bennett said, “When you’re out there keeping the public safe, and the adrenalin is pumping, it must feel like the best job in the world.” Richard looked up, and said in a more thoughtful tone, “You finally get it. Some of it, at least.” He stood up and paced in front of the sofa. Moving toward the desk, he placed his hands on it, and leaned in until he was less than a foot from the doctor’s face. Dr. Bennett backed his chair away a few inches. Richard didn’t seem to notice. He said, “And that’s exactly why I need to get back out there. Ya gotta know Doc, patrolling the streets, having to be alert at all times, it’s my life. It’s all I ever wanted to do, and I’m good at it. I hope to make detective someday.” Dr. Bennett nodded appreciatively, and gestured for Richard to go back to his seat. Maybe there would be a breakthrough, after all. That was the most the man had said about anything related to the job. He said, “I understand how important your work is, and from all reports, you’re really good at it, but Richard,” the doctor tilted his head a bit, “what do you do when the chaos dies down, and the adrenalin disappears? How do you untangle all of the thoughts from the day when you find yourself alone? It’s only natural that events would play in your mind.” “Oh, so we’re back to that. That was sneaky, Doc, playing up to me like you understood where I was coming from.” Dr. Bennett rested his arms on the desk, and said, “Look, I know you aren’t a callused, uncaring person. Maybe you came from a family who thought sharing feelings and being vulnerable were signs of weakness. I don’t know, but I promise you they’re not. What happened that night had to have left some kind of impression. Not only was he a kid, but it was also the first time you ever fired your weapon. I’m just trying to help you come to grips with the issue, and recognize the emotions and be okay with them.” Richard fidgeted in his seat, cleared his throat a couple of times, then looked up at the doctor with a defeated look. Shrugging, he gestured with open hands, then dropped them. Tears glistened in his eyes. Swiping at them with the back of his hand, he cleared his throat again, and said, “You’re right. I haven’t slept through the night since it happened. I can’t see a kid on the street and not see him.” A sob escaped, and he choked out, “Damn him! Why didn’t he listen to me and just drop that damned machete?” Tears were streaming down his face. Dr. Bennett moved slowly around the desk until he was standing in front of Richard. “Because he was high on PCP. You did everything right that night. The only reason you’re here is because you needed to say it out loud.” Richard let out another loud sob, then sat down and covered his face with his hands. A knock at the door startled both doctor and patient. It opened, and someone stuck their head in. “I hope you guys are done. We need the room for another role-play rehearsal.” “Sure. Just give us a second to gather our stuff.” Jonathan Wells, playing the role of Dr. Stanley Bennett, patted his friend on the back. “You’ve come a long way tuning in to your emotions. You almost had me in tears. Great job!” Randy Thomas, aka Richard, blew his nose and said, “Thanks.” Standing, he grabbed his jacket while Jonathan picked up his empty notebook from the desk, and said, “We’ve worked our lines ‘til we know them backwards and forwards. Let’s go grab a beer.”

They say that every step brings you closer to your goal. Every stride brings a runner closer to the finish line. Every experiment brings a scientist closer to the truth. Every page brings a story closer to its ending. Could it then be assumed that the goal of life is to die? Yes. But then what would be the point? No? Of course not. Maybe... My name is... Well, that doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that 6 weeks ago, or was it 6 months, years? I really can’t remember. Anyway, the point is, I was just your average high school student. My favorite subject was science, and... I was on some kind of sports team. I had 3 really close friends, but I couldn’t tell you their names. Why am I telling you this? Well, I guess my point is that it doesn’t matter who or when, but that it happened, and to me of all people. I was just your average high school student. I guess times change. Track, that’s it, I was on the track team. \*\*\* Heaven’s a sorry excuse of a place allowing people to cope with death since the dawn of time. And people actually believe that they decide who goes there and who doesn’t? I, being a well educated individual, choose not to believe in such foolishness. Oh, I’m sorry, did I offend you? Too bad! This is my story. Besides, you were the one who chose to read it. No, please don’t go. I just had to let out a little steam, that’s all. I swear it won’t happen again. Come back. You're all I have left. Ah, left, the opposite of right. But the opposite of right is wrong. Is what I did wrong? Who cares. There’s no one left to tell me otherwise. It's just me and you. Right? \*\*\* Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. Does this mean that if I forget what I did, then I’m doomed to do it again? I mean forgiving is forgetting right? I guess I’m screwed either way. Screw it! Screw it all!! Oh wait, I already did. HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! No, please don’t go. I just had to let out a little steam, that’s all. I swear it won’t happen again. \*\*\* There are times in life when you must distance yourself from the ones you love because you love them. I guess that’s what I did. I loved them. \*\*\* Her name is Lucy, or at least that’s what it says on her picture. I couldn’t tell you who she is or how I met her, only that she was someone very dear to me. I mean, why else would I be carrying around her picture? Maybe she’s just some girl that I found attractive. No, that can’t be right. My heart tells me that she was someone special, someone important, but my brain hasn’t a clue. Well, whoever she is, you're all I have left. \*\*\* What if there was no finish line? What if the truth was grey? What if the story never ended? No, that’s crazy. Everything has to end. EVERYTHING HAS TO END. It's a law of nature. I... Voices! Oh no, they found me! Gotta run. Gotta hide. La la la, la la la, you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man! \*\*\* The voices are gone now. I guess I should take this time to tell you what it is that I did. It's the least I can do for a friend. Just know that I wish you not pity me. I wish that as you lay on your deathbed gasping for your final breath, you think to yourself, “How lucky I must be to have talked to the man who surpassed death.” (Takes a tape recorder out of pocket and pushes play.) *The following is a compilation of the clinical diagnosis of the patient known as #15301. The following tests and inquiries remain undocumented and unknown to the public and were only performed with the consent of the aforementioned patient. This research is the private property of Dr. Franklin J. Stirling and may be subject to copyright.* *Patient: #15301 Diagnosis: ??? Treatment: n/a* *Ever since Patient #15301 was brought into my custody, they have been the subject of my research. I lead them to believe that I was trying to find a cure for their condition. One can only feel bad for them.* *“Teen Survives House Fire” That’s what the newspaper article said. People were claiming it was a miracle, an act of God. I, being a man of science, chose not to believe in such foolishness. Just from reading that article, I knew there was something special about that person. I knew that they were the breakthrough I was looking for. I had to gain custody of them and learn their secrets. So, for the next 2 years I kept a close eye on them waiting for an opportunity to present itself.* *Fascinating. A slight mutation of the mt DNA found in #15301’s cellular genome allows the mitochondria to produce an infinite amount of energy, causing his cells to become overcharged, thus granting him an abnormality in cell regeneration and limitless age. In other words, they're immortal to some extent.* *After discovering this biological breakthrough, I decided to test my conclusion by “killing” them in as many ways as I could possibly think of. I must have tried every way known to man, but still, nothing would kill them. They did, however, show signs of physical pain. Further research and experimentation must be conducted if I am ever to find a way to save my dear Lucy’s life.* (End tape) \*\*\* That’s me! That’s my name, #15301. A mere number. Ooh, numbers. I like numbers. One, two buckle my shoe. Three, four shut the door. Five, six pick up sticks. Seven, eight lay them straight. Nine, ten... *All agents are still assisting other callers. Please continue to hold and your call will be answered as soon as possible. Thank you for your patience.

What the hell? Last I remember, Darwin’s face is inches near mine. His breath stinks like he’d never met a toothbrush. I smell bananas on his breath: fuckin bananas! Now, I feel...warmth--and pressure; oh the pressure! It's suffocating. I can’t move my limbs, all I can do is push forward, and then....light. I scream. I wake up bleary eyed with the sounds of soft beeping around me. I’m still sore and tired, and I can’t make out Darwin, or Martha's face-- and the room is too bright to be the Tavern. Suddenly, two lumpy shapes stand over me. “Look at him, he’s perfect,” a feminine voice crones. I feel something brush my face ever so slightly. “Do you think his head will always be this cone shaped?” a concerned voice quips. A larger lump pushes the two out of the way, their hands are meaty and deft. “It's alright lad, that's just from getting stuck for a bit, It’ll round out in no time,” a hat is shoved onto my head. I try to move my arms, but they are held against my body by a blanket of sorts. I must be in the looney bin? I should have never told Darwin the truth. Suddenly, I'm lifted against my will, and float over towards one shape. The shape becomes clearer, and it’s a woman, who bombs me with smooches: ARGG, I hear a splitting cry. Wait a moment, that's me, me crying. I try moving my hands again. “Oh look at him squirm!” she says in between sniffing my head and kissing me roughly. “The doc measured his head and it’s in the 65th percentile,” said the voice excitedly, “he’s gonna be a genius!” I’m suddenly taken from her hands and I float again to my coffin of sorts. “Alrighty mum, you did a good job, I’m going to take the little fella to get his stats and I’ll wheel him right back.” What sort of hell is this. I still can’t see properly but I feel a growing discomfort: an emptiness of belly. I try to ignore it, I have more important tasks at hand. Like escaping my restraints. The ride is bumpy and I sway from side to side gently. The lump above me yells out to passerby’s. “Don, look at this one, ugly little cone shaped fella, eh?” Another lump suddenly appears above me and I hear cackles of laughter. “Little grubby aliens, the lot of them, I could never understand the appeal.” Another lump appears, “oh you hush Don, it’s precious, just look at him,” a hand pinches my cheek. The feeling registers and I understand, I’m starving. I need an Ale, I need meat! I start to whimper. “We better hurry, the little man’s getting hungry.” Large hands unwrap my body and start poking and prodding. I’m cold and hungry and pissed off. Hurry the fuck up will ya! I try to say, but I've got a bad cotton mouth, and I end up pissing myself. I’m wheeled back to the room and once again placed in the giant's hands. I will admit, this giant feels more like home. Her voice is nice. “He’s hungry lass, will you use a bottle or the breast?” “A bottle I think,” she’s twitching now. “Alright then! Here you are” Something is shoved into my mouth and I gag. It’s disgusting, but I don’t know how to not suckle it down. I can’t stop. “Why don’t you try breastfeeding him Nell.” “Cause it’ll hurt Bart!” “But the parenting classes said-“ “Oh fine!” Suddenly, the object is ripped out of my mouth and I’m thrust up against a large, soft mound that smells heavenly. “Can you show me how?” Says the voice close to my head, I start looking for that smell. “Like this dearest, you smash the nipple in their mouths as far back as you can go, and the little fellow will do the rest.” Before I know it, the fleshy mount is stuffed into my agape mouth and I begin swallowing. Oh, the sheer joy, the warmth, the taste! I can’t help from becoming drunk from the bliss. I’m warm and full and.... I wake up. Where are Darwin and Martha? I’m still restrained, and I can hear the two giants speaking, arguing. “We can’t name him that Nell, he’d be made fun of his whole life!” “But it’s cultural Bart, and better than Barthalamew,” she whispers close to my face. I agree, that’s a shit name. “Fine, Ryder it is.” “Ryder! What a ridiculous name!” I chortle in my head.” “Oh look Bart, he smiled! Our little Ryder,” she says, her face is inches from mine; she must of eatin a banana, I hate those blasted fruits.... Wait a fuckin minute....

I never wanted this power in the first place. I tried hiding it when it developed but people soon noticed and my secret was out. This sort of power is in high demand and I was quickly snapped up as a sidekick by Phantasm, a high ranking superhero. I’m a healer. I can numb people’s pain and fix injuries but as with all superpowers, there’s a price. I experience the pain I take from others and inherit the wounds I heal. Phantasm knows that it hurts me but he’s just another typical bigwig superhero and couldn’t care less. Whenever I bring it up, he starts ranting about how everything we do is for ‘the greater good’ and berates me for being so selfish. I accompany him into battle, take the pain inflicted by his enemies and accumulate injuries whilst he stays unscathed. After he’s won and justice has prevailed, I usually end up in hospital. Sometimes if I’m lucky and the fight has put him in a good mood, he’ll take me there himself. I’ll slump in the backseat of his car and bleed onto the plastic sheet put there to prevent me making a mess, whilst he talks my ear off about how the world is a better place because of our courage. That’s if I’m lucky, though. Most of the time he just goes straight to the nearest bar to party and leaves me to make my own agonising way to the nearest hospital. I hate him. Sometimes I fantasise about walking away while he’s injured and leaving him to suffer, but I know I can’t. He’s a high ranking superhero, and if it weren’t for him the world would be in complete chaos. If I abandon him, whatever happens afterwards will be my fault. We’re heading into a fight now. Ursa, a notorious supervillain, is threatening to destroy the Super’s Society headquarters. Of course Phantasm is first on the scene. The Super’s Society pay his wages, after all, and he knows if it weren’t for them he’d be jobless. We arrive, Phantasm confronts Ursa, and I prepare myself. I scream as Ursa lands a hit on him. I’m used to taking punches, but Ursa has inhuman strength and the second-hand blow sends me flying into a wall. The battle continues and I curl into a ball as I take strike after strike for Phantasm. Dread seeps through me as Ursa manages to pin him against the wall. Even though he’s not feeling any of this pain right now, it’s clear that he’s exhausted. My stomach lurches as I realise that he might actually lose this fight. Ursa turns to face me and grins, revealing her characteristic jagged teeth. “Hey,” she growls. “I’ve seen you with this guy before. You his sidekick or something? What do you do?” Phantasm struggles and she backhands him. My head snaps sideways and Ursa starts to laugh. “Knew it. You take his pain, don’t you? I feel bad for hitting him so hard now. This dirtbag is the one that should suffer, not you.” I remain silent, trembling from a combination of fear and pain. I can tell from bitter experience that I’ve broken several bones and from the way this fight is going, I’m expecting to break more. This isn’t good. In this sort of situation, my mind always ends up jumping to the worst case scenario. No matter how often I’ve agonised it, I still haven’t managed to answer the question that plagues me whenever a battle starts going badly. What happens if Phantasm dies? I could save him. I’m sure of it, and I’m just as certain that doing so would mean my own death. Why should I sacrifice myself for a man who treats me like dirt? But if he dies, the villains will win. He’s one of the best, and a loss like that would be disastrous. Could I live with myself? “Tell me, how much does Phantasm mean to you?” Ursa asks. I don’t answer. “Would you die for him?” She presses her claws against his throat. “Because you will if you keep protecting him.” I freeze. I don’t want to die. Especially not for him. “You’re basically his slave,” Ursa continues. “It’s cruel. I bet he doesn’t care what happens to you as long as he gets his money.” My feelings must have shown on my face, since she chuckled and shook her head. “It’s not just you, either. So many so-called Superheroes have sidekicks that don’t want to be there. The entire Society is corrupt. I used to be a Superhero, but they denounced me when I started calling them out. Now it’s my mission to end this abuse. Nobody should be forced to be a hero. Or a sidekick.” “You’re right,” I say hoarsely. I don’t like siding with a supervillain, but I can’t deny what she’s saying. “So let me kill this guy. You can come with me afterwards and everyone will just think you died in battle. I won’t ever force you to take pain away from me, or anyone.” I freeze. It’s so tempting. She slaps Phantasm again. He screams, and stares at me in shock. Ursa’s smile grows. “Do something,” he splutters. “She slapped me. It hurt.” “No.” I say. Ursa reaches towards him with her claws. I swallow, feeling a painful lump in my throat. I’ve made my decision. “Wait.” I step forwards. It’s time for me to use the other part of my power. The part I kept secret. I grab Ursa’s wrist and lock eyes with Phantasm. “Now it’s your turn.” I press Ursa’s hand against my chest and slowly lean into her claws. Blood seeps out of Phantasm’s chest and I smile as he begins to shriek with terror. It’s painless- for me, at least. As Phantasm wails, I turn to Ursa. “Let’s go.” I’m glad I’m not a sidekick anymore. ‘Supervillain’ suits me just fine.

The water crashes in this dark; a washing roar, wet and briny, eclipsed only by the alarming sense of pressure that arrives with each new wave, searing our ears for a moment and leaving the blackness dripping ice in a muffled crescendo of absolute panic. Seaweed swaddles my legs like wet roiling toilet paper as I scream, “keep looking!” “I can’t see anything,” Steph screams back at me, over the muting of a new wave, the terror in her voice thunking in time with the heavy driftwood logs the ocean is smashing into the entrance of the cave. Just keep it together, I tell myself, fighting the urge to yell, to rage, to fight the sea that’s already at my waist. You panic, you die, don’t die! My hands race against the wet course rock, the salt stings where the stone has cut and scrapped and peeled my skin, and in spite of that I slap the dark wall and push my fingers into its gritty crevices. I can imagine what my hands would look like, in the light, surely worse than reality, but nowhere near as compelling as what will happen when the tide fully comes in, and we’re still stuck here. Don’t be stuck here. There’s nothing I can say to reassure her, there’s no way to know how far the cave goes, if it goes up or down, if we drown here or deeper in, our bodies lost and pickled in the dark, in this grave, was it always a grave, did we just walk into our own grave? Stop! My feet slip, the force of the swirling water threatens to drag me over, I can feel impossibly real boulders against my shin, and I know if I fall my bones will snap around them, so I grab desperately, at the dark, at the wall I don’t want to be there but suddenly hope is. The impact is like light, clear, stinging, painful light. But it’s enough to steady me, even though the sensation in my hand tells me at least one finger is broken, that’s still better than a leg. “There’s something here,” Steph screams from the fwumping swishing darkness. I try to shout back but a surge of water splashes into the cave wall beside me, erupting and drenching the rest of me. My mouth fills with grit and salt and I spit as fast as I can, picturing the ragged dead things that must bloat and disintegrate in here. I cough, and the saltwater burns my sinuses, “what is it?” “There’s an opening, I think,” she screams as a new swell sloshes in and throws me back against the jagged wall. More blood for the sea. “Where are you,” I shout. “How the fuck should I know,” the darkness shouts back. It’s enough to get a general direct, and as the undertow rips at my legs and I try to feel out a safe route towards her I wonder at the lack of urgency I feel; am I trying not to get my hopes up, or do I believe I’m already damned? What a worthless question, maybe it’s just shock. “Where,” I yell again, half the word muffled as a heavy surge sings our ears into a burning temporary deafness. In that dark and heavy silence, I almost laugh at the coldness of the water, at the ache of its promise, always there, always ready; and us, we come to this thing as a novelty, to splash and to play, as though it is not a wild and fickle god. “Here,” she yells, closer now, on my left. I reach out and there she is, her shirt wet and rough, the skin beneath is cool in that way only water brings out. “What is it,” I shout again. “I think it goes through,” she yells. I stop myself from asking where, “can you fit?” “I think so, but there’s a log, help me get it out!” I reach past her, fingers jamming into slick rock then dancing along the surface towards her breathing. The water’s nearly at my chest, which means it’s almost at her throat, and still, she keeps focused. Then the wall is gone, and I nearly fall into the space it should have occupied, and there is the log. Nearly a tree. Heavy with water and swaying with horrible weight. It’s lodged in an opening. My hands feel in darting jabs, praying the water doesn’t crush my last good hand between rock and twisted tree trunk, and then I feel a bend. It’s hooked, not stuck. “Push it towards me,” I yell into the dark, as the sloshing beside me gets frantic, becomes something more like swimming. “We need to pull it out!” “It’s caught on a bend, that’s all, you push, I’ll pull!” I grab the log under the water and pull. It moves in my arms in ways that have nothing to do with me and everything to do with the water. Its weight is terrifying. Then I hear a splash and the log starts to lever my way, and I can feel from where it is that Steph is underwater, wedged between the log and the boulders down there, shoving hard. I pull harder, it slips a little then a rolling current sweeps it up and she pushes and I pull and I wonder if she’s going to drown there, if the last living thing she ever does is help me push a log in the dark, trusting that I’m right, that I know, that I can save us; not knowing that I’m guessing at best. Then, as the water sloshes back, leaving rivulets draining from my hair, the liquid tickling the contours of my face, the log lists differently. Dangerous, heavy, swinging unstoppably in the slosh, and free. “Go,” I yell, hearing her break the water with a gasp. And she’s splashing away and I’m right after her, swimming now, washed into the rocky sides of the little passage, aware, as I pause, that my feet don’t touch the floor, pretending not to know that. The tunnel goes farther than I could have hoped, but the roof of rock stays where it is, the water slowly bringing it closer until, with each new heavy pressure wave, my head cracks and snarls against the ceiling, and still I swim, following Steph’s splashes. I crash into her, a slightly warmer mass tangled in the sickly-sweet rot of seaweed. I’m forced to breathe with my nose grating against the stone, the water sloshing into my nostrils, its chunky contents lapping the side of my face, caressing my throat and jaw and ears like a hungry lover. I hear a spitting spray, and she’s shouting, and I can feel the sound of her sweeping the ceiling and filling the little air that’s left with the one word I’m most afraid of, “Down,” she screams. And I want to vomit, I want to bite the ceiling, I want the numb pain in my hand to take over and fill me up and take this moment away. The water is reaching for my nose and the world is laughing at me and I feel Eternity swimming in the cave and what choice do I have, what option but to dive and hope and pray that there will be air somewhere down and beyond. The water sweeps across my forehead and the air is gone and I’m feeling though pain and dark and debris and down, down, down, and it’s too far down, it’s only down, there’s no air here! But I push and drag and scrabble to reach Steph because I don’t want my corpse to be alone in here. There’s a bend in the wall, and I drag myself along it, the water moves and mashes my ribs into the stone and air escapes in bubbles and I don’t have much more and then my lungs are burning and my head is pulsing with negative glitter and a voice in my head is shouting at me to breath and I scream ‘no’ at it in outrage and my air bubbles away, crawling along my face like living things, and the voice is right. I have to breathe. Somewhere, in the weightless dark, as I start to inhale the ocean and fire mixes with an electric buzz throughout my body, a hand grabs my arm and pulls. Hard. My skin tells me there is air, the tension moving from oily to open like I’m being peeled back into the world. The water mixes with stony air inside my lungs and I’m gasping and coughing and twisting and bending and wondering if I’m going to drown in the dark here, in a miracle, in the air beyond the sea. I heave and gasp at the burn until my lungs crush out a rattling tearing cough that bites and howls deep inside me. “It’s filling up,” Steph says, her touch is a shock, nubs of life in a lifeless place, ghosts in the dark. I flinch, and I’m ashamed. I draw in ragged breaths and turn to the touch. “Farther,” I rasp. “Let’s find out,” she says, grabbing my hand, my fingers explode with color in the dark, and I howl at it, that sweet, horrible pain. I scream, my voice tastes like the smell of beached crabs and the sound of seabirds, and I wonder if maybe I already died, and this is just a fever dream burning bright in some fatty corner of my brain. But she lets go quickly and the pain remains, and the scream dies out and I am alive as she touches my chest and I grab her hand with my one good one and she pulls me deeper into the earth while the water churns and rises at our feet, shallow and pushing, shoving us deeper in. “Careful, the stones roll here,” Steph says from ahead, no longer shouting, the rush of water softened to a bubbling fwoosh behind us. We walk into nothingness, every step an act of desperate faith that ground will be there. Gradually, we slosh through it, feeling the walls for context, following a soft draft of earthy smelling air. “The waters lower here,” Steph says from ahead, and I can hear hope in her voice. She’s right, of course, what had run as foaming sandpaper along our calves was now comfortably lapping at our ankles. It took a while to pick out the sounds tangled down here for what they were, the rawling bubbling swirl of draining water, siphoning off through lesser tunnels and sloshing vaguely underneath us and to either side, teasing in muffled slurps and tinkling dribbles in the spaces beyond our confines. But she hasn’t noticed yet that the floor slants down. “Maybe we should wait here,” hide the fear from your voice, I tell myself, “Until the tide goes out.” The slosh-slosh of our steps rolls around the darkness, the sound itself sloshing along the rock. “What if it fills up,” she asks, slowing. “It won’t,” I say. It could, I think. “We had to swim down a lot, can you climb with that hand,” she asks, and I can see her in my mind, a face that says it knows I can’t. “You could get out, go get help,” I will hide the thoughts of being alone down here from my tongue. “Even if I did, probably wouldn’t get back before the next tide,” she says, and my mind fills with jagged rock and salt and cold limitless dark awash in things that crawl and scuttle and wiggle and chirp. Chirp? No, more of a click. “Do you hear that?” “What,” she asks, alarm making her voice a cannon in this hollow place. I shush her, pointlessly holding up my bad hand as a sign. There it is again, something familiar, or, familiar enough. Something not of the sea but the sky, and the above world in general. She inhales sharply and I know she’s heard it too. “What is that,” she asks. In the stillness I feel the breeze, a slight flutter of colder air, chilling one side of me more than the other in my sodden dripping state. Am I shivering? It feels like I’m shivering. I hope I’m just shivering. I look at the dark where my body should be, and it stretches and folds and warps into more dark in a way that makes me wonder if I was ever really real or had just imagined myself. Focus, I shout at the dark in my eyes. “I think it’s bats.” “Bats don’t swim,” I hear her say, her hand cold and jittering in mine, “they had to get in some other way.” “Doesn’t mean we can get out,” temper her hope, keep her thinking, keep her cautious, she’s better at this than me and I need that. “Maybe not, but maybe it does. Or maybe we can shout, or see, or something,” she says, seeing options, yearning for sunlight. “We should check it out, just in case. We can always come back here if we need to.” As though we know where ‘here’ is, as though the world is not riddled with holes all tangled like yarn and filled with darkness so complete it all but swirls about us. And yet, she’s not wrong. “Lead the way,” I say, and squeeze her hand. The rocky slosh of sand and kelp and other things beneath our feet recedes until it’s only a slopping squish we stick and slide on and then it is something else, firmer, less gritty. The smell of ocean follows in our wake, the salt in the air stinging at our useless eyes, and more and more we come to pockets of cleaner air, stale but absent of fish and sand. Still, my feet tell me we’re going down, but the bats are louder now, not one but many, their clicks and squeaks sounding too loud in the growing silence. By comparison, perhaps. The silence itself is oppressive, somehow worse than the roaring slosh of the sea that drowns, its weighed by the earth above us into a petty brooding thing, it resents us and the noise we bring. It resents nothing, it’s only darkness. “It’s getting louder,” Steph says, and she’s right. The calls and clicks bounce along here, originals followed by echoes, and my brain realizes it’s not many but a few. And they are so loud, and we are so deep, and we’re going deeper, away from the sky, away from the sun. In the dryer quiet of our march my hand throbs with fiery anger, the skin shredded, at least two broken fingers booming with nerve-bound agony. I can feel the sand, and my clothes, catch and sweep flaps of skin all over my body, the knowledge of those wounds a promise of the pain that will come when I stop moving. There’s a new smell, now. Something animal, distinctly mammal in the way farmers or pet owners can recognize with a whiff. The clicking and tweeting is louder, so loud. How can a bat make so much sound? Its tiny body, fluff wrapped around a ping pong ball, seeing in sound, and fluttering with ease through this jagged crypt. So small. So loud. Suddenly, the sound and the pressure of the place changes and I know the walls are gone and space drifts beyond us, our crunching echoes telling my mind of vastness. The bats go silent, and that silence is crushing. “They must get in somehow,” Steph whispers, and the tension in her arm and the little pulls and twists there let me know she’s turning her head, open eyes straining to make something of nothing. Something tumbles with a clacking rustle, and I tell myself it’s just the bats and feel the cave air with all my body because somewhere, in some tangled backwater part of my mind, I know I’m being watched. My gut is screaming ‘run’, and my brain is shouting ‘how’ and I sit between them and think of the hike I took once as a kid where I came across a bear, and how completely I understood at that moment that I was nothing, little more than gibbering meat, powerless and stupid and exposed before a truth I prayed wasn’t hungry. Which is a strange way to feel, deep in the earth. Gas, maybe, carbon dioxide poisoning. “There’s a breeze here,” Steph says, and I think she means the cave but she’s pulling to one side, stretching at something, and I can feel it too. A current, gusting from a hole the size of a basketball in the wall, and nothing more. “Circle the perimeter,” she says, and drags me along as she traces the circumference of our space with bleeding fingertips, the sound of them, slipping and scraping, mutters away, confusing the flapping scratching skittering bats above. More holes with more forest-fresh air, flowing in, absent of light or sound, only the brutal smell of pine from somewhere far above. The space is big, and the bats stir as we stumble through it, kicking stalactites and boulders, cracking our heads into outcroppings with our eyes wide open. Theres a gap, in the wall, my broken fingers hang at my side, curled against my waist to protect them from the cold hard stone, but I can feel the space in the sound of the silence there, somehow deeper, pulling my mind into its mute siren call, all promises of sunlight and open space. “We’ll go back,” she says, “we’ll try your plan.” I nod at the dark and she seems to feel it, pulling me back into the narrow tunnel and towards a floating death. And I think I’m more hurt than I thought, as we slip and crunch and stumble our way through the endless night, because I swear it still feels like the floor slants down.

**"Green," the patient replied, so thoroughly convinced of his answer that he said without even a moment's hesitation. This was the third time they had tried the crayon test and he still wasn’t showing any sign of improvement. Michael sighed, trying to keep his exasperation as slight as possible.** **He had to remember that this man suffered from a debilitating neurological disorder that caused one to see and experience things the way they were. Some suffered from this disease more than others; many merly lapsing into employing logic or making a factual statement on occasion like a mental hiccup, but resuming a normal state immediately after. Others showed symptoms more consistently, but could be easily coaxed out of it each time. Michael Gumstead's current patient was what most would consider a helpless case, and the more the usually dauntless Doctor Gumstead worked with him, the more he was starting to agree.** **"We've been over this," he said. "It's yellow."** **Doctor Gumstead put the crayon back into the box and pulled out a blue one.** **"How about this one?" He asked.** **"Blue." The patient replied.** **"White," the doctor corrected, his sigh a bit more audible this time. The weather was undoubtedly contributing to his foul mood. He found himself wishing that time had ended yesterday when it was hot and sunny. Yesterday had been his day off and he spent much of it outside, revealing in the wonderfully intense, skin-charing heat; enjoying the suffocating sensation of his clothes fusing to his skin while prickly-inch ravaged his crotch. The earthly incarnation of Heaven.** **Today was a direct opposite; the air was crisp, cool and, worst of all, breathable and the sun was slightly obscured by clouds, denying him the pleasure of having abrasive sun-rays penetrate his eyes like fiery daggers. Instead, his surroundings were rendered disgustingly seeable while the slight chill in the air filled him with a loathsome feeling of life and vitality. Of course, the patient he was working with wasn't helping much either. It was funny how someone referred to as a "patient" could make you feel anything but.** **This patient was strange in many ways; he was one of those that actually preferred the horrendous livable weather to the pleasantly soul-scorching days that every normal human being full-heartedly embraced. He was also a vegan as he considered the consumption of flesh and bodily fluids to be "kinda gross". Ironically, while he considered that gross, his diet consisted of plants; green things that sprouted from the dirt and contained neither blood nor mucus (okra being the only exception). The mere thought of such a diet made Doctor Gumstead feel nauseous.** **In one of several unsuccessful attempts to bring the patient back into normality, he had offered him a bite of his ham sandwich and when the offer was inevitably declined, Michael, not being one to skirt around the issues, asked very plainly why. This conversation was what followed:** **"I don't like meat."** **"Why not?"** **"It doesn't appeal to me."** **"Let's not be vague; if I'm to help you, I must know more about your illness. Trust me."** **"I don't even know what illness I have."** **Michael had expected that. Few patients were able to accept their condition right off the bat.** **"It's something you're going to have to face sometime or another and the longer you put it off, the more difficult it's going to be. Now why doesn't it appeal to you? I must insist on a straight answer."** **The doctor's permission had evidently emboldened the patient to speak more candidly, "I find it more than a little gross. You're eating slices of someone's body."** **"Is that any different from what you're eating? What's the difference between cutting the head off a cow and cutting off a head of lettuce?"** **The patient was confused. This was made evident by his reply--"Huh?"** **The one saving grace of those with his disorder is that they are very easy to confuse.** **"I’m examining the hypocrisy of your position; you find it disgusting to eat animal bodies but are fine with eating decaying plant bodies."** **"I don't eat them when they're decaying," said the patient, elaborating his backward point of view.** **"Plants do decay, do they not?" Gumstead insisted, eyeing his patient with fierce scrutiny.** **"Yes, but I--"** **"So you eat decaying plants,"** **The patient started stupidly at him, then opened his mouth as if to respond, then let his head drop to his chest, managing only a weak, "Sure."** **Ah, progress.** **"And meat decays too, so it’s essentially the same thing."** **The patient raised his head slowly as if he were struggling with the weight of his own skull. Doctor Gumstead was slightly offended; what right did he have to be tired? If anyone had the right to be exhausted, it was the good doctor.** **"Well," the patient began, "I guess it's because nature intended them to be eaten, by humans I mean--"** **"And animals aren't?"** **"Not when you get right down to it. When you consider that the seeds in fruit are--"** **"Animals were meant to be eaten," doctor Gunstead interrupted, not willing to put up any more deluded ravings, "why else would they be marketed as food?"** **"Profit," came the predictable answer. People with this condition held on to a paranoiac belief that corporations are run for the sake of a profit without necessarily being interested in the public's well being which, to be fair, was sometimes true, but not when it suited Michael Gumstead to believe otherwise. In any case, it was nothing that a bit of positive thinking couldn’t fix.** **Gradually, the topic of the discussion came to focus on life's imperfections, which was just where doctor Gumstead had hoped the conversation would lead, as he had recently taken a vehement interest in spirituality; not organized religion, of course, which was just a celestial form of brainwashing, but real spirituality; the logical kind that respected the intelligence of the individual and worked for the betterment of mankind as a whole rather than a perverse desire to control others. It was rather unorthodox to treat a patient according to the spiritual teachings, but nothing else had worked so far, so he gave it a try. He asked the patient about any personal problems he may have had in the past that might still be influencing his behavior today.** **The patient pondered for a moment then said, "Well, back in--"** ***"NOOOOOOOO*****," Doctor Gumstead bellowed, "it only seeeeeeemed that waaaaaaay because of your negatiiiiiiiiive perceeeeeeeeption."** **"I didn't even tell yo--"** **"You'rrrrrrre respooooooooonsiblllllllllle for yoooou'rrrrre owwwwwwwwn experieeeeeeeeeeence," said Doctor Gumstead, proud of himself for having remembered to gratuitously elongate nearly every word; an intricate part of any spiritual lecture, "The “prooooobleeeeeeem” you** ***thiiiiiiiink*** **you haaaaad would neverrrrrrr have exiiiiiiiiisteeeeeed had you not acknooooowledged it in the firrrrrrrrst plaaaaaaaaaaaace!"** **"You mean, I wouldn't have broken my leg skiing that day had I simply not noticed it?"** ***"Yes!"*** **Doctor Gumstead almost shouted, astounded by his patient’s inability to figure out the obvious. Gumstead’s heart sank just a bit as he realised his mistake in letting the patient finish a sentence, which is as much a taboo in the spiritual realm as logical consistency. This mistake at first prompted Doctor Gumstead to think that he was not yet ready to apply his spiritual lessons to everyday matters, but then, upon realizing that centering advice on something you know little to nothing about was about the most spiritual thing one could do, he knew he was on the right track.** **The patient stared at him for a moment and finally said, "But how--?"** **"I don't know why you have to take such a hostile position," Doctor Gumstead said quickly.** **"I'm a little confused," the patient said, "How could I have noticed my injury before--"** **"I’ll have to cut this session short," said Gunstead, "if you continue with that hostile tone."** **"What hostility?" The patient demanded rather hostility, "I was simply pointing out illogicality of--"** **"OK, so now you’re insulting me. It's little outbursts like that that got you sent here in the first place."** **The outburst to which doctor Michael Gumstead had referred had taken place at the patient's place of employment where he had questioned the need to update the "perfectly good" software of each company computer in order to make them more difficult to use. His employers tried their best to explain how the functional software was now well out of date, having been in existence for more than three minutes, whereas the update would needlessly complicate each task for the convenience of every employee.** **Somehow this logic, as sound as it was, didn't satisfy him and he exposed his unstable mental condition with the decolonization that the explanation didn't "make sense", after which he proceeded into an incoherent rant about how newer wasn't inherently better, and how it “actually needed to improve on something”.** **Soon, the entire office had gathered around the post-patient to try and understand just what in the hell he was talking about. Needless to say, no one understood a thing. Everything he said made too much sense for anyone to make sense of.** **His office manager had tried especially hard to comprehend his position, but every attempt at an explanation proved futile, difficulty in communication being another common symptom. Finally, the office manager; name of George, made him take the rest of the day off, believing that his inexplicable outburst of critical-thinking was merely exhaustion brought on by overwork.** **His wife was the first to witness the full extent of her husband's insanity. It came when she asked him to fill up the bathtub for her and he did so, prompting him to wonder why he hadn't started making the enchiladas that she had requested for dinner and why he was pouring a bath so early in the evening. His perplexing response was as follows: "You told me to draw a bath."** **The wife, Isabelle, replied, "But that wasn’t what I** ***meant*****."** **When he asked Isabelle why she didn't say what she meant, she backed away from him; slowly at first, then made a quick dash to the bedroom, where she locked herself inside and called the police.** **Now here was Michael Gumstead; trying to reason with a man who probably couldn't be reasoned with. Gumstead had started the case fully and enthusiastically embracing the challenge, but now it was getting to the point where he was beginning to question his own sanity.** **"You have been hostile to people," Gumstead insisted, "don't try to tell me otherwise. You are capable of hostility."** **"Um, sure. So that means that I'm hostile in every instance of my life?"** ***"Yes!"*** **Gumstead said excitedly, barely suppressing a mirthless laugh. He couldn't believe this really had to be explained, "You've been displaying copious quantities of hostility since you arrived here! With your relentless questions and endless scrutiny. Disputing my authority and undermining me at every turn!"** **We are allllllllllllll of one consciousness;" Gumstead said, quickly preventing the patient from saying anything else, "we are aaaaaall perfect! We are aaaaaall compleeeeeeeetelyyyyyyyyy eeee-*****qual!*****”Gumstead made sure to state how equal they were with the most smugly condescending tone and smile he could manage. It was always important for the spiritually evolved to let people know that they were just a little more completely equal than those around them, “buuuuut if I didn't teeeeeeeell yooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuu, what your** ***thooooouuuuughts*****,** ***feeliiiiiiiiiiiiings*** **and** ***intentioooooooooooons*** **are than hoooooooow would you** ***everrrrrr*** **knoooooooow?"** **"I'm sure I know my own thoughts, feelings and intentions." He was getting frustrated. A definite sign of hostility.** **This time Gumstead didn't bother hiding his sigh at this poor, silly, deluded man as he pondered what he could say that would get through to him.** **"Don't be so hostile." He said at last.** **A week went by with no noticeable improvements. If anything, his hyper-sensitivity had gotten worse. When Doctor Gumstead was having his lunch, the patient, in a fit of entitlement, asked if he could close his mouth when he chewed. Doctor Gumstead reacted by chewing louder; “In Norway, it’s considered a compliment to chew as loudly as possible,” he explained, “and I’m not going to stop being polite just because you don’t like it.”** **“It is not polite precisely** ***because*** **you** ***know*** **that I don’t like it!” Portested the patient.** **Doctor Gumstead said with a tight smile that would seem patronizing to lesser sentient beings, but which was actually very evolved and free of the slightest hint of judgment; “what’s polite and what isn't doesn’t change to match your feelings. Politeness was invented to show respect. Respect, I will argue, is about the most important thing one human being can have for another; it’s the cornerstone of our civilization, and why shouldn’t it be? It helps to be courteous to those around us; to eliminate the potential tensions and live in harmony with those we encounter in our daily lives, so with that in mind, I will force my respect on you whether you like it or not!”** **The patient slumped in his chair, his chin nearly reaching his chest.** ***So damn dramatic,*** **Doctor Gumstead thought, rolling his eyes. He made sure the patient saw it as that was often worked as a way to deter further arguments, then he resumed eating his sandwich, making each chew louder than the last.** **Within the next week, they had tried shock-therapy, past regression therapy and speaking in patronizing tones whenever he had expressed a coherent thought, and he had managed to resist every step of the way. Doctor Gumstead had considered temporarily forgetting his compassionate nature and employing corporeal punishment, but had always managed to resist the urge.** **Michael Gumstead returned to work feeling an odd emotion composed of being simultaneously fatigued and refreshed. He was fatigued for the most obvious reason-- his pain-in-the-ass patient, though, thankfully, this would be the last day that he would have to work with him. They would go through the motions once more and then he would write him off as a helpless case. Sadly, every alternative, much like Doctor Gumstead himself, had been completely exhausted. The simultaneous feeling of exuberance came from having had his opinion swayed by an interview he saw on television; they were interviewing the now notorious Narvadan prosecutor, Christopher Butterfield, who had just gotten a death sentence for a man that had strangled his wife to death with a phone cord.** **The prosecutor was under fire by a small percentage of the public for organizing a celebration party when the verdict was announced; the party had shot-glasses designed to look like syringes and a cake that was in the form of a tombstone, pictures of which were proudly uploaded to Facebook along with a video in which Mr. Butterfield, clad in a blond wig and formal blue dress, doing a mocking impression of the condemned man's sister for the amusement of his guests. Some people, the family of the condemned included, saw fit to question Mr. Butterfield's ethics. Doctor Gumstead counted himself among them; a prosecutor who would stoop so low couldn't be any better than the remorseless killer he had put on death-row.** **Still, he listened attentively while the prosecutor made his case; "I showed the offender exactly the same amount of mercy he showed his victim," Butterfield had said, "if you want to say I'm crass and maybe a little callous because of the way I conducted myself at a private party, fine. Just keep in mind how callous it was for that vermin to coldly and meticulously wrap a phone cord around Ms. Stratten's neck and squeeze until all the life drained from her body while she struggled, helpless and frightened. I'll bet the Stratten family are suffering too, but, of course, nobody cares about them. Nobody in the entirety of human history has ever cared about the victim, but I've been doing my damndest to try and change that!” At this point, tears formed in his eyes and his voice shook with uncontrolled emotion.“I gues**s **I just care** ***too much*** **about human life!" he bawled.** **The more parallels Christopher Butterfield drew between himself and the scum he had put on death-row, the more Doctor Gumstead came to realize that he had misjudged the noble prosecutor. Chris Butterfield was really a very compassionate man, he was just fed up with the way the media had always given sympathy and recognition to violent criminals while treating the victims and their families with cold indifference. He knew the media didn’t care about the victims of violent crime because TV and radio networks would helpfully remind him. Gumstead decided that Mr. Butterfield was a great attorney after all, and he did a pretty good female-impersonator to boot! Doctor Gumstead felt good knowing that he had been proven wrong. He liked knowing that he was never too wise to learn.** **The doctor entered the small chilly room where the patient was waiting. The patient looked the way the doctor felt; haggard, exhausted and eager to get the day over with. Doctor Gumstead produced a purple crayon from his pocket. "What color is this?" He asked in a dismal monotone.** **"Orange." Said the patient.** **Doctor Gumstead reached for the next crayon then stopped, unsure of what he had just heard. He asked again and this time got "Green". Gumstead looked at the crayon then looked back at the patient. His hope suddenly renewed for the first time in months. Excitedly he produced a green crayon.** **"Brown." Said the patient.** ***I’ll be damned!*** **Though Doctor Gumstead,** ***I will be DAMNED!*** **The breakthrough that he had been hoping for, but thought unobtainable had been reached! Gumstead couldn’t hide his excitement. He vibrated in his chair and grinned like a rambunctious child as he produced an orange crayon--"No color," the patient said, "it's transparent."** **Doctor Gumstead jumped from his seat and shouted something to the equivalent of “Yahoooooo!” Had he been wearing a hat, he would have beaten it against the side of his pants. He called up Mr. Mondale, the head of the hospital, and asked him to come down as soon as he could.** **"Which way is up?" Asked Gumstead.** **"Down." The patient responded.** **"Which way is left?" Asked Gumstead.** **"Right." The patient responded.** **"When is today?" Gumstead asked.** **"Yesterday;" the patient responded, "today was already tomorrow."** **“How would you describe the name Caroline?” asked doctor Gumstead.** **“A beautiful name for a beautiful person.” the patient said.** **It was then that doctor Gumstead began nudging Mr. Mondale in the ribs while saying, "Huh? Huh?"** **Mr. Mondale was impressed. He gave doctor Gumstead a firm handshake and enthusiastic congratulations. Then, just for the hell of it, a hug and a big sloppy kiss on the cheek...and he wasn't even Italian!** **The following week, they brought the patient in to meet with the country's foremost experts on human psychology to show them the results. After performing a series of cartwheels, backflips and aerial somersaults in an uncontrollably robust display of joy, they unanimously agreed that the patient, this David Miller, was finally ready to be reintroduced to the outside world.** **Doctor Gumstead wished David Miller luck and sent him on his way. For the next couple months, doctor Gumstead would respond to every mention of the word "hero" with an embarrassed smile and a modest shake of his head. "I just did my job." he would say, "I was on the verge of giving up, but then I got lucky."** **Still, Michael Gumstead would have been lying if he said that he didn't feel some sense of pride as he watched David Miller walk backwards through the gates of the institution with his backpack wrapped around his chest and his eyes staring directly into the mid-afternoon sun.** **Once a mental defect, now fit for normal society.

I'm not a writer but I've always entertained writing about my life and my experiences. I like this alot, what do you guys think? Edit: changed some things. I roll over sluggishly, trying to find my phone that somehow always finds its way into the pillowy waves of my comforter. Without my glasses I search aimlessly, patting the sheets, looking for my phone. I find it half buried undernearh my girlfriends leg. Pulling it out from under the covers, the screen blinds me. 4:53AM. Fuck. This has been happening to me alot lately. I have a dream in which i die; always in different ways, but always by the hand of someone i love. I dont believe dreams are profound or anything and normally dont give them much attention. This one bothers me though, keeping me up. I keep trying to interpret some kind of meaning from it aside from the very obvious. I lay awake in bed with Emily, my girlfriend, next to me. While i try to remember every detail of the dream i lose myself staring at the ceiling. The fan flicks shadows upon the walls of my bedroom, illuminated only by the blue lightbulb from my lamp in the corner. Emily calls it the omnious lamp. It sits alone in the corner of my room casting a dim blue light eerily across it, yet somehow, the glow is relaxing. Its almost as if the light was a metaphor for the inevitable end that was staring me down, and for some reason i relax in it. The thing is i never get to really relax. My anxiety makes sure of that, and if it weren't the anxiety, it would be the paranoia. Its almost six am now and my mind is numb from replaying my Shakespearean demise over and over. I get up and go to the living room hoping that looking out over the city with a cigarette will ease my mind. I stumble around the living room looking for my pack and a lighter. Theres still lines cut up on the coffee table from last night. The ashtray is full of cigarette butts and roaches, my half empty pack laying next to it. I light up my smoke and inhale. I hate it, but i instantly feel calmer, if only for a few minutes. Disgusting habit i picked up back in highschool right around the time i started drinking and smoking pot. Not much has changed since then. My first taste of this lifestyle came shortly after that. I would sell some pot to my friends and occasionally we would come across some blow and geek out for the night. That was almost ten years ago now. All those years i was selling i said i would get out and grow up, find a job and move on with my life. Last week i turned twenty-five and im still here supplying this campus of depraved trust fund kids looking to piss off their parents with whatever drug they will crush, snort, eat, smoke or inject. Im in the process of trying to leave this life. Its catching up to me. The anxiety from looking over my shoulder is becoming debilitating. I cant sleep anymore. Im not happy. Im depressed and exhausted from putting on this facade. Everything is spiraling, i no longer have a grasp on my life. Its like ive fallen into a narrative with a vindictive author, hell bent on seeing me get mine . My luck is running out and i need to be gone when it finally does. This is my story.

Her Name Was Marine Sitting in the booth closest to the bathroom, I studied Marine with a squint in my eye. I liked the way she ate her ice cream. Anytime she'd take a bite she would flip the spoon upside down and lick the ice cream right off the spoon. We caught each other's eyes while I was observing. I saw a ring of light shimmer through her feathered brown eyes. She caught on that I was inspecting her, but she still continued eating. After I watched her pay the bill I walked out into the parking lot. Marine and her friend each parted ways, trickling back to their cars. I kept a close eye on Marine's car, the reverse lights lit up. I waited for her to turn out of the parking lot before I started following her. I knew her house was only a short drive. I liked looking into her car, I could see part of her face in her rear view mirror. She had on a pinkish-rose colored lipstick that complimented her angelic skin. I waited a couple minutes after she went inside her house before I got out of my van. I grabbed a blanket and my camera, then creeped my way to her backyard. I knew I'd probably be there for a while, so I was a little scared, but I liked the rush it gave me. The rush was kept me going. I sat outside her bathroom window with the camera placed off to the side just enough to catch her standing naked in front of the mirror. After about an hour of waiting she finally came into the bathroom. I peeked in her window to make sure she couldn't see me. She was still wearing the jeans and blouse she had on earlier. I inched closer to the window. I watched her stretch her arm at the shower knob. I started getting paranoid she might see me. I backed away from the window for a minute and just watched from the screen on my camera. My heart was my pounding, I could feel the blood rushing through my body. I reached down to grab my dick and it was swelling with blood. I slowly played with it until it got harder. I snuck my head back in the window. Marine had her top off. Her breasts were perfect, she had small pink nipples at the end of her perky tits. I started squeezing my penis, I began stroking it violently. The camera was recording video now, I would have all this material to go to later. She took off her pants, then her panties. I was going too fast, I didn't want to end this prematurely. Her pussy wasn't shaven but it was trimmed into a smaller patch. I never liked cleanly shaved pussy much. She started walking towards the shower so I knew I'd have to finish soon. She had voluptuous curves that my arms ached to caress. I got my last few seconds left and blew my load all over her window. She quick glanced out the window before stepping in. I really want to believe she knew I was out there the whole time. She was teasing me all night, making me wait for the big climax. I watch the film almost every night. I get to examine her whole body while I relive the moment. The thing I really wonder is, does she in some weird way, find it romantic that I devote myself to her physically without her even knowing.

When I was seventeen I went to go live with my uncle down in New Orleans. My parents couldn't stand the sight of each other and I felt like it was my fault because they both thought of me as a failior. There were many times when they would fight that they actually started to wail on each other and when I would try to stop them, they would look at me with disgust so eventually i couldn't take it anymore so I called my uncle and told him what was happening. Within the next two weeks he came and took me away from it and I couldn't have been happier. One thing I know is that nobody likes to feel like a failior. When we got to my uncle's it was like I stepped in to whole other world. There were portraits of people all over his house of people I have never seen before so I asked him if they were pictures of family members and he replied no, these are all pictures of everyone who have come to his house within the past 30 years that stayed here for the soul purpose to gaze into his mirror. Naturally my first thought was what was so special about this mirror that so many people had to come from all over just to look at themselves. But then he said something that struck me vas very odd and even to this day I still can't forget the events that followed. He told me whatever you do, you must never go near the mirror up the stairs and down the left hallway at the end of the corridor. The look in his eyes suggested that he was very serious so for a long time I made sure not to even go down that hallway anywhere near the corridor. But eventually like most people curiosity got the better of me so one night while he slept, I found the courage to enter the corridor which held the mirror. The mirror itself was something I have never seen before. It was about eight feet in height and five feet in width but the style of it was something that I can only describe as being not of this world. On the top of the mirror there was a symbol which resembled a cube but had multiple other symbols edged inside of it that looked like some sort of ancient writing I have never seen before. After looking at the symbol I noticed a word inscribed in the middle that said METATRON. After I read the word out loud I noticed a brilliant light that surrounded the entire mirror and lit up the room. What I saw next I will never forget and the memory will be buried with me. I saw people moving around in what I can only describe as a palace with a golden throan in the middle. Each person wore a robe which was the color of gold fastened together by a belt that was woven in strands of gold colored silk with the same symbol at the top of the mirror where the buckle would be but they emitted an Erie light that seemed to transfix me to the point where I could not look away. Then all of the sudden everyone stopped moving around instantly and started looking directly at me. Upon seeing there faces I realised that these were the same people that were in all the portraits hanging on the walls in my uncle's home. Upon the throan itself sat a man who looked as ancient as time itself who was also staring at me. The old man said step forward young one and I shall tell you who you really are for we have been waiting for you for a very very long time. Not believing what I was seeing I stepped forward and the light intensified until I had to close my eyes to shield them from the brilliance of it. When I opened them I was no longer in the corridor of my uncle's home but instead inside the palace from which I was just seeing in the mirror itself. The floors were literally paved with gold throughout the whole palace and I was in such awe that I didn't even notice that my clothes that I was wearing before had also changed but my robe was a brilliant red and blue with gems and emeralds embedded into the stitching. The belt I wore was a bright orange with what appeared to be flames that wrapped around my waist but it did not burn me. The buckle that held it in place consisted of a star with a circle around it. Growing up with a Christian family I recognised this symbol as being a pentagram. When I looked back up I noticed everyone bowing down before me except the old man sitting on the great throan. I walked up to him and as I got closer I noticed his eyes were emitting a brilliant blue light like the color of a blue flame but there was no center. As I gazed into his eyes I began to see visions of great wars from ancient times fought with chariots of gold surrounded by fire. The old man then spoke to me again and instantly the visions were gone. He told me that what I was seeing was events in the past that I myself was a part of but I couldn't understand what it all meant. My name is METATRON he said, and I am the scribe of the Lord God who created you and who created everything else that I have ever seen. I am the one who has wrote the book of life and the keeper of all knowledge that lies within its pages. But you my young friend are the only one whose name is in the book that will lead the world into an age of both great war and great prosperity. You are both the bringer of death and the bringer of life into a world that has been so corrupted by man that God himself has chosen you to lead his armies of angels into the final battle of all of mankind. Your name is Michael . The time has finally come for you to inherit the fate that your God has set before you. There is only one who is higher then you and his name is Jesus Christ. He will give the command and you shall lead his armies and purge the evil and darkness from the earth once and for all. The dead shall rise in his name and follow you into battle. When he finished speaking, he then raised his hand and the brilliant light that I saw when I first entered the mirror intensified once again to the point I had to close my eyes. When I opened them I was back in my uncle's corridor gazing at the mirror but I could only see my reflection. I was dressed once again in the same clothes I had came here with. As I turned to walk back down the corridor I saw my uncle waiting for me at the top of the stairs with the look of disgust in his eyes. I told you not to look in the mirror he said. I tried to hide you from the truth of what it shows you because nobody will ever believe you. If you speak of what you saw they will just lock you away in some Looney bin to live out the rest of your days because the world cannot accept the truth of what God has to offer them. Instead they live there lives trying to block out everything they dont understand. Nobody except you has ever returned from the other side of the mirror in the whole time I have been guarding the passage so now I give you a choice. You can go out into the world and speak about what you saw, or you can stay here and live with me and carry on my work in guarding the mirror. But remember this one thing. The path you choose may have severe consequences no matter which way you walk it but in the end, the road always takes you to the same destination. The mirror itself never lies. What you seen or heard will come to pass but it could happen in a different lifetime. While you are here you must learn to accept who you really are which is why I urge you to stay here. You are not a failior or a mistake. Your life has been written already but it may take several lifetimes for it to come to pass. Your parents are blind to who they really are so they see you as there own failior. When he finished speaking my uncle turned and went down stairs to partake whatnot am assuming to be his usual routine. I followed him down and sat next to him and asked him the one question that came to mind. I asked him if he ever looked into the mirror and he told me no because his father told him the same thing he told me when he said not to look into it. My uncle spent his life scared of the truth because he believes life is what you make it yourself. But personally I can honestly say that I am not afraid anymore because I know I am not a failior like I once thought I was. Death is but a doorway into another life but in the end it all leads to the same resolution. The End

It had been a harsh winter and it was dragging on longer than any in living memory. The people of Ardenne Valley had spent the best part of four months hiding out in their scattered wooden lofts with every chimney pouring out smoke night and day as fireplaces worked over time to keep their masters warm. Towards the centre of town Mr Cotten’s General Store was beginning to run low of supplies, the thick winter snow had blocked off the mountain pass that was the lifeline of the village. Usually when cut off from outside supplies the village men would band together and head off in great hunting parties coming back with deer, rabbit or even moose for the townsfolk to share. However the depth of this winter’s chill and the shortness of its days made the hunt fraught with danger. No man dared venture far enough from the warmth of his fire to effectively hunt lest he find himself stuck out in the deathly cold. As this seemingly endless freeze continued a sense of fear and paranoia started to grip the town. Rumours began to circulate that the village had been cursed by some sort of evil, or that the sins of the people had somehow angered god to move against them. Already the local constabulary had been forced to deal with allegations of food-theft amongst some of the new settlers who occupied the outskirts of the town. One particular incident had started over a misplaced can of peas and ended with two men spending the night locked in the cells after one had tried to slice the other with a can-opener and the second had responded by smashing a large frozen potato into the first man’s head. The people living in the outskirts of Village Ardenne had always been a bit crazier than those who lived in the towns original heart, but never before had there been so much drunkenness and needless violence. At first the village children were excited to see such thick snowfall, they embraced the opportunity to have long snow fights, make snow angels, go sledding and build elaborate snow forts. But alas as the months pressed on the lack of sunshine, long hours in doors and the constant cold had taken it’s toll. By this point in the winter most of the children had grown irritable at being cooped up all the time and were adding to the worries of their already stressed parents. Some of the older village kids had taken to a new and troubling hobby. They would sneak out after dark and build elaborate and frightening snow creatures outside the windows of younger children. This lead the youngsters to wake in fright breaking the nights silence with piercing screams and terrified crying. Sometime around the end of the fourth winter month, a strange phenomenon began to appear throughout the valley. Village folk everywhere kept coming in reporting sightings of a huge dark creature with glowing red eyes seen at the edges of the forest that surround the town. The first sightings had been called in by Tom Greer, a young lumberjack who worked to produce firewood for the town. Tom had been stacking the last of the days wood into the back of his cart when he had heart a noise in the distance behind him, spinning around he caught a glimpse of the huge dark creature fading back into the forest. The sight put Tom’s hair on end, he quickly leapt up onto his cart and whipped his donkey into motion, moving with great speed back to the heart of the town. The second sighting had occurred only two days after Toms. This time it had been a young mother by the name of Maria, she had been making her way through the township towards Mr Cotten’s General Store on a Friday evening. Maria had taken the long way to the store skirting the edge of the forest so as to avoid any drunken men who might be making trouble near the Woodsman’s Tavern when she heard a deep rumbling sound off to her right, turning she saw a terrifyingly large shadow with glowing red eyes at it’s centre about two hundred meters in to the forest. She had screamed and rushed toward the centre of town being found by a group of men drinking at the Woodsman’s Tavern. The group of men, full of Dutch courage, had banded together with hunting rifles and wood axes and headed out in the direction of the sighting. After an hour long search the men turned up nothing and returned to the warmth of the tavern and the joy of their beers. With these terrifying sightings occurring every day or two and the townsfolk already on edge, the village paranoia reached fever pitch. A group of village women began a neighbourhood watch to help take care of each other. Within three days of the groups creation it had accused twelve separate people to the constabulary on unlikely charges of witchcraft and devil worship. As things started to look as though they might spiral out of control the village council decided to hold a meeting at the old church just across from Mr Cotten’s store. Every man and his dog showed to this meeting, the village elderly had been first to arrive taking seats towards the front of the hall, the men and women of central Ardenne arrived second filling the centre of the hall with the new settlers arriving last and standing in a tight area towards the rear. Chief Constable Higgard, a tall chubby man with a quickly receding hairline and red-tinged cheeks, began the meeting “Thank you all for your attendance, as we all know, things in our sleepy town have been tense of late. This winter has left many of us with little food and less patience. Firstly we would like to call on all of you to try to keep your calm and show each other a little empathy during this trying time. Secondly it is my duty to inform you that the Woodsman’s Tavern will be suspending operations until such time as the situation in our township has returned to normal.” This was met with a large amount of booing from the men of central Ardenne who had used drinking and the Woodsman’s Tavern as an escape from their worries and their tense home-life situations. Higgard shouted at the group to be silent and continued, “Furthermore we would also ask that the Ardenne Neighbourhood Watch be disbanded, as it has achieved nothing but increased paranoia and a break down in trust within our small community.” This news was met with sneers from the women of the village with one of the groups leaders, Ms Agatha Partridge accusing Constable Higgard of being worried they were doing too well and that he might lose his job. Higgard had expected this type of comment and tried his best not to let it affect him. “Finally” Higgard continued, “the question of this forest monster. We have had a long string of reports over the last few weeks of some sort of large beast with glowing red eyes stalking around the skirts of our humble town. I have personally heard many of these eye-witness reports and they do not appear to be the paranoid delusions of a few scared souls but instead they seem to me to be real sightings of what is very likely a grave threat to the great people of this village!” The hall was filled with a collective gasp of fear. While many of them had heard of these monster sightings many thought of them as false imaginings brought on by long winter stress. But now with these words from Constable Higgard the people of the village were filled with a new, potent fear. “What must we do?” yelled one of the new settlers from the back of the hall. “Are our children safe?” “Are we safe?” “What is this beast?” the hall burst into a thousand different fearful questions. Some of the village men began talking of a great hunting party, to go out to the woods and bring down the beast. Mr Howard, the chairman of the local council stood up and raised both hands into the air. This brought silence to the crowd and Mr Howard began to speak “We may not be safe, your children may not be safe. What must we do you ask? Well we must first prepare ourselves, we must move all the people of the village to a central defensible location. This church is likely most suitable. Then we must put together two main parties, one to stay here and defend our children, the other to go out and destroy this beast.” As Mr Howard’s last word rang out into the hall it was met with an immediate roar from the crowd. Men from all over the village were volunteering to head out and hunt for the beast, whilst others began to organise amongst them how best to defend the church building. Over the following two days the village went into a frenzy. Food supplies were gathered and stored, hundreds of beds were set up and all the women and children of the village moved themselves into the church. The men who were to make up the hunting party donned there thickest winter coats and armed themselves with rifles and pistols while those who were to remain behind collected anything that might be used as a weapon, axes, pitchforks even butchers knives. At sun break on the third day after the village meeting everything was set and the hunting party set off. They began by lapping the skirts of the village finding no sign of the creature. The decision was then made to head down towards the first sighting location on the western side of the village. Roughly thirty of the village men met there, rifles in hand they spread out into a long line and began to advance in to the forest. Walking deep into the frozen trees the men began to hear a deep rumbling off in the distance. A little more hesitant at the sound, they continued with there push. The further they pushed the louder and more distinct the rumble became, the deep sound was like the mix between a bears roar and the starting of a trucks engine. As the sound grew the men began to bunch together, none of them wishing to be caught alone when the monster finally appeared. Each man was filled with a mix of fear and determination, each fearing this might be his last day alive but also determined to press on for the safety of their loved ones. The forest sloped slowly upwards with the undergrowth thickening as they moved on towards the hilltop. The group clustered tightly together now as they finally reached the crest of the hill, moving on to the crest they found that a large clearing. A large circle of trees had been ripped from their roots and smashed across the frosty landscape. Just as the men entered the clearing the rumble cut off. It was then that they saw it, a huge black monster about 50 meters from the group. The beast stood around ten feet tall, made up of a thousand thick wriggling black worms and at its centre were two hellish red eyes. Seeing the group as a threat the beast let out a deafening roar and began to rush toward the men. The group of men scattered rushing in all directions, some fled back toward the forest whilst others began to sprint across the open clearing. Constable Higgard took up a position behind a large oak tree and shot off a round from his hunting rifle, he bellowed out to the others “Don’t run you yellow bellied cowards, we must face this creature for the safety of our families!” This put some steel into the hearts of the others and they all began to take up their own firing positions. Tom Greer, who had been sprinting out in the open turned and took a knee letting off a well-aimed shot which pierced into the wriggling mass of worms making up the monsters body. This did not slow the beast but instead turned it’s attention to Tom. With the beast now pressing away from them a group of men who had fled towards the trees took up their own positions and began to rain fire into the back of the beasts. Each shot met it’s mark but each bullet seemed to simply disappear into the mass of worms. The monster let out another roar as it started to turn towards the men in the trees. As it turned Higgard lined up his rifle and took another shot, this time aiming for one of the creatures disgusting red eyes. He missed his mark and his bullet was absorbed into the worms like that of the others. Seeing the constables attempt spread the idea to the others in the band, one yelled out “Aim for the eyes!” Higgard half smiled to himself, glad to see that he was working with men of quality. The horrid worm-monster was disoriented now, surrounded and being peppered with rifle fire from every angle it let out another mighty roar and launched itself towards the trees, aiming for a gap in the hunting groups circle. Seeing that the beast intended to flee Tom sprinted into it’s path sliding into a firing position just meters ahead of the fiend. He let off a shot again aiming for the creatures eyes. From this distance he could not miss and his round landed true. A spray of black blood spewed from the damaged eye and the creature began to convulse. Mr Greer pushed away from the thing taking refuge in the trees. The horrid monster began to shake and the dark worms were flung from it’s body wilting away as they landed upon the hard cold earth. With the disgusting worms melting off the creatures body it’s inner form began to take shape. Tom saw it first, when the last of the worms dropped off, he saw clearly that this was not some unknown hell beast but simply a large bear that had been afflicted in some way. The bear let out one last whimper before dropping to the ground before the band of men. Seeing the creature defeated each of the group of hunters pushed forward forming a loose circle around the dead bear. Higgard spoke first “I don’t know what afflicted this poor beast but I am glad that we were able to release this animal of god from it’s curse.” The other men all nodded knowingly. From there the group dragged the beasts body back to their village. When they arrived back they dropped it’s body at the doors of the church and moved inside to relay their tale to the entire village. Cheers and shouts of joy rang out from the crowd as the men retold each moment of the battle, from Higgard’s first shots and inspiring yells to Toms desperate sprint and well aimed shot that felled the beast. Once the story was told, all the townsfolk moved outside where a great pyre was erected and the bears body was turned to ash so as to prevent the spread of its curse. As the corpse burned and night fell slowly the villagers retreated in to the church where they each found a cosy spot to sleep for the night. The next morning the sun crept up into the sky earlier than it had in months, and with it a wave of warmth not felt since before this horrid ordeal began. Over the following weak the snow began to melt off and village life returned to normal. The Woodsman’s Tavern reopened, the weekly supply convoys from the outside world began to flow through and soon enough springs first flowers began to bloom.

By : No One of Consequence I started my career as a run of the mill soldier, but I somehow managed to find myself stationed in a top-secret underground government facility. For security reasons I won’t go into too much detail, partly because most of what they do there is hard to follow. On a daily basis I have interactions with scientists that constantly refer to me as a layman. For the most part, I guard people who work with whiteboards, reference books, and complex mathematical equations that would give average scientists a headache. In order to even get into these offices, one has to adhere to a retinal scan. However, that’s just the upper floors of the facility. Teamwork isn’t a word these people are entirely comfortable with. They tend to work within their own minds, and alienate those around them, especially those they think of as inferior. Not so much because they’re assholes, their brains just function differently. Now, put a bunch of these people together, and the results can be disastrous. So far, over the last five years, there have only been minor dustups. Well, minor might not be entirely accurate. One incident did end with several scientists being taken to the infirmary. Nothing too serious, a few stitches here and there. I hadn’t wanted to break up the fight, it was too hilarious to watch. I’ve been confined to the facility for a few years now, getting leave isn’t the easiest thing. High security clearances come with some serious drawbacks, but the large paychecks are hard to pass up. Technically I still get paid as a Private First Class, but I also get a sizeable ‘hazard’ pay. Not that I’ve seen any real hazards, it’s more of a way to classify the additional pay to the bean counters. Government work is loaded with all kinds of double talk and misleading information like that. Honestly, I don’t understand why a particle accelerator needs to be this secret. They’re more common than people think, some thirty thousand exist throughout the world. Maybe it’s because this one is larger than the Large Hadron Collider. The work is largely complicated, and I can’t begin to comprehend it. The one bit of science I do know is the controversy behind the work they’re doing. Certain people in the science community think they’re going to open a black hole and destroy the planet. The likelihood of this happening is like fifty-million to one. With such long odds, you’d think there wouldn’t be death threats, but there are. After years of research and fine tuning the science, they’re ready to turn on the accelerator. I’m in one of the control rooms when they start the sequence. I have no idea what’s going on, but they say all the readouts are within the predicted ranges. That is until alarms start blaring. All the readouts begin to spike, and next thing I know, all hell breaks loose. Monitors begin flickering, the scientists start panicking, and literal sparks begin flying as electrical components are overloaded. The power spike surges even more, and suddenly everything goes dark, but not silent. If anything, there’s more conversation now than ever before. Emergency power comes online, but most of the equipment is fried. The smell of burnt wires and melting plastic fills the air, wisps of smoke drifting from all over. Engineers scramble around attempting to get things back online, but with this much damage there’s little hope. With all the computers down, my radio is the only means of communication. The scientists work to assess the damage when we hear it. Thanks to movies, TV shows, theme parks, and deployments to active combat zones, I have noticed there are different kinds of screams. Even though they generally sound the same, there are subtle differences that can be detected. What I hear over the radio isn’t anything like what you hear at theme parks from people riding roller coasters. The closest I’ve heard came from a secret mission when an insurgent was caught off guard before a knife went between his ribs. The man on the radio died painfully, but never saw it coming. Following it are the panicked ramblings of those in close proximity, trying to figure out what just happened. More of them start to die, and the remainders lose their shit. Three soldiers with automatic rifles come into our control room, and sweep the area. They ask me if I’ve seen anything non-human, and after the typical ‘are you kidding me’ reaction, I tell them I haven’t. On standard guard duty, a guard is armed with a pump action shotgun loaded with beanbag rounds, and a 9mm sidearm. These three having M-4s and a full basic load of ammo would be a cause for concern, but more so when they hand me boxes of buckshot shells. Panicked conversation over the radio punctuated by gunfire fills the silence as I load my shotgun with lethal rounds. No one knows what the hell is going on, and in a military run secret facility, that’s a really bad sign. Finally, news comes on over the radio. It’s the base commander, “There is a containment breach within the facility. A level five quarantine is about to go into effect. All personnel must evacuate the facility immediately. Once the blast doors close, they will not be opened again.” Basically, if we don’t get out of here in the next five minutes, we’re getting locked in with whatever is killing people. Even if there are four of us armed, I don’t want to find out what is loose in here. With those screams still fresh in my mind, I’m trying to keep my imagination from running wild. I bring up the rear as we escort the scientists to the exit. Rear guard is important so enemy combatants can’t move in behind you and catch you unaware. The corridors are normally so brightly lit that nothing can go unseen. However, with only emergency power running, the lighting is extremely sparse and flickering. I sweep the areas behind us as I walk backward, the flashlight on my shotgun shines on overturned and discarded equipment. It looks like a fucking hurricane blew through this place. Even if a hurricane hit, we wouldn’t have felt a thing. The facility is several hundred feet underground, and impervious to everything short of an earthquake. In this part of the country, earthquakes aren’t a concern. As we near the exit, bodies start littering the ground. The wounds that I see look to have been made by some kind of blade, or some kind of sharp implement. At one point, it looks like something had been gnawing on one of the bodies. I don’t know what kind of teeth make damage patterns like that, but the amount of clear liquid around the wound appears to be saliva. I have been all over the facility in my time as a guard. There isn’t a single room I haven’t inspected at one time or another. So, I know for a fact that there’s nothing in this facility that could be responsible for what did that kind of damage. We carry on in silence, or the closest we can for the amount of people in our group. For me and the other soldiers, it’s the silence of concentration while moving through hostile territory, keeping an eye out for the enemy. The scientists, it’s the silence of people scared shitless. None of them signed up for gunfights, and deadly situations, outside of an experiment going very wrong. Me, I had been in combat a number of times by this point, but even I’m a little scared. Seriously, I couldn’t think of a single thing on this planet that could chew on an arm like that. Predators tend to have sharp teeth so they can tear through flesh. What I saw looked more like blunt teeth that crushed the limb with such tremendous force that the flesh split apart. I catch sight of movement behind us, and fire off a shell before I get a good look. Traditionally, you identify a target before shooting so you don’t accidently hit a friendly. This wasn’t a concern at the moment. The movement I fired at wasn’t on the ground, but the ceiling behind us. Something small scurried out of a open vent, and I didn’t want to risk letting whatever it was to get close. No one could tell us what was killing people. In my book, this was a ‘if it’s not human, kill it’ kind of situation. By the time we made it to the exit, there was only seconds left before the lockdown would commence. We get all of the scientist through, and the first soldier. The other two were getting panicy at the sound of the alarm, and trip over each other trying to make it out. I’m forced to stand there and watch as they fall into the doorway, and are crushed by the blast doors closing down. Up to this point it was the worst thing I ever saw, but the day isn’t over yet, and I’m still inside the facility. A buddy of mine, Gordon, had been on the other side of the blast doors when they closed. He calls to me on the radio, letting me know I’m the only one still inside. The only way the top brass is going to open these doors is if I managed to close the containment breach. Since no one has told me what the breach was, I have no clue how to close it. There was so much confusion after the spike that I don’t even know where to find the breach. Gordon says he’s going to try to get me some information to work with. In the mean time, my best bet is the cooling system. It’s the first place he knew of that suffered any casualties. The cooling system is located on the other side of the facility. Having only emergency power is going to make it difficult to get to. The flashlight on my shotgun is only helping so much, what I would give to have full lighting. However, the spike blew out more than half the electrical systems in the facility. There is no way a grunt like me is going to figure out how to restore power. Tripping on the third body I hadn’t seen, I’m getting really tired of the subpar lighting. Just when I’m about to express my frustration with an ill advised scream, something moves in front of me. My shotgun speaks instead of my mouth, and a splatter of fluid paints the wall. With the light trained on whatever it had been, all I see is a small mass of flesh, completely unrecognizable from the buckshot enema. The only thing I can tell, it had been small. About the size of a infant, but the damn thing moved with the speed of a predator. The fluid on the wall is a dark blue, but there appears to be copious amounts of a clear substance. For something so small, it sure as hell does drool a lot. On my way to the cooling system, I duck into a security checkpoint. Normally there’s a rack of weapons, stacks of ammo, body armor, and other assorted supplies. Most of it is gone, but what I do find will help. I take an NBC mask bag, attach it to my thigh, and fill it with the flares that no one thought to take on their way out of the facility. In order to get to the cooling system, I have to get to the emergency stairwell. I’ve already seen these things crawling on the ceiling, so a narrow space like the stairwell is going to be a nightmare. If these things are intelligent in anyway, I could be walking straight into an ambush. Popping one of the flares, I open the door and immediately toss it in. The blinding light illuminates everything as I sweep the area with the 9mm. Nothing moves, so I proceed inside. The stairs continue on for several flights down, but thankfully I only need to go down one level. Not surprising, the door is locked, so I try my keycard. It doesn’t work, which isn’t that surprising. As a security guard I don’t have clearance to go into restricted areas, but I escort those that do. Calling on the radio, I ask Gordon if he can get the base commander to override access points for the entire facility. With the power issues there’s no guarantee it’ll work for everything, but he promises they’ll do what they can. As I stand in place, shotgun constantly searching for anything that needs to be shot, I hear something odd. It’s an echo of sorts, continuous and wet sounding. Not so much like water dripping from a leaking pipe, but like slick bodies squirming in the mud. It’s the last thing I want to do, but I do it anyway. Popping another flare, I drop it down the shaft. I watch it descend each floor, until it lands on the bottom. The flare doesn’t land on the floor, but the squirming mass covering the entire bottom level. I’ve snuck into this stairwell many a time over the years for a smoke break. At the end of each I would flick my still smoking butt down the shaft, and watch it’s descent to the bottom. I know there’s a floor missing under that mass, and I feel my chances for getting out of here diminish. It’s hard to pinpoint what each thing looks like, there are so many, and they’re swimming around each other. It's like a cross between a slug and shrimp, with varying sizes from a Chihuahua all the way to a Doberman. That mouth opens to let out thin tentacles that act as feelers, but there’s no teeth. Just a solid bridge of blunt bone designed to crush and grind. An electronic click sounds behind me, and I quickly open the door. In the span of thirty minutes, those things swarmed in from wherever the breach is, and flooded the entire bottom level. The room I end up in is only slightly better than the stairwell. Bodies litter the entire area, at least I think that’s what they are. Mangled and crushed all over, it’s hard to determine one body from the next. On the upside, the coolant tanks are intact. Liquid helium isn’t combustible, but the freezing capabilities still make it a hazard. Maybe there’s a way I can use that to my advantage. In my search for a source of the giant slugs, I find an open access panel to the center of the accelerator. Climbing up, I see a few of the slugs, and blast them into oblivion. As quick as I can, I fire shell after shell, stopping only to reload as the slugs just keep coming. There’s a break in the action where there appear to be no more slugs coming, and I survey the area as I reload my shotgun. In the center of the open space, I watch as a slug falls from a spot seven feet off the ground. Blasting the slug right away, I get as close as I dare, but there’s nothing to see. My flashlight shows nothing, but empty space were the slug fell from. Popping another flare, I toss it into the space they appear to be coming from. I watch as the stick of burning red light goes into the spot, and completely disappears. Seconds later, the flare reemerges in the mouth of another slug. Another blast from my shotgun, and the slug is nothing more than a mass of dead flesh. Standing directly underneath, I put the end of my shotgun to the spot. Extending my hand out completely, I see the front end of the shotgun with the flashlight completely disappear. Pulling it back, it comes back as if nothing happened. Aside from calling this the source of the breach, I don’t know where to begin explaining this. Gordon talks things out with me, trying to understand what I’m seeing, but I don’t just stand idly by. There are small, portable tanks of liquid helium in the cooling room. I drag one of these tanks through the access panel, along with a ladder. Opening the ladder up, I put it directly underneath the breach, and place the tank on the very top. Half the tank is on the other side of the breach, and I get as far away as I can while still being within firing range. With the 9mm, I pop off a few rounds. The bullets rupture the helium tank, sending the ladder crashing to the floor, and a cloud of frozen liquid explodes out. Watching with the shotgun at the ready, I hope my quick thinking pays off. For five long minutes I wait for a slug to drop down, but none do. Just as I key up the radio to tell Gordon the breach is closed, half a dozen slugs drop to the floor. Instead of the wet plop I’ve heard from previous slugs, they land with a loud shatter. The helium didn’t freeze the breach closed like I had hoped, but it did freeze the next slugs coming through that space. Before firing off at the next batch of slugs falling to the ground, I watch as they skid off. Following them with the flashlight’s beam, I see them disappear down an access shaft I hadn’t realized was open. At least now I know how they got to the bottom level. My choices are extremely limited at this point. I can either stay here and keep killing the slugs until they get the better of me, or I can use the ladder to go through the breach, and try to take them out at their source. Either way, I’m probably not going to see the light of day again.

There I was just watching the beautiful sunset even tho I should be rushing to get home from work at k-hub at 7:00 on a Thursday after from closing the shop on my own. I look up and see a airship just floating there in the sky as I stand still to see if it will move or just stay there. It is a dark maroon colour with a bright white writing reading QUEENSLAND, how dumb can I be I completely forgot about the state of origin. This is the last game of the season and so far it’s a tie of two Games out of three so whoever wins this next match will be the talk of the town. Boom,boom,boom,boom,boom,boom,boom, the clock strikes seven and flags, banners, fireworks and glitter covers the area from the airship floating in the dark sky covered with bright coloured twinkling little stars. At that point all the glitter slowly fades and drops to the ground, I turn around and see a dark figure walking closer I get a strong vibe of a creepy eshay. I decide to walk head and get home quickly before mum and dad get worried. I walk ahead about 50 meters and turn back around to see if the figure is still there. I stand there creeped out too see the the person had been following me the hole time. I turn around quickly and worried. I start to run. I quickly have a glance behind me and see that they are catching up so I run so fast everything becomes a blur. I run so fast I can’t see the sings that label the streets. I happen to take a wrong turn and go down the alleyway that no one passes trough alone. I turn around and walk backwards and think to myself of how fortunate I am to have...... never mind as the the person comes around the corner well at least I thought it was human but now I realise this is no ordinary person or in fact I wasn’t even sure it was human after all what human has bright blue flames coming out of its hand this creature was hard to see as the cold alleyway was dark and silent after all it is Stanthorpe in the year of 2040 anything could happen, it could a creature on the loose that has escaped from the experimental lab in town square in the known to be rona-free area. It was just the the right time that the street light turned on and ahhh what the hell is this creature. It has one side that looks like it has been completely burned and one side that looks like a cyber ban with shiny grey and silver with square black eyes. As it gets closer and closer I realise I should be running back for my life from this creature dressed in black,black leather jacket, black shirt with bright red writing reading FILA, and a pair of black jeans I look down and see he has no feat but has cyborg feet. In that Moment I think to myself what is this creature, was he made by mistake?or to ‘seek & destroy.’ Well whatever it was or whatever it was made for I need to run and quickly and...SPLAT I run into the stone cold brick wall it felt like I have been knocked out,I look up as I am lying on the freezing cold ground and there it was the creature was standing over me with a knife patterned with skulls and red belly black snakes I payed there in terror I was frozen In fear I couldn’t move, it’s like my body has already prepared my death and made my body not capable of moving.I look behind him and there it was the thing that could pretentiously save my life. There it was as it now was clear of what it was it was a portal from another universe. Except instead of saving my life it was like a vacuum, sucking everything in its path I taking it to another dimension or internal death. I felt like a professional gymnast doing kart wheel after kart wheel after kart wheel except I could either be kart wheeling to my death or safety or a hole clan of unsuccessful experiments. GASP*, I wake up and realise it was all a dream. I go downstairs and rub my eyes as I walk down the cream coloured stairs, You would never...mum dad I shout as there are freshly sharpened knives and cutlery everywhere, cupboard doors open, plates smashed and pots and pans everywhere. I walk carefully over the broken pieces of ceramics d into the Lounge room where everything is everywhere like a blind robber had tried to find something and walked into the wrong house. And there it was the thing everyone seems to be afraid of these days..... blood! Like a small trail so I decided to follow it curious of what what be at the end but also frightened of what be at the end. I follow this path of blood past the laundry, past the hallway,past my parents room, past my bathroom and to the spare room into the back of the room where when I screamed at the top of my voice and fall to my knees heavily using all of the emotion inside of my Bode right now pain anger eager to get revenge sadness darkness and like as if the only reason I am still alive to day haas been murdered oh wait it has. I look up again at my parents bodies lying there on the floor grousimly , my mothers neck has a knife the same of what the creature was holding in my dream. Maybe my dream wasn’t just any ordinary dream maybe it was a warning of danger that my only reason to be alive would no longer exist and now I will have to give up but sadly enough I knew this day would occur.I hardly banged my head thinking it was all I dream and in denial of what ha happened.I looked up again to see the one the that gave me an emotion I have never felt. Guilt and revenge. I look up and see the failed experiment, the creature I saw last night in wha tis to believe a dream, or maybe it was a warning or maybe that portal put me into bed in order to make me believe that it was just a dream, hallucination well whatever it was I believe it was a word of warning, I warning that everything is over like as if I’m in a Video game and is game over. I shake my head right to left over and over again like as if I’m trying to wake up out of this nightmare.I notice this knife sharp enough to easily cut through a pile of apples lined up. I know that I’m going to regret what I’m about to do, I pick up the knife like I’m fighting for my life as this dangerous creature is standing at the back corner of my spare room like a devil watching over me waiting for my death to occur. The regret of what I’m about to do is like a bag full of a ton of bricks. I charge at the creature with the knife in my hand and slice his neck and thick dark red blood oozes out of his throat, I feel free like I’ve been released from the devil but at that moment I knew I was in trouble as the police man shouts,” i I drop the bloody knife and put my hands in the air. He takes my hands and roughly twist my arms and places Hand cuffs around my wrist so tight it feels like zip ties cutting off my circulation. I hesitate to keep my hands still he kicks my legs and I fall to the ground with a loud THUMP!he looks at the tree grousimly murdered body’s assuming that I was the sociopath who without feeling a slight bit of guilt murdered these body’s lying on the floor with blood everywhere, and that’s all it was to him, just random people who have been murdered but to me it was more it was my family, the loving, caring, kind, generous people who are the reason I’m still alive today, still alive today. As he started to claim my arrest rights. It feels so weird say MY ARREST rights, do you seriously think I murdered my own family members,the only thing keeping me dare not only from other people in the world but also myself. I’ve been in a dark place for a while and they saved me but now I couldn’t return the favour.as my head is slammed to the floor I listen to the police man, who’s badge reads Dave,” you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in the order of caught .” He goes on but I feel no emotion except guilt for the murder of my family, my loved ones. Although I did not physically murder them I could have saved them if I just were awake or listened to the warning if I weren’t so weak and stopped the creature when I had the chance then maybe my family would still be alive even if it meant I weren’t. Dave forces me up and I play along he takes me through the house where there is the broken furniture and knifes,forkes, plates smashed, glass and more all scattered throughout the house. And next thing I know I’m being forced into the back off the patty wagon that they used back in 2021, it’s like if already been put in a jail sell for a crime I didn’t technically commit but then again don’t the town of Stanthorpe doesn’t count technically as an excuse for murder. One thing led to another I was in a holding cell awaiting for a caught appointment with a judge. Rumours around the cell have started to spread that I’m the chick who went on a killing spree, soon enough I find myself trying to prove my innocence in the caught room where it seems that everyone is against me but the again I have felt like that my whole life. I try to tell my side of the story, where I had a dream where this miscreant tried killing me with the same knife was used to kill me mother and farther and how I killed the creature that stood in my spare room but somehow turned to look human when killed but yet again who would believe me. I was then ordered to 4 years I juvenile detention centre until I’m 18 and then I’ll be transferred to Launceston reception centre in Tasmania. So there I am in a old bus with all of the widows covered with bars and next thing I’m already being transferred to Launceston reception centre and then one Thing led to another and the next thing I knew I was 74 years of age and put on hous arrest. I was putting out my bins when I saw someone running past and stopped and said hello, for once I thought that someone didn’t recognise me for the first time for ever. For the first time in forever I feel like I belon. While I was in jail I had time to think, think about how I need to focus on the positive of my my life instead of the negitive and also need to stop relying on others to help me stand up and fight for my own life not rely on others to.. THE END...... SIKEEE when all of a sudden I see someone standing there with a 12 gauge single shot shotgun and then next thing I know they start going on how I killed her daughter,Catherine, ur I think and remember that that was my mother’s words but no time to explain when I believe she thinks I’m a murderer and that was when all of a sudden it hit me.........bang my ears ring and I get pounded to the ground with a bullet wound in my chest and blood oozing out of my chest but I didn’t even hesitate to hang on to the life I have I know that it’s my time so I just relax and close my eyes. THE END

Eighth Grade was a really tough time for me. One of the reasons was during this time my parents split apart and by the time I was fourteen I had to choose who I wanted to live with. I chose my mother and she ended up moving to Arizona and that meant Chicago was no more and I had to find another school. All the schools that we looked at were already in the middle of the school year and my mom wanted me to do an online school but fortunately I was able to find one. I took about a week to prepare myself for this new school even though I knew I wasn't going to be able to fit in. Eventually the time came around to go to my new school. I remember the first day being actually quite easy. I realized that I wasn't the only student on his first day. This kid named Gregory was also on his first day. I quickly befriended him and we helped each other find our classes and since he was really good at science and I wasn't he would help me out with homework too. But unfortunately, there was something really wrong about him. Everyday, it didn't matter where he was, he would get bullied to death. Kids all over the school were shouting hurtful words and terrible things at him. Everyday kids would call him, freak, loser, the reason his parents divorced. He said it didn't let it get to him but the demons were building up inside him. Gregory was a really smart kid but his one weakness was his feelings. He said his parents divorced about a month before school started and he decided to live with his dad who is known for having gambling and alcohol addictions. His mother left his dad and ended up taking her own life after realizing she was living like hell. His parents were both sick and honestly I couldn't believe he was able to keep up with both of them. A Lot of the kids at our school said he was adopted but I knew not to believe them since it was another tease. Soon his head was not in the right place after about a month of being bullied. One day after our history class, we were sitting outside in a secret place we shared when he told me something that made me question if he was still himself. “I can't hold on anymore,” Gregory told me, “my eyes are filled with smoke, I feel like I can't breathe no more. I think I might give up.” After the day he told me that, he had only gotten worse. His grades began to slip and he started lashing out on himself. He would cut his hands open and try to turn the mental pain into physical pain. I kept saying to myself “he’ll be fine, he can make it through this” but I knew he might not. It hurt like a blade in my chest that I couldn't help him and I really tried to give him all the advice I could give, but he still had demons inside him. Later on, he started not talking to me at school. I would wait for him in our secret lunch spot but he never came. The only time I got to see him was when I would sit right next to him in a few of my classes. After more and more weeks of him being like this, I think he may have snapped. I checked his notebook one day and I found a list of names. The names were people I knew and they were also people who bullied and picked on him. I spotted a total of 5 names written on the pages. The names were Johnny, who is one of the most annoying kids in the school so I wasn't surprised. Then I saw Tanner and Adam, who are also people who tease him a little bit but I'm sure they don't mean anything bad. The one name that scared me was the name Andrew. To make it worse the name was crossed out in red pen. I've been around the school and I know who everyone is and I can guarantee there is no Andrew in this school. I thought for a minute on who could ruin his life outside of school. Gregory was a really sheltered kid so that narrowed it down to one answer, his dad. The more I thought, the more it seemed to be true. His dad is the reason his mother is dead and his dad is also a sinner, it all lined up. I assumed the worst and began to think this was a death note, he’s keeping track of his targets. I kept thinking and thinking but then I heard something coming from outside. Our teacher stopped to go look outside the window and a few kids followed her. I put Gregory's notebook back and ran to see what the noise was. I looked out the window and I couldn't believe what I was staring at. I felt like I couldn't move and couldn't breathe and I couldn't look away. There was blood on the ground, shaped in a way where I couldn't read unless I got closer. Then I saw Gregory, he was standing right next to the blood with a rainbow bloody knife in his hand. I saw people coming out of their classes looking at Gregory as he stood above the blood. He had a smile on his face and blood spots on his shirt. “Don't come close to me.” Gregory said giggling. Gregory killed 3 kids and a father that day, and there was no coming back from it. When Gregory was there on that day, he never did anything when the police came and took him away, he just watched us. He was taken to a mental hospital and when he was asked why he did it he simply replied, “for the fun” and wouldn't say anything else. The school was never the same. It changed in a small way by getting rid of bullies in our school but some people still bully. Gregory became a name feared by everyone who ever went to that school. Even new staff are warned about Gregory. Things only got worse when people found out Gregory escaped that mental hospital. People feared him, people still poked fun at him, and some even adored him and what he did. I'm now 25 years old, and Gregory I assume is the same age. Eventually Gregory roamed the streets of our town once again. People who used to go to the school claim they see him stalking their lives. They say Gregory dawns a Plague Doctor mask to keep himself hidden but he rarely takes his mask off. From what I've learned, they say he walks at night so his black clothes can blend in. Newspaper articles claim he's killed more people but nobody has ever found him. He watches people at night then he strikes. I've been studying Gregory ever since I found out he broke out of the mental hospital. I'm just waiting for the day for him to come after me.

I’ve been an agent for around 6 years now and no two day is the same. Last month I was escorting a high-profile ambassador from the airport to a World Peace conference, ensuring he wouldn’t get assassinated. This month I’ve been given a slightly different task. My agency, CKRUT Agency, had appointed myself and my partner, Agent Walker, to infiltrate a gun-smuggling operation. The plan was that I’d pretend to work for them, to get to know their structure and all that, and that Agent Walker would remain unknown and monitor their activities from the ‘outside’. Like, usually, he’d literally BE outside in a nearby van, gathering intelligence from a wire I’d be wearing, or taking photographs and so on. It’s always been like that. I’d dive in, head first, wanting to be close and play a part in the action, infiltrating and acting undercover. That was the whole appeal of being an agent for me. Agent Walker is the complete opposite. He prefers to work behind the scenes, to compile and organise the evidence. I don’t think he likes to be in dangerous situations, which is pretty odd for an agent. I always joke that he should change career, that he’s not cut-out for this. He’s a great agent. He’s good at keeping me on task, at following the procedures and thinking logically. He always says to me; “Manny, you need to use your head. You can’t wing it, you always need a plan.” So, anyway, I’ve been working with these gun guys for about a month now, getting to know them, gaining their trust, and Adam has been outside recording the information. It’d all been going smoothly too, up until now. “Patrick, it’s great that you're here. We have something you should see.” That’s my secret name, Patrick. The guy who’s just welcomed me is Gerard, the main man in charge of the illegal activities I’ve been monitoring. He phoned me like 20 minutes ago, saying that he has something he wants to show me. He wouldn’t say what. I was hesitant. Every time I get a phone call and an order to show up somewhere with no explanation, I panic. I always think they’ve discovered my identity. This time is no different. Right now, I’m shit scared. “Of course I’d be here. Yeah, what is it?” I said, trying my best to sound confident. He turned on his heel and walked toward the back of the marvellous mansion. I followed him nervously around the front of the building and to the side, where there was a long, stone corridor with windows showing views of the lustrous grounds of the property. I purposefully kept a few steps behind him, hesitant of what was going to happen. He steered to the right and so I did the same. We went down some steps and through a small archway. I knew where we were going. There was a small basement located under the house that wasn’t actually accessible from the house. You had to go through the corridor. I hope that Adam gets some good info on this, whatever it’ll be. Somewhere along our walk, one of Gerard’s henchmen had joined us. Shit. We got to the basement door and before going in, Gerard turned to me. “Look, kid. I know you haven’t been with us long, but I feel like I can trust you. Now, you can’t say anything about this, OK? Not until I’ve dealt with it anyway. You haven’t been with us that long, but I know who you used to run with, so I’m sure you’ve experienced situations similar to what you’re going to see now. But, just...stay chill.” Stay chill? This guy is 50+, and he’s saying stuff like ‘stay chill’? “Yeah, sure. You can trust me. I won’t breathe a word.” I stated. Adam, you better be ready, man. This is going to be biiiig . Gerard opened the wooden door and we walked into the basement. It’s a smallish room and is different to most typical basements, in the way that it’s extremely well lit. Honestly, it feels more like a lair than a basement, or a dungeon. It’s quite creepy, which is weird because it’s so bright. The room kind of bends to the left a little, so you can’t see the contents of the room immediately, you have to go further into the room. I walked alongside Gerard before bumping into a wooden cabinet that stood in the middle of the room. What I saw before me had startled me so much that I’d forgotten to stop walking. The sudden movement of the cabinet caused a metal vase to skid off the cabinet. It landed on the floor with a heavy thud. Luckily, it didn’t break. I told myself to bend down and pick up the vase, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of what was before me. Gerard crossed in front of me and picked up the metal vase, placing it back on the cabinet. “You OK there, Pat? I told you it could be a little bit of a shock. Come, let’s sit.” He put his hand behind my back and guided me to a small sofa that stood directly behind the metal cabinet, so that when we sat we were facing the wall. Well, not just the wall. We were also facing a bloodied, beaten man, duct-taped to a ‘spinning’ office chair. The body was badly injured and blood dripped down onto the floor, but that’s not what had shocked me. Bruises had formed on his arms and face, but I wasn’t particularly phased by those either. Even the purple, swollen eye that couldn’t even open wasn’t that startling. It was the person that all those injuries had been inflicted upon, which had stunned me. Adam. Shitting hell. I gulped loudly which broke the silence and brought Gerard’s attention to me. He put his arm across my shoulders and leaned back into the couch. “Pat, meet Adam Walker.” He spat. I was frozen. How in the hell... “We found him outside my house there. Andre, you know Andre, my head of security, well he said that there’d been a white van parked on the street opposite the house for the past week. He sent a few guys there to check it out, and guess what. This little rat was in there, recording us! He had all the set up; microphones, headphones, cameras, everything. We don’t know wht, we don’t know what stuff he found out, but we do know that he’s working for an agency.” He explained. “Damn...” Is all I could muster. “Jamie, show Pat the ID.” Gerard snapped his fingers. The guy that stood behind me handed me a black, leather wallet with a small ID card in it. I analysed the card. Adam Walker, Special Agent. Property of CKRUT Agency. A picture of him and everything. Goddamn, Adam. I could feel Gerard’s eyes on me as I read the ID card. I shook my head and spat on the ground. “Goddamn agencies,” I hissed, “they gotta get into everything, don’t they? Annoying rats.” I tossed the wallet back to the henchman. Facing Gerard, I asked. “So, what now? What’s your plan with him?” I asked, trying to not seem interested. I didn’t want him thinking that I was soft or that I knew Adam, for mine and Adam’s sake. Gerard let out a long, deep sigh. “I just don’t know, Patrick. Don’t know at all.” “Well, if he was part of some operation, his little agency probably knows that he’s surveying this place. If he doesn’t report back to them soon, I’m guessing they’re probably gonna send a lil’ search party out to find him. We can’t keep him here. They’ll know that he was around here so this is probably the first place they’d come. I mean, it’s probably a government agency, don’t you think? I reckon it’d be best if we let him go, for our sake, otherwise we’ll get a lot of heat from this shitty agency...Probably.” I finished uncertainly. The men glared at me, their eyes squinted and their arms crossed. Have I said too much? Have I been too precise? Shit. Gerard broke the silence by standing up and striding toward Adam. “He’s right. We can’t kill him and we definitely can’t keep him here, otherwise we’ll have the whole government up our ass. Good call, Pat.” He praised me. Thank God. “However, we need to send a message-” Uh, what? “We need to let them know that we know. We ain’t gonna tolerate this shit. We need to make an example of what happens to rats who try and spy on us.” He growled, pulling Adam’s head back by his dark hair. On instinct, I shot up, as if to object, but quickly stopped when I saw the puzzled faces turn toward me. Adam gave me a look, as if to tell me to stay calm. He knew as well as I did what would happen if they found out we knew each other. “Uhh, how about if...i-if we interrogate him first? Y’know, get all the info out of him. Maybe we can convince him to, like, terminate their operation?” I suggested. Gerard let go of Adam’s hair, causing his head to fall harshly downwards, and walked toward me. He got right up into my face, analysing my expression. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hand reach behind his back. I’d been with him long enough to know that he kept a small handgun in the band of his trousers. “Do you know this piece of shit, Pat? I mean, you sure seem very interested in not hurting or killing the guy. You acquaintances or something?” He quizzed intently. I couldn’t stop myself from stammering. “Wha...What? G-God, no! I ain’t ever met this asshole! I ain’t ever seen him before in my life!” Marching back over to Adam, he gripped his chin and squeezed his face, pointing it to my direction. Addressing Adam, he asked him frantically. “What about you, huh? You know this guy? You seen this guy before? Maybe you’re working with him or something?” Adam shook his head slowly. I stepped forward. “What is this, Gerard? Are you losing it? What do you mean ‘do we work together’? You’re talking crazy!” I scoffed, trying to take another step forward, but my feet stopped when Gerard pointed the handgun directly at my face. I put my hands up on instinct. “No, no. You know what? This does seem a little weird, don’t it? I mean, you have to admit it. You joined us, like, what - a month ago? Out of nowhere! And then now, for a whole week, this pig has been recording us? I mean, how would he even be able to do that? He’d have to have some insider to plant the mics and cameras and shit, right? And you, Patrick, just now, you seem to know an awful lot of ‘technical agency spy’ bullshit words. You working with him? Is it you who’s been setting up cameras, mics, recording us? Huh?” He pointed furiously with his gun. The henchman, ‘Jamie’, stepped up. “Yeah, you got a wire under there, ‘Patrick’?” He asked, a hand hovering over his gun. I gave a nervous laugh and stared at Gerard. “You’re paranoid, man! You’re crazy!” I tried to seem convincing. I could see the panic in Adam’s eyes now. “Go on then, show me you ain’t wearing no wire. Search him, Jamie.” Jamie walked up to me. I was in fight or flight mode, although I wasn’t really in a situation where I was able to do either. He was steps away and I had no plan. Damn. I looked over to Adam. Jamie extended his arms to search me and I took a chance. I grabbed the metal vase off the cabinet and brought it down on his head, causing Jamie to stumble back, stunned. I made a grab for his gun. I gripped it tight and aimed it at Jamie’s chest. I pulled the trigger and the deafening sound was accompanied with the wet splatter of blood landing on my face. His body slumped to the floor and I turned the gun onto Gerard. “Drop the gun, Gerard.” I ordered, though with no sense of superiority. My voice wavered like crazy and I felt my eyes tear up. “What the shit, Patrick!” He raged. “My name’s not Patrick,” I stated, taking a step forward, “I’m Agent Manny Richards and you are under arrest for gun-smuggling, assault and tax-fraud, among other things.” I stated. His eyes filled with rage and his face turned a bright red. I was surprised that he didn’t start foaming at the mouth or that steam didn’t blow out of his ears and nostrils. He looked piiiissed. “So you do know this piece of shit? You RAT! You lying RAAAAAT!” He shouted, the gun shaking in his hand. I glanced at Adam who gave me a small nod. “I never said I know him, I'm just an agent too. Gerard Goodman, drop the gun. If you don’t I will shoot.” I repeated. I knew he wasn’t going to, so that’s when I nodded faintly back at Adam. Finding some strength, Adam drove his head into Gerard’s stomach, causing him to double over and drop his gun. I aimed, breathed steadily, and took the shot. Gerard fell to his knees and fell forward, a pool of blood flowing around his head. My hands shook violently as I lowered my gun and tucked it into my trousers. I hurried over to Adam. I knew there’d be more henchmen on their way. We had to leave, now. I started to untie Adam quickly, a relieved smile on his face. “Goddammit, I was scared.” He murmured, as I untied the last of the ropes and cut the tape. “Thanks, man. I owe you.” “Damn, how did you even let them get you? You dumb asshole.” “I don’t even know.” He said defeatedly, lifting a hand to his swollen eye. I lifted him to his feet and walked him toward the door. I glanced at him sideways, and with a smirk I said. “See, you don’t always need a plan. They hardly ever work.”

River of Knowledge Wet, cold, tired, and hungry. These feeling I could name. They were solvable and temporary. The emotions swirling inside were less tamable. Embarrassed was just the base line. I was in way over my head, and being surrounded by other people only added to my misery. I’m not sure anything would have been different; it might have been a lot worst had I been alone. But I was used to being alone. It was how I preferred these times. Alas, the population for this adventure far exceeded solo, and I found myself struggling with a near emergency and wresting the inner turmoil that arose from it. I knew setting out on this particular trial that it was well traveled and I would not experience the solitude I normally had on my frequent backpacking trips. I also knew it was a long hike in, and known for steep inclines and declines. Roller-coasters as it were. That was the main reason I picked it. 10 miles in, following along the Big Sur River, I came to see if I was physically capable of managing not only the distance, but the elevation gain/loss. I consider myself an experienced backpacking and avid hiker. Very familiar with my gear, set up, break down, pack weight and supplies. The farthest distance I had done up until this point was 8 miles in. Most of the time I do 3-4 miles in to a designated trail camp with individual sites. This was different. It is a first come first serve dispersed “camp ground”. I put camp ground in air quotes, because it really is just a flat place along the river where you find anywhere you can to lay down amongst the others all vying for the same thing. -------------------------------------------------------------- The trees speak in very soft voices. Almost imperceivable. To hear them, a person must not only quiet their outward self, they must quiet the soul within. What the trees say to the soul is profoundly relevant and meaningful, giving wisdom and guidance to whatever life situation you find yourself in. The trees stand tall, firm, and are incredibly generous with their knowledge and ability to lend strength. Help is like the oxygen they release. It doesn’t take them much effort at all, it’s just something they do, naturally. This is the reason I go out on my adventures. To find and achieve solitude, quiet, stillness, and the peace that comes when my soul communicates with the tree’s soul. Upon my return, each and every time, I come back refreshed, restored, centered, and ready to embrace and engage with life once again. ------------------------------------------------------------- This was not the case during or after this particular adventure. It started out as all the others do. I arrived fairly early, paid and parked, and began loading my pack onto my back, checking the straps, zippers, ties, balance and making sure my shoes and socks were secured to my feet properly. I had everything I needed for an overnight, so I stopped for a brief 5 min meditation calling in fun and safety, and then began by putting one foot in front of the other and continued doing that for many miles and many hours. My pack was heavy, my legs were tired, the view was spectacular. I could see out over the ridge line, across the valley and all the way to the Pacific Ocean sparkling blue in the morning sunlight. Other hikers, some with overnight packs on, some just day packs, and a few runners passed me, I held slow and steady as is my trademark speed. The only speed I have. Stopping for a brief trail snack, I was passed by a few more people and this was the point in which I felt the start of worry setting in. The ups and downs of the terrain, the fact that I wasn’t even half way yet, and knowing my destination was first come first serve, and with the amount of people who were all heading to the same spot as me, a lot faster, brought up a growing concern that by the time I got there, there would be no more space to set up a tent. This was also a new trail and destination so I had only YouTube videos and paper maps to guide me as in what to expect. I took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on the reason I was here. Commune with nature and hear the trees. One in foot in front of the other, I put a few more miles behind me and pressed on. The day pressed on as well. The sun reached a high point and the heat of the day brought out sweat and an even slower pace. This increased my anxiety and lowered my ability to calm my soul and hear the message nature had in store for me. Still, I moved forward. Camp was now only a few more miles, and the sun was heading low with a quickness towards the horizon. My legs felt like two concrete pillars, my shoulders ached, I was hungry and smelled faintly like mountain goat. There was the “camp site”! I made it! Almost. The river, swollen from the recent heavy rains, was between me and resting in my tent. People lined the shoreline on the other side, safe and sound. No bridge. Just a deep swift moving wide body of water. My mind was as fatigued as my body. I had never forded a river such as this and had no clue what was in store. Mustering up all my bravery, I stepped in. Slowly, as the cold water pushed my legs, tested my resolve and drenched everything from waste down, I plotted through and touched dry land on the opposite shore. Dropping my pack, thankful to be unburdened, I dumped my gear out, set up camp within arm’s reach of other camps, crawled inside my sleeping bag and closed my eyes. I knew my body was hungry, and I had brought a meal, but that required boiling water, and I just didn’t have the mental energy for that. All I managed to do was open a pack of tuna and eat it. As the sun left the sky, darkness set in, a few lone stars appeared and I dozed off. Very aware of how close the other backpackers were, and that I was far away from stillness, exhaustion and a mild dread of what the morning would bring set in as a restless sleep carried me until dawn. First light, noise of many others breaking down and packing up, roused me. Groggily I emerged and started heating water for my coffee. I felt many eyes, and try as I might to ignore and just carry on with my business, the close proximity of the others was making me very claustrophobic. I drank my coffee, ate a handful of beef jerky and mixed nuts, loaded up and felt weak beneath the weight of it all. First steps of the 10-mile journey began with the treacherous river crossing. No choice. I had to get back. Short legs, heavy pack, swift water, cold slippery stones, faces of others and their well-meaning unsolicited advice; I was almost to the dry bank, a few more steps... down I went! Pack and all, drench and being swept downstream. Only thought was to point my feet down stream and keep my head up. A large rock braced and saved me from being dragged very far. I clung to it like a frog for dear life as two very kind women started calling out, “it’s going to be ok! We got you!!” With their help I scrambled and clawed my way to dry land. Taking a breath and inventory, realizing how many faces were looking concerningly at me, I felt slightly in shock and didn’t know exactly what to do next. The two women, sweet as can be, hovered over me peppering me with advice and concern. I just sat there. The reality of what I had to do next slowly washed over me. -------------------------------------------------------------- I’m soaking, and so is all my stuff, which has added a considerably amount of weight to an already heavy pack. There’s 10 miles of rough incline/decline terrain ahead of me, and I have no privacy to sort out these swirling emotions of failure, panic, and regret. I wait. I wait some more. I dry out a little. The crowd thins out as they finally decide I’m not going to die and they can get on with their day. This is what strength and determination look like. I strap on my pack, secure my belts and zippers, check my soggy shoes and socks, then one foot in front of the other. Continue for many miles and many hours. I pause for a snack break here and there, feel my resolve faltering, gather myself, call my energy back to focus on the task at hand, as one foot in front of the other maintains a slow and steady pace. -------------------------------------------------------------- As I collapsed at the car and burst into tears, I knew I had not heard a single word the trees had to say. I felt little to no stillness and between the crowd and falling in the river most of the fun had been taken out of my adventure. The fun had been replaced with something different. A deep sense of fortitude. A physical capability that can only shine when there is no other choice. It must. A reliability upon myself, and an understanding of my limits and how I handle and adapt when those limits are exceeded. I did not achieve the quietness of soul that is needed to hear the trees. I did achieve the adversity to be able to hear the depths of myself.

My sister, Kelly, said, “Close your eyes, and imagine you’re in dreamland. It’s a magical place where unicorns bound free, and mermaids swim in the deep blue ocean while playing with their dolphin friends.” While clenching my eyes, I tried to picture dreamland, but I knew that wherever we were was not even close to being dreamland and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t convince myself that it was. I didn’t know where we were or even how we got here and for a second, it seemed like we were in a frozen over hell. It was completely dark, I could barely see a few feet ahead of me, and it was chilly enough that I was shivering. *I don’t want to be here*, I thought. ‘*I know,’* Kelly answered, ‘*I don’t either. I want to go back home. How in the hell did we get here?’* I didn’t know how to answer her question and all I could think of was how Kelly and I were happily playing in our basement before all this happened. Kelly, while searching for Christmas wrapping paper that Mom had asked her to find, had found her old box of Barbie dolls that she collected when she was a preteen. She came back upstairs with the box of wrapping paper and gave it to Mom. Kelly looked to where I was sitting on the den floor and came over to me. I was playing Super Mario Bros. on my brand-new Nintendo Nes, which was an early Christmas present because I got all A’s on my midterms. Kelly sat down next to me and asked me if I wanted to play with the Barbies she found. She had her hair in a side ponytail with a hot pink scrunchie holding it up. She was wearing her favorite oversized Madonna sweatshirt with a pair of leggings and a mini skirt. She looked amazing as always unlike me, and I smiled at her. I was wearing a Metallica sweatshirt and acid wash jeans with so many holes that it couldn’t possibly be pretty like Kelly’s mini skirt. I wasn’t a big fan of Barbie dolls anymore because I was 14 and had outgrown them, but since Kelly was usually away at college and only came home for holidays, I said yes to her and followed her downstairs. Kelly shook me from my daydream and said, “Ok, no more daydreaming for you. We must buckle down and find a way out of this horrible place. Alice, I promise you we will.” I said, “Ok, but how? One moment we were playing with your old dolls and the next we wake up here in this hell. I want my mom.” I started to tear up a bit and she looked at me pitifully. She then knelt down next to where I was sitting on the floor and gave me a big hug. She answered with, “I know, sweetie, but everything is gonna be alright and if we are going to find a way out of here, we will have to work together. I understand that you’re scared and cold, but I’m here with you and I promise to protect you, ok?” I nodded while the tears swelled and made my eyes as red as a rose. I remembered being told that my sister was always protective of me even when I was a baby and she was eight years old. She was always there to catch me if I fell. I was bullied a whole ton throughout junior high and Kelly was there when I needed a shoulder to cry on. Therefore, I believed her when she said she’d protect me. I stood up, still a bit unsure about how exactly we’d find our way out of here, but I trusted Kelly and I knew she would never let me down. She wiped my tears away and thought, ‘*What would Magnum do?’* knowing that I loved Magnum P.I. and that watching his shows always cheered me up. I answered aloud cheerfully as if I had forgotten for a sec where we were, “I think he would investigate and find clues in his own way, of course. Let’s do that.” “Wait, did you just read my thoughts?” Kelly questioned. “What? I thought you asked me what Magnum would do.” “No, I asked myself in my head.” It then clicked with both of us what had happened. Our eyes met and we, in unison, said, “It must be Telepathy. We can read each other’s thoughts. So bitchin’.” Kelly grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the darkness. I couldn’t see anything or hear anything for that matter. ‘*Do you see anything?’* I thought. Kelly answered, ‘*No, nothing. I can’t...’* She stopped mid-sentence and before I knew what was happening, she fell and pulled me down with her. We kept falling and falling. I didn’t think it would stop until I saw a vast hole of light at the bottom. I braced for a hard impact, but once we got to the hole, we stopped falling and a flood of light surrounded us. Kelly and I gently fell, as if we were feathers, into a colorful room and heard children laughing. I landed on my squishy bum and Kelly landed softly next to me. She stood up while stretched her hand out to me and I grabbed it. She then pulled me up. *‘Where are we?’* I thought. Kelly answered, ‘*I don’t know.’* Two boys came out of another room and ran right past us while flying toy planes in their hands. I asked the boys, “Hey, do you two know where we are?” But they didn’t answer me. I walked up to one of the boys and waved my hand in front of his face. He didn’t even flinch. He ran right towards me and went straight through me as if I was mist. I looked towards Kelly and her face was white as snow like she had just seen a ghost. A raspy voice called out to me, “Save these kids or you both will spend an eternity with me in hell.” I then felt the icy cold fingers of death on my shoulder, and I blanked out. When I woke up, I smelled smoke and started coughing because the smoke was as thick as pea soup. I noticed that I was in my basement, again, but somehow it was darker than a moonless night. The smell was overwhelming, and I collapsed onto the basement floor. I used all my strength to call out for Kelly, but I didn’t hear anything back. So, I called again. Kelly came crawling up to me. She looked me in the eyes and said, “Everything will be ok. Someone will rescue us.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. “Alice, are you ok?” brought me out of my trance. “Yeah, I am ok, but I think we’re dead, Kelly. It would explain everything. It would be why no one can see us or hear us.” Tears filled my eyes. Kelly said, “But... But we can’t be dead. I want to finish college and I want to see you graduate high school. It’s not fair.” Kelly then noticed I was crying and wiped my tears away. Kelly gave me a smile and said, “It’s ok, Alice. I shouldn’t be complaining as I need to be your big sister and help you. I can’t be selfish and think only about myself. I love you, little sister.” I stopped crying and said, “I love you, too, big sister. Also, a voice told me ‘Save these kids or you both will spend an eternity with me in hell.’ Do you know what that means?” Kelly shook her head and said, “An eternity? That’s a long time. I say we do what it said too, ok?” I nodded in agreement. I then heard the cute kid laughter again and began to walk towards it. Kelly followed behind me. I moved to another room which reminded of me of a playroom, but it was different somehow. I saw two little girls playing with Barbies. One girl had brown hair in two pigtails and the other was a blond with hair in a ponytail. They both were wearing summer dresses. “Aww...” slipped out of my mouth. The little girl with brown hair looked up and saw us. The blond just kept playing with the Barbies. The brown-haired girl ran up towards us and said, “Hi, my name is Abby. What are your names?” *‘Can she see us?’* Kelly thought. *‘I think so, Kelly.’* I answered. *‘Well, answer her and ask her where we are.’* *‘Ok, I will. Hold your horses.’* I rolled my eyes at Kelly. I smiled and answered Abby, “Hi, Abby. My name is Alice, and this is my sister, Kelly. How old are you and can you tell us where we are?” Abby gave us a huge grin and said, “I’m 8 and you guys are in my basement, silly. Come meet my twin, Angie.” “Ok, I would love to meet your sister.” I said and looked at her sister who has happily playing with her dolls. I went up to Angie. I knelt down beside her and said, “Hello, Angie. My name is Alice, and this is my sister, Kelly.” Angie didn’t even look up at me as if she couldn’t hear me. ‘*I don’t think Angie can hear or see us, Kelly.’,* I thought. *‘I don’t think she can, too. Maybe only Abby can see us’* Kelly answered me. Abby intervened and said, “Angie, remember what Mom said about what you should when a grown-up says hi to you. You can’t ignore them.” Angie looked up at Abby, “What grown-ups? You and I are the only people in here.” Abby got frustrated and yelled at Angie, “Alice is right in front of you and Kelly is standing behind her!” “No one is there. They are just imaginary friends. Either play with me or go somewhere else.” Angie yelled back. Abby, who apparently has a temper, said, “Fine, I’m leaving, and my friends are going with me.” She tried to grab my hand, but her hand went right through mine. Abby froze and asked me, “Are you and Kelly really imaginary?” Abby broke down into a crying fest. I reassured her and said, “No, Abby, sweetie, we are ghosts. We were alive once like you are now, but no longer are. I think we are here for a reason. By the way, what year is it?” Abby wiped her tears away and said, “It’s 2017.” My eyes widened. I thought to Kelly, ‘*It’s 2017. God, how many years is that? I remember it being 1985.’* Kelly answered, ‘*It’s been 32 years. I’ve be 54 if I was alive. Wow, no wrinkles for me, I guess. And you would be 46.’* Kelly always knew how to look on the bright side of any situation. I loved that about her. I decided to tell Abby, who was staring right at me, “Wow, Abby, we’re from 1985.” “Oh, that explains why you look like the people from my mom’s college pictures from the 80’s.” Abby snickered. A familiar smell pressed itself into my nose and I knew exactly what it was; It was smoke, my old enemy and where there is smoke, there is always a fire. “We have to get out of this house right now. Abby grab your sister’s hand and do whatever you have to do to get her out, ok? I smell smoke and I know that means there is a fire somewhere.” I said. Abby said, “I smell it, too. Ok, Angie, let’s go. I heard mom call us.” Angie sighed and said, “Fine, I’m coming.” Abby told me, “Wait, what about my brothers? Lucas and Mikel are playing with their planes down here.” I looked down at her and said, “Ok, let’s find them quickly and get out of here.” Kelly, Abby, Angie, and I looked for Lucas and Mikel. We couldn’t find them, and we hoped that they were upstairs safe. The basement was filling with smoke and we could barely see. We raced up the stairs as fast as we could. Luckily, everyone got upstairs, but we weren’t in the clear, yet. We had to get outside before the fire consumed the whole house, but as soon as Kelly and I reached the door, we both heard, “Good job, but I will be back to test you again.” A bright light reached out to us and we walked towards it as if it was calling us. I saw Grandma and Poppop. I yelled for them and sprinted straight towards them. Kelly quickly followed behind. They gave us a big hug and said, “Welcome home.

“Captain! It’s not real! We have to turn back, Smith will die!” No one could hear his screams in the middle of the ocean. Peters, a pirate aboard the Soup Bowl ship, a ship, named so rightly because it’s captain made the best soup in all the land, was frantically trying to take the wheel away from his captain. Captain Rolli was an old man now, back in his day he had long brown hair and a long brown beard, beautiful pierced ears and tan skin, All the women wanted him, all the pirates wanted to be him. Looking at him now, you would think he was out of his mind. Captain Rolli turned to Peters and he shouted, with spit coming out of the sides of his mouth “I am the captain of this ship, you will not touch my wheel, I know it is there and no-one will stop me! Take your hands off of me or I will lock you in the cells! Believe me that!” Peters stopped and sighed deeply before wiping his brow “You stupid old fool!” He says. “You used to be a great man! Now look at you! You’re going to put your men in danger for something that’s not real!” He added furiously as the other men crouched in the back not wanting to be reprimanded for agreeing with him. Peters nodded to his fellow pirates as two of the biggest and strongest men take Rolli by the arms and pull him down to the lower deck, throwing him in a cell and locking the doors behind him. “It’s for your own good!” Shouted Peters as he takes control of the wheel. Hanji and Mario, the two strong men from earlier walk back up to Peters, awaiting their next orders, All they can hear is their Mad Captain screaming from beneath them. “We’re going home!” Cheered Peters and he steered to the Left, Towards Australia, Where a lot of these men once called home. The rest of the crew cheered before continuing to drink, yell at each other and whatever else they were doing. They continued on for three days and three nights, Captain Rolli had been sedated by the crew as best they could with whiskey, Marijuana and whatever else they had spare. He was crying to himself like he had been the whole time, about losing his precious treasure and how he was going to be the one to find it. “The Island Treasure...It was going to be mine” He cried to himself. “You don’t even know where it is you fool...All you had was an old map, torn up map, There’s not even a name for this Island” Peters spoke to himself while looking at this old map, He was now laying in his narrow bed trying to make any sense of any of this, The map was almost a dark brown colour with the amount of dirt and alcohol spills on it. The top of the map said ‘Island Island’ There was a detailed route to 4 ends of the Island where treasure was supposedly buried. “What a piece of garbage” He told Himself as he crunched up the map and tossed it in the garbage can. He awoke at 3 A.M on the dot as the ship swerving pushed him out of bed, he ran upstairs to the top deck and climbed his way to the Wheel. They found themselves in the middle of the worst storm they had ever seen, there was water everywhere, parts of their ship had started to chip away from hitting so many rocks, Peters pulled out his telescope and frantically searched for somewhere to dock, He saw a blurry outline of what looked like an entrance. “Someone wake up the old fool before he drowns down there!” He demanded; amongst the panic the crew had forgotten he was still locked down there. As the crew hurries to free their captain from his cell, Peters swerves the ship to the right to avoid a collision with a massive rock up ahead but the boat becomes unsteady and end up turning over, Peters gets hit with something, It’s unclear what by because of the flooding water. He awakes to find Himself being pulled onto some sand by Rolli. After rolling onto his hands and knees and having a coughing fit he stands up and hugs Rolli tightly. “You’re an old fool but I’m so glad you’re alive...” He whispered to him while breathing unsteadily, He falls back onto his knees. “An old fool aye?” Says Rolli with a big grin on his face, showing his missing front tooth. “Does that look like the sign of a fool to you?” He asked, pulling peters drowsy head to look at the sign to the right of them that read ‘Island Island’. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” He says to himself before quickly standing to the realisation that he could actually have been right. “S-s-so You mean we might actually find the treasure?” He asked darting his gaze back to the Captain. “Oh Captain! We’re gonna be rich!” Exclaimed Peters. “Yes we are” Said Rolly still grinning to himself as he hugged peters again before quickly letting going, peters face started to frown as he realised. “By that Of course I mean, I’m going to be rich” He says as he leans in to peters ear as his grin disappears “I mean have been high off my tits but I’ll never forget you putting me in the brig” He whispers. Peters laughed “Y-You’re joking right?” He asked, looking back at his arms which had been put into handcuffs. “Do I look like I’m joking?” He asked sarcastically as he smiled down at him, his face looked evil. “Now...” He paused for a second “Where is my map?” He demanded. Peters started to look flustered as he looked towards the ship “I...I-I Don’t know” He cried. “Well then” Says Rolli “It’s a good thing I have that map ingrained in my mind” He claimed pointing to his head. “Seeyou around Bucko” He finished as he walked away. “You can’t leave me here! I know boats, I don’t know how to survive on a desert Island! He Screamed, Begging. “Should have thought about that before pal” He laughed as he continued to run away. The crew followed knowing he may be an old fool, but he knew how to survive an Island better than the young Mister Peters, Only one of the crew remained behind with peters, Sumori, He was only just 18, A bit simple to be honest but he was a good lad. He did everything Peters told him. He saved all he could from the ship, at Peters command. Not much could be salvaged, just some old army rations. Captain Rolli and his crew had managed to walk 6 Miles before it started to get dark, They all helped each other make beds and forage for food. By midnight then all had a cramped space to sleep, three oysters and a bundle of seaweed. As the majority of the crew stared on in disgust, Captain Rolli cracked them open and ate them without a second thought. Eventually the crew followed in suit before going to sleep. The captain fell asleep last but he gets to sleep eventually. He wakes to find Smith has unfortunately passed away, He covers him with a thin piece of old bark and closes his eyes for him, Visibly upset he looks around to find two other men had gone missing. Boutelli and Eriks. He clicked his tongue at the thought that his comrades have probably betrayed him. Nevertheless He grabs a sleeping Mr.Trey by the arm and wakes him up. “We Have to go! Or they’ll steal the treasure!” He says panicking. He pulls Trey up and looks for clues to their whereabouts, there is a trail leading to their right and to the left. At This he smiles the way a half crazy, drunk, exhausted old man would as he collects his things. “Idiots have gone the wrong way” He claims to himself. “We have to get movin’ son” He half laughs as he slightly skips in the direction, he believes true. It only Takes them ten hours but they come to a sudden stop. “Sir?” Asks Trey as he struggles to follow behind. Rolli takes 10 steps forwards, seeing something in the distance. “Here...It’s Here! We found it!” He yells as he jumps around for joy. “But sir...They’re Dead” Trey cries at the sight of Boutelli and Eriks lying dead on the floor next to a huge burnt out hole in the ground. Captain Rolli Laughed “That’s what you get for betraying your Captain! I could have told them the treasure was boobie trapped!” He claimed loudly. “Sir...Are you sure you’re okay?” Trey asks. “Oh...You think I’m crazy too do ya?!” He screams getting his face very close to Trey’s. “N-No sir, I believe you, f-forget i said anything” Says Trey. “I reckon ye shall have to prove ye loyalty” Says Rolli. “Dig in this ‘ere hole and retrieve our treasure” Rolli added demandingly. “Y-yes sir” says Trey defeatidly. After digging with his bare hands for 5 hours, he finally pulls a box over to the Captain who had now fallen asleep. ‘He barely looks alive’ Trey thought to himself before gently waking him up. Captain rolly grunts as he awakes but wake quickly he does after he sees what has been laid out in front of him. There’s that evil grin again “Open it” He says softly but demandingly. “Yes sir” He replies, exhausted as he uses a rock to break open the lock, he slowly starts to open the box. Not two seconds later Mr.Trey is on the floor with spikes through his head. Captain Rolli knew there was a second boobie trap, keeps the treasure all to himself. Leaving his dead crew behind him, the crazy man drags the box back to shore, this takes him days but Rolli knows how to survive on a desert Island. He knew since the beginning, He would trick everyone and keep all the treasure for himself. He arrives to shore, colapsing into the sand he frantically looks around, clutching the box to his chest making sure no-one was around to steal his treasure from him like he had done to them. He can’t take much more, He passes out. He awakes, only able to open one eye with the sun shining so brightly into his face he slowly sits up. He hears the sound of an electric boat, He looks back to see Peters, He may look half dead but he’s alive, Rolli’s face collapses as the boat start to leave without him. “Nooooooo!!!” He screams, throwing sand everywhere as he realises he is alone and with no treasure. Peters, standing on the back of the boat, holding up the box and smirking as he road further from shore “Goodbye Captain Rolli...” He whispered to himself relieved, He sat down and took a deep breath, closing his eyes, preparing himself to open the box. He opens the box to find...Another box. Before he gets angry, takes another breath and presses the small green button on the left hand corner. ‘This is Captain Rolli of the Soup Ship Vessel, Please give the secret code to unlock’ He hears the voice activated message, stands up and throws the box as far as he can into the sea. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck” He screams, loud enough for Rolli to hear as the crazy captain starts laughing hysterically.

“Luke! Wait. Where are you going?” She cried. Luke didn’t wait. He kept running. She could see a car some metres away. He boarded the car and it drove off. “Oh! Luke. Where have you gone? Please don’t leave me. We need you. I love you.” She knelt on the floor crying. She opened her tear filled eyes. It was early hours of the morning. She turned. Luke was fast asleep. She pulled herself up to the bathroom. As she washed her face, she wondered what the dream meant. It had been recurrent for the past two weeks. It had come three times the previous week. She had told Luke about the dream. He just dismissed it. ****** “Luke, I’m worried. This is the third time I'm having this dream. Everything is the same. No changes. Everything is exactly the same.” “Come on Sheila. How can you believe in a mere dream? It’s like believing in a fiction.” “But, Luke sometimes dreams come true. Fiction can become reality.” “What am I to infer from what you’re saying? Do you mean I would leave you and Cody?” “No. Come on don't give me that sad look. I’m just worried. It’s recurrent.” “You don't have to. It’s when you worry about something too much, reality steps in. Your fears become real.” “Ok. But... Honey, is there something you need to tell me? I'm all ears. I promise I will listen.” “Mmmm. No. Not all. Everything is fine. Work is fine. If there is, I'll sure let you know.” “Ok dear. Please just be careful.” “I'll sure do. I love you.” “Love you too, honey.” They embraced each other. Luke set off for work while she got Cody prepared for school. ******* She slid back into bed. Luke turned and placed his hand around her. This is the third time she has had the same dream in that week but this time the car was closer. She could see the silhouette of the driver. It matched that of a female. She had decided not to confront him on the matter anymore. I know something is wrong. I know Luke has something up his sleeves. But, is he living me for someone else? I'll definitely find out. Oh! God please help me. These were the thoughts running through her mind. The next morning she made breakfast for him. As he sat to eat, she also sat vis-à-vis him. “Why the stare?” “Nothing.” “Ok.” “Luke, do you remember the first time we met?” “Yeah! I do. You almost fell while running down the stairs to catch the bus. I held you and you fell into my arms.” “No,” she laughed. “That wasn’t the first. That was the second.” “Ok. When was the first?” “The first was inside the art exhibition hall. I stood speechless looking at a painting. You came and stood beside me. You asked if I like it and I said I deeply do. You said it looked dreamy and asked what it was all about. I told you it had two meanings. One, it talked about, ‘the heart cry of one for a fallen tomorrow' and two, ‘the decline in the beauty of nature'.” “Yeah! I can still remember vividly. I got you that painting as a birthday gift.” “Yeah! That’s the one hanging at the corridor,” she laughed. “Hmmm. It’s good to go down memory lane a times. You’ve had a good laugh this morning.” “Oh! That’s true.” “Hey, I'm late for work. We’ll talk more when I come back.” “Ok! Don’t stay late.” “I’ll try.” He stood up and gave her a kiss on her forehead and left while she got Cody prepared for school. It was break time at work. Luke’s phone rang. It was Olivia. Doesn't she have any other thing to do at this time? Must she always call. “Hello.” “Hello! Honey. How are you?” “I'm fine.” “Are you sure you are? You sound cold.” “Olivia, I was just in the middle of something important when you called.” “So I’m not important?” “No... you are. I’m just kind of busy.” “But, I thought you should be on break?” “Yeah. You’re correct but today I have a spill over. Just need some few minutes to finish up.” “Ok. No problem.” “Thank you.” “Are you coming for dinner tonight?” “No. I... don’t... think so.” “But why? You promised. I have got everything ready. I'm preparing your favourite meal.” “Oh! I’m so sorry. We’ll reschedule another day.” “When? What other day?” “Tomorrow. Next. Don't worry, I’ll make it up to you.” “But, why can’t you make it tonight?” “Work has been hectic. I have a backlog on ground. Don’t worry, we'll sure have a good time together.” “Ok honey. Promise me.” “Yeah. I promise.” “Love you.” “I love you too.” He heaved a sigh when the call ended and shook his head. For some days, he didn’t pick her calls. He also avoided taking the route around her office. He thinks she might keep late to watch him pass. Luke had gone to work. Unknowing to him that last night he was trailed by Olivia. She was in her car waiting for Sheila to take Cody to school. She followed them behind. She came back to Cody’s school later. He was at the playing field. She took at the gate looking at him. Cody turned and he saw a woman staring at him. She waved to him and he waved back at her. He told his teacher that there was a woman staring at him and he didn’t know her. His teacher alerted the security guards. She told them she was having a view of the surrounding and that she was looking for a new school for her son. She was asked to go in and make enquires which she did. ******* “Mum, do you know what happened in school today?” “Oh! Cody, how do you expect your mum to know if you don’t tell her. Your mum is not telepathic.” “Ok...” “She's not Jean Grey,” they said it together and laughed. “Ok, Cody love, tell me what happened.” “Mum, when I was on the playing field. I saw a woman staring at me. She waved to me with a smile and I waved back at her. I told my teacher and she alerted the security guards.” “Then what happened?” “I saw them talking to her and later she went into the school.” “Did you see her again?” “The next time I saw her, she was entering her car. She then drove off.” “Oh! Cody.” Luke was back from work. He was having his shower when his phone beeped. It was a message from Olivia. The phone was beside Sheila. She glanced to read the message. Don't think I don’t know where you live. Don’t think I don’t know your wife and son. I was at his school today. He’s a cute boy. Please... come back home. “Darling.” “Yeah! Can we have dinner now?” “Darling. Who is Olivia? “She... she’s a colleague. How did you know about her?” “Please, don’t ask any further. A colleague that went to our son’s school.” “How did you know?” “Cody came from school today..., she breathed heavily.” “Please calm down and talk to me.” He moved close and held her. She took off his hand. “Cody came from school today. He said he saw a woman staring at him. He said she smiled and waved at him.” “Oh! My God. Where is he? Where is my son?” “He’s upstairs sleeping. While you were bathing, your phone beeped. It was right beside me. I glanced and I saw this message.” She handed over the phone to him. He read It, “What!,” he shouted. “So all this while you've been having an affair. I have been having the same episode of dreams. I told you about it and you dismissed it. You said they were all fiction. I even told you to confide in me that I was all ears. All you said was that there was nothing to tell.” “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you. We were friends before I married you. She was out of town for a long time. Then out of the blues, she came back and we got intimate.” “It seems she’s obsessed with you. I’m no longer safe with you neither is Cody.” “No you are. I love you. I love Cody. You’re my wife. He’s my son. You two make my world complete. I’ll be lost without you and Cody.” “But... you've opened a can of worms.” “Don't worry I’ll close it back. I promise.” “Ok.” Luke scheduled a meeting with Olivia. He warned her to stay clear his life and that of his family. She didn’t heed. She kept calling and sending messages even at late night hours. Luke reported to the police. She was given a restraint order. It didn’t slow her down. She devised another means. She knew he liked listening to 10pm news and she also knew the TV station she worked with was his favourite so she lobbied to always read the news. Since she was good at the game, she was granted the offer. They had brought it long before to her doorsteps but she refused so they were glad she finally took the offer. Luke was frustrated. Sheila was fed up with the whole situation. He had come back from work one day. He noticed Sheila wasn’t lying in the couch reading and waiting for him as she usually does. He called her name but there was no response. Where is she? Is she in the bathroom? He thought. When he entered the bedroom. He saw a note lying on the bed. He picked it up and read it. Twelve Truths About You 1) You’ve been a wonderful husband. 2) You’ve been so caring. 3) You’ve showed unusual empathy. 4) You dote on me lavishly. 5) You’ve been so supportive of my dreams. 6) You listen to me when I need someone to. 7) You don’t have a big ego. 8) You’ve been a loving father to our son. 9) You’ve always given me a shoulder to lean on. 10) You always had wonderful places in mind for us to go on vacation. 11) Your ideas have been out of the box. 12) You’re a high flyer. Your ambitions are as high as the mountain. It’s a huge delight. Thank you for been there for me. Thank you for been there for Cody. We love you. I'll miss you. I know he will too. By the time you’re reading this. We’ll be off in the air. If you want to see me, you know where to find me. Love, Sheila. Luke didn’t wait to change. He dropped his bag, entered his car and sped to the airport. He ran to the counter and asked if any plane had taken off. He was told there had been a bit delay in departure but the plane was about taking off. He thanked the receptionist but before he was allowed access through, the plane had taken off. He stood in the rain, tears streamed down his face.

Well, since you asked me how I got that strange, terrifying, statue outside my house. I believe I can answer that question. It began, eight years ago, when I took up residence in a large cottage, that lay just outside the woods, and was a good five minute walk from the town. When I moved in, I decided to try and set up a strawberry patch in the woods, for I wanted to grow my own fruit, instead of paying far too much for store bought rubbish. So, I began digging and preparing land for the upcoming spring, when I caught sight of something in the distance. It looked like a large hairless man, crouched on all fours like a wolf, or perhaps a dog. It looked to be about a mile from my home, and it was staring at me. "Begone strange creature" I yelled at the beast "Don't you know this land is private property" I said, pointing at the sign that stated that these parts of the woods were my private property. The creature was unmoving. "Come on now" I said, picking up my rake and pointing it at the creature that was quite far away "Go away" After twenty more minutes of trying to coerce the monster off my land, I sighed, put down my rake, and returned to my home. As I ate my dinner, I had the sudden urge to look out of the window. I opened the blinds and checked for the creature. There it was, same position, same place, same glaring expression. Unnerved, I retired to my bedroom where I had a happy time browsing the strange website known as Reddit. When I awoke in the morning, I decided to inspect the creature. I walked through the trees, ignoring the strange notes, pages, and various carvings of eyes, monsters, and a tall man in a suit, I caught sight of it. I picked up a stick and began poking the still creature. It screeched but still did not move. I checked behind it and saw that it had appeared to have moved a quarter of a mile in the night. I opened it's jaw and checked it's teeth, they were covered in strawberry juice, as well as it's claws. It's skin was leathery and it's eyes were fierce and terrifying. I decided it was a statue being used as a prank, and took out a pin, a pen, and a piece of paper, and scribbled a strongly worded not asking the perpetrators to remove the statue, and then pinned it to the back of the creature. I saw the eyes grow wide and water begin to well up in it's sight spheres. I tutted at the animatronic as I now presumed, and returned to work on my strawberry patch. However, after an accident with a time warp, I instead woke up two days later and decided, out of interest, I opened the window. The statue was now right outside the strawberry patch, and about fifty metres from my house. I strutted up to the creature, noting the note still sticking out of it's skin, and the monster was no longer still. "Well" I told it "If you want to have strawberries, your going to have to work to get them" I handed it a rake, and pointed at the leaves around my allotment "Now rake and harvest my strawberries!" I yelled, and began to walk away. When I looked outside during lunch, I saw the raking creature raking and harvesting. "Good Raking Creature" I called "Bring in some strawberries!" The raking creature raised it's head, put down the rake, and began picking the strawberries and putting them into a basket, before bounding to my house. The door slammed open and it joined me at the table. It slammed down the basket, and began devouring the strawberries. "You idiot!" I yelled "You've eaten them all! Now there's no seeds left and no strawberries!" The creature looked me in the eyes. They were red like the strawberry juice that was now on my table. It stared, before it growled. It stepped outside and went back into the woods. I was eating my dinner but a few hours later when suddenly the raking creature slammed against the window. I let out a scream and leapt to the front door and into my car. As I drove, the woods were to the right of me, and I could see something moving among the trees. I drove for ten minutes before I reached my destination. I had passed this shop many times before, but now I would finally enter. The shop was known as Dawes' Witchcraft Emporium, and it looked as if it were an antiques shop filled with wizards tools. I threw myself out of the car and into the shop. I was met by a child wearing a pair of spectacles, a school uniform, and robes that were far too long with stars on. He stared at me, I stared back. "Do you own this shop child?" I asked the child "No, I'm just looking after it while everyone else is at sainsburys" he replied "The names Harry" "Do you have anything that could get rid of a raking creature?" I asked him "Of course we do, shall I get you a medium sized wand with a twelve M crystal" "Yes, that should do just fine" "How about a cauldron?" "What?" "A cauldron, mix up some potions, enchantments, other things" "I'll take them!" I yelled The boy handed me a large heavy box that showed a cauldron and a load of potions, that read ***'Cauldron Starter Set'***, and was very heavy. He also handed me a beautiful wand with a large glowing purple crystal on the end. He scanned the items. "That will be $369.98" He told me. I handed him my credit card and payed for the items before returning to my car. I placed the cauldron in the back with the large oddly familiar statue in the back. I sat in the driver’s seat, and began the drive back home. As I looked in the rear-view mirror, I realised the Raking Creature was in my cars back seat. I screamed and pulled over and ran into the woods clutching the wand. I ran past various notes, scrawlings, and other various pages, until I eventually ran headfirst into a tall man in a suit with no face. “Oh, hello there” I said as my vision turned to static and I blacked out. When I awoke, it was night time. My head hurt, and there was a raking creature slobbering over me. “I told you!” I yelled “You ate all the strawberries!” I scrabbled for the wand the child in the store had given me and found it. I lifted it with both hands. “Anti-Raking-Creature-Blast!” I yelled at it. Nothing happened. As I ran through the undergrowth, the raking creature on my heels, I looked over the wand and saw a sticker on one part. ***‘Requires registered spells contained within the magical spell cloud book. Not Included’*** ‘Damn’ I thought. And then I saw it, in the distance, the shop! I ran across the road, nearly getting both me and the creature run over by a car. I banged on the windows and opened the door. The creature was prevented from entering within a radius of five metres of the shop. The boy was waiting for me behind the till. “I suppose you will be wanting the spell cloud book” “What does the cloud part mean?” “It updates whenever someone makes a new spell. A new page magically appears on every copy” “Oh, well I’ll take it!” “That’ll be $79.99” I paid the child, and confronted the creature outside the store. I opened the 2793 page book to the table of contents, and tried to find a total obliteration spell. There wasn’t one. Then I saw it, magical force field, protects you and an area of your choice from any form of attack. I tapped on the title and the book turned to the page I wanted. I cast it. The creature leapt at me the moment I left the vicinity of the store. It bounced off as if I was a living bouncy castle. I began running until I finally got to my house and cast it again. The creature stood on the outside, ever watching, ever growling. Many people tried to mug and stab me, calling me a freak or a demon. And outside my house, the monster still growled. I grew annoyed of this and so I used a spell to turn it into a statue and left it outside my house as a warning. Next to it I put a sign.

"Hello, my name is Caydee and I am sick." The words roll off of my tongue, echoing around the still room. "Hello Caydee." What a perfect welcoming at life after death. Yes it is an actual title. Can you believe it? But I like to refer to it as coping with deaths anonymous, because that is all we are doing. Finding a legal and appropriate way to emotionally handle the ending of our lives. Confusing huh? I'll start from the beginning. 10 years ago, there was a deadly virus that killed approximately 15,000 Americans and foreigners. A facility known as "The Pradesrix" began a study on what was thought to be a breakthrough in science. A new world order into health. The Scientists were working a serum that was supposed to cure every disease that ever surfaced. The experiments started off small, using test subjects such as rats, mice, small vernon and the works. After months of injecting viruses, The Pradesrix wanted to start the work on humans. Of course the government did not allow such things unless there was proof of success. The corporation decided that it would be best to use anonymous subjects. Also known as the homeless and the ones beyond saving. Results went well, the paperwork and documented results were sent to the government. Once approved, an advertisement was posted in the papers. The paper said, "New jobs! Ages 18+ . Must be healthy and in good shape. $15 a day per test. Seeking help now!" With an advertisement like that, paying as much as fifteen dollars a day, there was no questioning the amount of citizens that signed up for it. Everything was going well, so we thought. October 18, 2006. A day that marked history, forever. No one really knows what happened that day. Some say that a test subject got loose, others say that the scientists damaged the genome with the DNA of an animal. There was no recorded proof, according to the cops. Anyway, I remember that day like it was yesterday. A fire erupted from the first floor of the laboratory, spreading quickly, escalating to several floors of the building. It was all over the news. Anyone could hear the screams of the people inside the building. Some jumped to their deaths and others were burned alive. Blood curdling, agonizing sounds filled the air. It was absolutely terrifying. Not long after, the fire department and reporters showed up, bringing the events to live TV. After 6 long hours, the fire died down. But there was a strange hue in the air. There were no survivors reported. An hour passed. Firefighters and news crews stood idly, taking in the scene when suddenly, a shadow moved in the background. Quick paced footsteps echoed off the charred cement and shattered glass spread all over the floor. "Quick, get a close up,” the crewmember shouted. The news crews ran up to the scene. The crewmember shouts, "I don't see anything. Just wait! Jill come on let's go." Another shadow passed, louder crunching sounds. The cameras turned, focusing on something sitting in a corner. How can this be? There were no survivors. It sat there, hunched in the corner with its back faced to the camera. Shaking. There was black gunk and blood spilling beneath this thing. It had something in its hand. Low growls filled the silence. Was it...eating? The news reporter reached her hand out slowly, touching its back. It was cold, almost frozen. "What the hell?" the reporter said. Suddenly, the thing turned on her. Leaping and pushing her back against the wall. Pacing, it climbed on top of her, staring at her. It had a veiny pale face, eyes dark black, soulless. Arms stretched from its sockets and feet extended. "Sir, sir are you alright? I can get you help. Can you hear me? I'll just go and ca-" The reporter was cut off, as the creature atop her took a deep, bite from her neck. Pulling back, it began to chew on the flesh that was hers. Her face lay agape, unable to scream. Blood began to see from the gash that was her neck. Two more figures appeared from the darkness. Charging. "Oh God, what have we done!" the cameraman shouted in terror. Darkness filled the screen...

Bright, hot sunlight smacked us right in the face, as we jogged up the stairs, emerging from the tepid subway. Breathing heavily from the reluctant exercise, I turned to look at Dehv next to me. She was fumbling to put her sunglasses on, the dazzle outside had caught her by surprise. “God it’s hot out today!” she said loudly. We walked into the street, the noise of the thick traffic and crowd felt especially uncomfortable in this summer heat. “I know,” I replied thoughtfully. “I should’ve worn more sunscreen.” “Are you kidding me!” Dehv exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “You practically took a bath in it. You’re like 90% sunscreen, 10% Yura right now!” I smirked and she smirked back for a split second, then turned her face away abruptly. The streets were busier than usual, setting the tone for the rest of the season. Tourists mixed alongside natives, taking selfies at coffee shops, crowding around street performers, and competing for the attention of cab drivers. “I can’t wait to go on holiday,” Dehv said. “Look at this madness! The sooner we leave for the UK, the better.” I glanced sideways at my girlfriend, nodding in acknowledgment. But not agreement. Dehv grabbed my arm suddenly, pulling me out of the stream of people and onto the edge of the sidewalk. It was the most we’d touched in months. Sweat formed around the edges of my temple, wetting my hair. “Let’s go through the park,” she said, pointing across the road at the stone walls. “It’ll be much cooler, yeah?” “Good idea,” I replied nodding. We didn’t bother walking to the pedestrian crossing a few meters away, it was way too packed. Instead, we looked left and right, took a deep breath, and sprinted across. Cars honked loudly, motorists yelled, and pedestrians gawked uninterestedly as we ran through, shouting apologies and profanities. “Sorry!” “Excuse us!” “Fuck you too!” “Go to hell asshole!” We landed on the other side of the street, huffing, and puffing. Heart pounding, sweat dripping under my t-shirt, I smiled. I looked around at Dehv but she’d already started walking towards the park gates. My lips faltered downwards as I jogged to catch up to her. It was much, much cooler in the park. The trees were providing a welcome respite from the strong glow of the sun. A swarm of people was starting to develop here too. I turned to mention it to Dehv, but she had taken out her phone to scroll through emails. I turned away and we walked in silence for a while. The shade cooled my damp face, I wiped some drops from my brow. By instinct, we both turned right at an intersection in the path, a long stretch of paved road that led to the east exit. We’d walked this way plenty of times on our way to and from dates, hangouts, and parties. We laughed our heads off, drunk and high and sober, but we weren’t laughing now. We walked past a group of men playing chess and my head automatically looked to the right, searching for the ever-present hot dog stand. I smelled it before I saw it, the heat was holding the scent of grilled meat hostage in the air around us. “I’m gonna go get a hot dog, do you want one?” I asked Dehv, turning to her. “Ew, no thanks,” she replied, grimacing. “It’s like 9am Yu, you’re really gonna eat a hot dog?” “It’s not for me,” I responded placidly. “It’s for Park Steve.” “Who?” Dehv asked quizzically, peeling her eyes away from her phone at last, and turning to me with some effort. “Park Steve, you know,” I repeated frowning. “He lives here in the park?” Dehv blinked back at me, silently confused. I stopped walking and exhaled irritably into the tepid air. “Park Steve, Dehv. I’ve told you about him a hundred times, I always stop by the hot dog stand and get him one...just in case he’s around?” Dehv inhaled slowly, she raised her eyebrows and her mouth opened into an ‘Oh’ as comprehension dawned on her. “You’ve - you’ve even met him Dehv. I mean there was that one time, we were walking back home from work-” “I remember, I remember geez,” she said waving her hands as if to dispel the memory. I sighed and stopped walking. Dehv overtook me and paused. She turned to look back at me, puzzled. “What?” she asked spreading her arms and tilting her head. I sighed, looking down, shifting my weight around. “I’m just - I’m going to get a hot dog and look for Park Steve. You go on ahead, I’ll meet you at work.” Dehv frowned. “What are you talking about?” she glanced at her phone. “It’s already 9:15 Yura, we’re gonna be late for work!” “It’s fine, just go on without me,” I insisted, looking up at her, at last. A warm breeze blew around us, shifting the leaves up in the trees above our heads. The sun made a momentary appearance, flashing across Dehv’s beautiful face. I squinted at its brilliance. She was staring at me, disbelief, confusion, annoyance, and exasperation passed across her eyes, her nose, her mouth. I read her face like a book I’d loved my whole life. She shrugged her shoulders at length. “Okay, I’ll meet you at work, I guess.” She hesitated. “But don’t be late, I’m not making excuses for you!” I nodded. She paused for a split second, then turned and walked away, increasing her pace as she did. I stood still for a second, enjoying the brief release. Then I turned to jog over to the hot dog vendor. Ordering the usual, I grabbed it from the man’s hands hurriedly, my hands growing warm and uncomfortable from the heat of the meat. I handed over the cash and rushed out of the queue, stepping back onto the path. Glancing around the park, I tried to scan for Steve. It was so crowded today; the weather was lovely, begging to be enjoyed. Steve wasn’t welcome to join in though, I knew that. He was probably laying low somewhere. I walked seemingly aimlessly until I saw a small stream and a stone bridge on my left. My feet moved automatically again; I knew this place. The bridge was crowded with people, taking pictures and videos of what seemed to be a marriage proposal. I rolled my eyes and swerved to the edge, deviating from the bridge altogether, heading for the low, grassy embankment instead. I slipped on the green a little as I trudged down to take a peek under the bridge. “Steve?” I called into the low concave. “You there?” He poked his head out promptly, face covered in dirt, eyes raised in curiosity. He grinned when he saw me. “Oh! It’s only you Miss Y!” he said pleasantly. He stepped out cautiously, glancing up. Some people looked down at the sound of his voice, then quickly averted their eyes. He did the same and looked back at me, still smiling. “I thought you might need a hot dog,” I said walking to him slowly, the prize outstretched. “Mighty kind of you ma'am, I’m grateful to ya,” he replied, reaching out to take it. The grin widened, revealing mismatched and stained teeth. He opened the silver foil noisily and shoved the bun into his mouth without delay. I looked away, up at the bridge where the crowd was slowly dispersing. “Some weather we’re having huh?” “No kiddin’” Steve replied through mouthfuls, licking the relish off his fingers. I reached back to the side pocket of my backpack and pulled out my flask, holding it up. “You want some coffee?” He glanced at the canister and shook his head. “No thank you Miss Y, I got my own drink,” he replied, chomping. He reached into his pocket to reveal a square glass bottle of liquor. I sighed and nodded, putting the flask back into the side pocket. “We’re in a drought, you know,” Steve said, polishing off the last of the hot dog. He crumpled up the foil and put it into his pocket. “Hmm,” I responded, not really listening. “No rain for almost 5 months now, you know,” Steve said, pulling out the glass bottle and opening it. He took a long swig, gargled the liquid in his mouth, then swallowed loudly. We stood apart in pleasant silence for a few minutes. A breeze blew overhead, the stench of the river blew back at us. I scrunched my nose. “It’s gonna rain tonight,” Steve said suddenly. “What’s that?” I asked, snapping out of my reverie, turning to him. “I said, it’s gonna rain tonight,” he repeated raising the bottle and waving it around. The clear liquid swished around inside, droplets escaping from the top. I looked up at the clear, blue sky. “The weathermen say different,” I said looking back at him and pointing up. Steve laughed unsteadily. “Weatherman don’t know what he’s talkin’ about, they don’t know shit!” I shrugged. “It’s gonna rain tonight Miss Y. I can feel it. Gonna be a big storm too, thunder and lightning. You best prepare for it, too,” he said with sudden seriousness, pointing a muddy finger at me. “I’ve got an umbrella,” I replied casually, blinking and looking over the dirty stream. The water was still. “Good, good,” he responded, still looking at me. “Crazy things happen in the heat. People get aggro you know, shit boils up.” “Uh huh,” I replied, nodding without understanding. “All that tension, all that heat ain’t got nowhere to go,” Steve said, replacing the lid back onto his bottle, screwing it closed. He shoved the glass back into his pocket. “Then, when the rain comes,” he paused. I looked at him. He raised both arms, spreading his fingers wide. “Pppoooof!” he exclaimed loudly. I blinked in surprise. People on the bridge looked down curiously, pointing and laughing. I glanced up at them uncomfortably and glanced back at Steve, taking a step back unevenly. “You better prepare for the rain young lady,” Steve repeated with a strange look on his face. “I got a feelin’ that it’s not gonna be easy, you gotta a whole lotta heat in you.” I took another step back, and crossed my right arm to my left, rubbing my shoulder awkwardly. Steve’s face was so serious that I let out an uncomfortable, involuntary laugh. He stared back at me, without blinking. Sweat formed on my temples again, despite the shade I was in. My palms were getting slippery, I released my shoulders and rubbed my hands together absentmindedly, shrugging. “It was good to see you, Steve,” I said, at last, raising a hand awkwardly in farewell. He was still staring silently, as though waiting for me to burst into flames. Then he blinked rapidly, smiling and nodding. “Thank you for the hot dog Miss Y. You take care now!” he said, waving and grinning widely. “You’re welcome!” I said backing up the hill awkwardly. “See ya!” I called, turning and jogging away. People turned their heads curiously as I clambered up the embankment and onto the bridge. Without changing my pace, I began to sprint. *** “Yu-Yu!” Sara, my co-worker said cloyingly from behind me. “Let’s get lunch?” “Too busy right now,” I replied, without turning around. “Aww! But you’ve been working all morning, what’s so important anyway?” she wheeled her chair backward as I quickly pulled up a new window on my screen. Inhaling, I looked at her as she stared. “Hmm? Budget reports? Boo!” she said, sticking her tongue out and wheeling back to her desk. “Ravi! Let’s get lunch,” she called out to someone else across the room. I exhaled in relief. Glancing back to make sure the coast was clear, I switched back onto the window I was on. Logging in, I clicked until I found my flight details. I bit my lip and stared at the screen, the cursor hovering over the ‘Cancel Booking’ button. “Whatcha doin’?” a voice close to my ear asked suddenly. I jumped in my seat and let out a shriek. People around me looked up for a moment, then went back to work. “Oh my God Dehv, you scared me!” I said in a low voice. I minimised my screen irritably and looked at her. She smirked. “You busy?” she asked without apology. I sighed. “A little, I guess. What’s up?” Dehv pulled out her phone and leaned on the side of my desk. She wasn’t looking at me anymore. “Just wondering if you’ve eaten already. I was gonna order something from the vegan place.” She tapped her screen and scrolled. I looked at her in silence. “They have a new smoothie - berry and kale, want to try it?” Dehv asked. I stared at her, her long hair tucked behind her ear, falling casually around her face and down the side of her shoulders. She was wearing her mustard full-sleeve blouse today, I thought. She wore that when she was anxious. I glanced down at my own outfit. I was wearing a plain old pale pink T-shirt. I only wore this when I was anxious. “Dehv,” I said suddenly. “Mmm?” she replied, not looking up. “Did you...did you know that we’re in a drought?” I asked, staring at her. “Hmm...? Drought?” she asked, absentmindedly. “Yeah, a drought. For like the past 5 months,” I said, moving my hands away from my laptop, covering the keys in salty sweat. “Let’s go to lunch Dehv,” I said suddenly, standing up. “What?” Dehv said, snapping to attention. She pulled herself off my desk. “You want to go out? But I thought you were busy?” I grabbed my phone off my desk and bent to retrieve my backpack off the floor. “I’m not too busy for you,” I replied quietly. I straightened, looked at her and smiled. She looked at me quizzically, then shrugged and nodded, smiling. “Okay, let’s go.” She turned to walk ahead of me, as I pushed my chair in. A lump was forming in the back of my throat. *** “My dad asked if he could pick us up from the airport,” Dehv said casually, she poked at a cherry tomato and put it into her mouth. “I told him it’d be fine.” I nodded. “What’s wrong with your food, don’t you like it?” Dehv asked, pointing to my full bowl of salad with her fork. I glanced down at the untouched forest of greens and the clean cutlery on the table. “Oh..uh..no it’s fine,” I said, picking up a fork. The silver slipped between my sweaty fingers. I put the fork into the bowl, moving the food around listlessly. “Mmm, anyway,” Dehv continued. “My mom said it’s fine if you stay with us.” Dehv took a big bite of her salad. Nodding, I put my fork back down. I grabbed the glass of iced water next to the bowl and started chugging. Drops of cool fell down the sides of my mouth. I wiped them away with my warm palms. “Are you okay?” Dehv said staring at me. I looked at her. We were making eye contact - for the first time in very a long time. She was looking at me for the first time in a very long time. “I’m - I don’t think I - I am, no,” I blurted out. The ice cubes in the glass I was holding rattled as my hand trembled. I put it back onto the table and pressed both my hands onto my thighs firmly. They were hot and damp. “What’s the matter?” Dehv asked, putting down her fork. Her beautiful brown eyes were wide with concern. I didn’t look away for fear of losing her. “I-I...I want to talk,” I began awkwardly, breathing fast. My heart thrummed. “Okay,” Dehv replied nodding, she pulled her chair closer to the table, her forehead scrunched up. She didn’t look away. “What is it, Yu?” “I want to talk about...the - the drought,” I said, my own eyes narrowed in confusion as the words tumbled out. “The - the... drought?” Dehv asked, her forehead scrunching even harder. Concern and confusion mingled across her face. “Yeah, the drought. You see Dehv,” I said inhaling, sweat dripping down my sides. “There’s like a drought right now and, well...it’s going to rain tonight. Like a huge storm, thunder and fucking lightning.” I raised my right hand and spread my fingers wide. “Uh huh,” Dehv replied more confused than ever. She reached out and touched her fingers to mine, making me tremble. She enclosed her digits around mine, pulling my hand down to the table gently. “Sweetie, I think you’re having...some sort of breakdown.” “I know,” I replied calmly now. Dehv’s head twitched in surprise. “I know, Dehv. What I’m trying to say is, that, the drought is us. We’re the drought,” I opened my palms, as sticky and sweaty as they were, and grabbed hold of her hand. She looked down at our enclosed fingers, then looked back up at me. Understanding fell over her face, forcing the breath out of her and flushing her cheeks. Dehv tightened her grip, staring hard at me. “Y-you - you said it was going to storm...soon?” she asked, her lips were trembling a little, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. I leaned forward and reached out to stroke her face with my other hand. She shivered. In the distance, a low rumble shuddered across the cloudless sky.

Chapter Four: Past Salem; 23, La Jolla “Jimmy, Damien said that he found someone close to us to hijack dad's plane. He said he didn’t have to pay them, they wanted to do it.” I say as I dress behind a curtain in the hospital triage. Jimmy doesn’t say anything for long moments and I can see him thinking about what I just said. When he does speak his words break my heart, “Salem, please don’t believe anything that maniac said. He was saying ANYTHING to hurt you.” I look at Jimmy, his skin just as flawless as it has been my whole life, he looks wrecked from the havoc going on in our lives. His normally happy eyes are downcast and sad. I felt bad that this was having such a bad effect on Jimmy. He looked more tortured about what had happened with Damien than he did after the plane crash. “He wasn’t lying!” I still reject his denial. “I could tell when Damien lied, his left eye twitches.” I say before correcting myself, I mean twitched. “Damien was crazy and confused, but he wasn’t a liar.” Jimmy is , the thought was random but I knew it was true. Jimmy and Jordan had lied to me plenty of times, they seemed to think if it was protecting me. Now I was left with Jimmy, who is a coward and obviously hiding something that he doesn’t want me to investigate. “Honey.” Jimmy starts, “How about we let Jordan rest in peace. In the end, he was doing what he loved most. It was the Lord’s plan for Jordan to impact fashion, impact the world. For a white man, Jordan was culture!” Tears began falling and he sniffled. “Honey, I don’t want to give the media anymore t ruths to exploit and mix with lies. There’s no eyewitnesses to give a true story, there’s nothing to find there.” But there was, the person who hijacked the plane lived, right? I wondered if Jordan’s cameras on the plane recorded to the JET cloud. Jimmy stands rubbing my arms, his expression sympathetic. “Salem I’m going to fly out the day after tomorrow. Whenever you’re ready to move on and not talk about Jordan’s unfortunate, tragic fate.” He starts sobbing, “This is why I cannot. His passing is my worst nightmare, the worst day of my life. I don’t want to keep talking about it.” His voice was cracking as he sobbed. I could understand why constantly bringing up the past could hurt. Then it hit me, Jimmy didn’t want to know the truth. There was something else going on that Jimmy didn’t want the world to know. I would definitely investigate, privately. I could never forgive the fuckers who did this or forgive Damien unless there was justice. “Retribution isn’t the answer.” Jimmy says as if he can read my thoughts. I didn’t respond because running and hiding wasn’t the answer either. Damien is dead. I would never be able to have him sent to prison, he wasn’t coming back. The hijacker however, was out there. If the Marine patrol was right then someone had a speed boat waiting and ended up driving Jordan to the island, hoping to save him, after attempting to kill him. Why? There was so much more that I needed to know. I decided then that after I found a new place to live not here in California or Oregon I would investigate Jordan’s death myself. “Salem I will get a room ready for you at home. Just come back to Oregon and let’s move on.” Grabbing and squeezing Jimmy’s hand looking at his blank brown eyes. I know it’s probably hard for him to look at me with the giant gash on the left side of my head from Damien hitting me with the end of a cane. I’m sure my black eyes and swollen cheek don’t make it easier. If I was honest with myself I could admit it was hard for me to look Jimmy in the eye. He betrayed me on what felt like the ultimate stage. Did I need to know at that moment that they lied to me my entire life? The real question was, why? Why adamantly tell me that I was adopted and that my parents just didn’t want to raise a baby? I winced in pain as I stretched my bandaged feet. They and my ankles are cut and still kind of bleeding from the glass I ran through while trying to escape. I should’ve ran to a car instead of stupidly freaking out after seeing the system was broken. There were two sets of keys hanging right next to the security pad. I had two cars there waiting and yet I didn’t go to either. Tears pricked my eyes as my mind wandered back to my home. I remembered the way my thighs quivered as I begged Damien to stop eating me, or fucking me each time he looked at me with a hungry glint in his eyes. He had the same glint in my sex room tonight. I am ashamed that I came each time his mouth ravaged my sensitive flesh. Unabashed shame flooded me when I thought about the way my traderous body spasmed from him eating me. He would do all the things he knew I loved and take my body while I cried through it all, wishing I’d never met him. It was my deepest secret that I would never tell. I orgasmed while being raped. I can’t let Ray love me the way he wanted to. I am so fucked up. I’m a selfish bitch though, I can’t let him go either. I want Ray to love me always. I need his unconditional love. I need to know that he is still mine and I am his. Ray knew abmy time in New York. From all the conversations I had with Jordan he never mentioned me being raped. He also never mentioned the partying. Jordan would’ve lost his mind if he knew about the drugs and the partying. About the night I slept in the art studio because I didn’t know how to tell Diane I didn’t want to go home. For some reason I could tell that Ray knew most of it. Atleast everything that I had told Juan. Jimmy squeezed my hand, bringing me back to the present. “Salem, you may need to stay the night at the hospital. You seem out of it.” He looked concerned so I gave him a small smile. I needed to shut Jimmy out. He was only going to slow me down from finding Jordan’s killer. I needed justice and answers. My phone buzzed an unknown number and I silenced it. They’ll leave a message if it’s important. Wincing as I stand on my aching feet. I pull Jimmy into a tight hug, “I love you Jimmy. I am going to miss you so much.” I pulled away from him seeing the disappointment in his expression and I continue breaking his heart, “I am going to pass on going back to Oregon. I can’t go back there knowing that dad is not there.” Tears begin falling from my eyes as my truth rips the barely hanging bandage from both of our hearts. I loved my dad so much. “I know you’ve always been the one guiding me out of the storms, but this time I’m going to find my own way. Who knows I might actually play in the rain a little?” I chuckled as tears kept falling down my cheeks. Jimmy nods, “Okay my dear.” He wipes his tears, turning to grab his Gucci duffle bag. “I love you still, so please at least send a text from time to time. Okay?” I nod unable to speak. This feels like the band is breaking up and I don’t understand why. Jimmy is still my father, so why does it feel like I won’t see him again?

From the Story Exchange on our Discord server. **Constraints**: Location: A space station, Word: Candidate, Character: The greatest mall Santa of all time, Trope: A scrooge-like character regains their holiday spirit, Character: A sentient reindeer, Location: A small town. *** #Joytown Filbert Filligree flopped into the fallen snow, anticipating his next few months of irritations. It was Christmas time, and all of the residents of Joytown would stop at nothing to make sure he felt their “Christmas spirit”. He rolled his eyes as he drove down Main Street. The tinsel and trees and lights were a harsh reminder of what he would have to endure. He then rolled his car as he skidded to a stop in a steep ditch. The tinsel and trees and lights were somehow tangled up in his dismantled fender. Townsfolk rushed over to see what had happened. They plied their holiday greetings on him like a gaggle of snow geese pecking at a crumb of wet, soggy bread. “I don’t need your well wishes, I need help!” he bellowed. “I know just what you need, actually.” Charity Chipperton exclaimed as he lay there in the snow drift. “Fine, whatever, just get me out of here,” he replied with a huff. “Ooohhhh!” she squeed, clapping her hands in front of her with glee. The townsfolk helped him out of the ditch, in the most irritating manner. They patted him on the head when he was free. Gilbert ground his teeth. “Now for your end of the bargain,” Charity said. “You’re seriously going to hold me to that?” he mumbled. “Yes! This will be the happiest Christmas ever. We’re going to make you the best Mall Santa of all time!” Filbert scowled at her as she dragged him away. “Now,” Charity said, bubbling with joy as she spoke. “In order to make you the best candidate, we need to turn that frown upside down! Who’s ready to make gingerbread houses?” “I would think extracting my car from the snow bank would be more important.” “Now, now, that’s not the holiday spirit our Mall Santa needs! Focus!” Filbert grudgingly obeyed, first building the gingerbread houses, then working through a Taylor Swift dance routine she had suggested. “I still don’t see why I’m doing this.” “Shh.” Charity placed a finger over his lips. “Just become one with the music. Our readers, I mean guests, will appreciate T-Swift.” They danced and pranced the evening away. By his fortieth try, Gilbert almost admitted that he liked the routine. There was something magical about the smooth beats and hip sounds of T-Swift, the likes of which he hadn’t experienced before. When the big day came, he rushed to claim one of the chairs lined up in a row. He was ready to become Joytown’s best Mall Santa. The choosiest of children would request gifts from the various competing Klauses. The Santa they deemed most real was the winner. Filbert bit his lip in anticipation. Sally Sallerson was the queen of the choosy children. She strode to the line up, all eyes were on her. When it came time for voting, all of the other children took her lead. She was the one to impress. “Nervous?” a voice beside Filbert asked. He turned to see a reindeer. He looked around for another source of the voice and the reindeer gave an exasperated sigh. “It’s me. You’re not dreaming, or hallucinating, or suffering the effects of some bad Christmas pudding. Believe me, I’ve heard it all.” “Y-you talk?” “I speak, yes.” The reindeer corrected. “What’s going on?” “Well the real answer to your question is that you are in a simulation aboard an intergalactic space station and being harvested for your human creativity, which is a rare commodity in the Milky Way. But that’s probably not what you meant.” “Wait, what?” “You probably meant to ask me why a reindeer is talking to you. And the simple answer is because you need encouragement.” “Well, yes, but-“ “So here’s what you’re going to do.” The reindeer leaned in closer and shared some of the secrets of confidence. Deep secrets. Secrets too amazing to write here. With his newfound skills, Filbert easily swayed Sally Sallerson and thus the entire horde of children. He was paraded through the streets as the newest, bestest Santa the town had ever seen. A little confidence and Christmas cheer had made him happy again. A quick mind-wipe later, and he forgot all about his simulated existence aboard DeepSpace 45, the galaxy’s foremost space station. You really should visit sometime. Their mocha Frappuccinos are excellent.

“Whatcha drinking there?” A man said from across the bar as the bartender slid a martini glass in front of Jennie. Jennie didn’t want to be at the bar, but she felt obligated. Her best work friend, Tabby, invited a few people to this new bar for her birthday. The bar had a Hollywood glamor theme, not to mention, it was about time someone opened a bar that was not a speakeasy in this town. When Jennie entered the bar, she spotted Tabby right away. Tabby waved and Jennie waved back. Tabby was with two women who looked as though they belonged on the cover of a magazine. The bartender served the three woman martinis and asked what Jennie was having. The second Jennie had ordered a Grey Goose martini dirty with blue cheese stuffed olive. Tabby waved at someone else as they entered the bar and left Jennie at the bar waiting for her drink. It occurred to Jennie only then that Tabby and these two magazine models were not the extent of the party. Jennie was now alone. “A martini,” Jennie said with a tight-lipped smile. “Oh, yum. I love martinis. Vodka or gin?” “Vodka.” “Do you mind if I scoot closer? I can barely hear you.” Jennie looked around and then back at the man, “scoot closer to me?” He laughed, picking up his half-drunk cocktail, made his way down the bar, and occupied the stool next to Jennie. Now she was stuck. When she looked at him, she noticed the mole on his left cheek with three short hairs sticking straight out. It made Jennie wince but she couldn’t help but stare and then glanced down at her drink, her strawberry hair covering her face. “James,” he held out his hand at an awkward angle for her to take. “Jennie,” she took his hand with the tips of her fingers. He nodded. “Do you come here often?” “I thought this bar was new,” Jennie furrowed her eyebrows. “Is it? I’m not from here,” he said. Jennie nodded her head, looking down at her martini. She couldn’t possibly be rude and walk away, or do as she really wanted to do, and down her drink and escape into the brink night air. No, she could not possibly offend this stranger. “Do you want to know where I am from?” He asked with raised eyebrows. “Of course,” Jennie said, looking up at him for a moment before returning her eyes back to her martini. “I’m from Asheville, North Carolina. Home of the Biltmore Estate.” Jennie nodded her head looking down at her martini glass. She wanted to force herself to look back up at him but could not make herself look at that mole again. Instead she took a sip of the bitter vodka. “Ever been there?” he asked. “Can’t say I have.” The pair of strangers sat in silence. He opened his mouth and shut it before opening it again like a fish. “Look. If you are not interested in me, you could just say so. You don’t have to be so rude.” Before Jennie could respond, James had picked up his near empty cocktail and walked away. Jennie shook her head surprised by his bold reaction. She was trying to be anything but rude. It was not her intention to make him feel unwanted and she felt guilty for making James feel that way. But the guilt subsided when she realized she was free from making small talk with a man who discussed her. Later that night, as Jennie was settling up her bill for her one martini she looked up to see Tabby talking to James. She winced once again at that mole on his left cheek. How could Tabby be interested in such a weird guy? Tabby flipped her hair and looked up at James with doe eyes. “So much for saying goodbye,” Jennie said to herself as she signed the check and escaped out the bar door. The idea of curling up with Mittens, her Pomeranian, and watching the latest episode of Big Brother thrilled her and she bounded down the street feeling the lifted weight of forced conversation. On Monday morning, Jennie entered the office and grabbed her first cup of coffee before sitting down at her desk. That was strange, Tabby was usually the first in the office, but she was not at her desk. Jennie continued her work figuring she may have had a personal appointment she didn’t tell Jennie about. From Jennie’s vantage point, she saw two police officers enter the office. Jennie watched as they talked to Darleen at the front desk. The look on Darleen’s face concerned Jennie. Darleen escorted the officers out of view, but that didn’t put Jennie’s mind at ease. Jennie watched as Darleen walked towards the breakroom. Although she had her coffee already, she made a calculated bet that it would be simple to get Darleen to tell Jennie what had happened. Jennie poured her coffee into the wastebasket next to her desk and approached the breakroom for her second cup. Darleen had the refrigerator open and seemed to look for something. “Good morning,” Jennie said with a tight smile and looked back down at the coffee machine. “Good morning. It’s already been quite a morning hasn’t it,” Darleen started the conversation without Jennie pushing. This was too easy. “What happened?” “Did you see those two officers?” “Yeah, what was that about?” “Well, they are asking about Tabby Johnson.” Jennie’s mouth dropped open and she attempted to not look as surprised as she felt. She knew it was suspicious when Tabby didn’t show up to work. She pressed Darleen to give her more. “Apparently, they found Tabby’s body down by the river. Someone had strangled her and sexually assaulted her. Last they saw her was at that new bar. You know, the one with the Hollywood glamor theme. She got into a cab with a guy with a mole on his left cheek. You were close with her, weren't you?”

I fell down. Down into darkness. I landed with a splash, in a shallow water stream. My leg hurts like hell, and then really, absolute hell. I quickly get out of the water, before my backpack is soaked. Once I am crawling out of the water, I notice a few things. I can’t see anything, not even my hands in front of my face. I might turned blind, or it is just really dark down here. The other thing is that it smells. It smells like rotten eggs or something. But it for sure is a smell I have never, ever smelled before. Once I am out of the water, almost crying from the pain of my leg, I feel my backpack sliding off my back. I place it next to me. Next to me on the ice cold, wet rocks. I open it up, and search in the dark for my lighter. I hear something drop, really close to me. I don’t know if it came out of my backpack, or if it was something different. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it scared me. It made me keep my breath in, and sit there in total silence. At that point I noticed that I heard the water moving, a slow and relaxing sound. I also heard the water fall down or something, but that sound came from really far away. But furthermore I didn’t hear anything else. for a minute, I sat there in silence. When I didn’t hear anything else, I went on looking. “Ah, there it is”, I heard myself say out loud, whilst taking my tiny blue lighter out of my backpack. I immediately regretted saying out loud. I thought that it might have had awoken some animals that lived there. **please leave a response :)** tell me what to do better or change.

Two frogs sitting on a lily pad. The first one says, “do you ever get the blues?” “Yeah, sure man, everybody gets the blues sometimes.” “No, I mean for real. The *actual* blues.” “What do you mean the "actual" blues?” “Sometimes I look out across the pond and wonder if there is more out there. If there are other ponds, other lily pads, other frogs, like us. If there were, would they be more advanced? Would they be bigger than us? Could they jump higher? Would they have twice as many tongues so they could eat twice as many flies? Could they teleport? If they came to our pond, would they subjugate us, and just use us as a stopover point to get to the next one?” “A lily pad rest stop?” “Yeah, something like that.” “I don’t know man. Seems like you got an overactive imagination. Why don’t you take some time off, go rest for a while. I think this sun is getting to you.’" “No, I’m serious. What if there are other ponds out there?” “Well, if there were don’t you think we would have heard about it by now? Wouldn’t somebody have ventured out found one, and told us about it?” “What happened to Jim?” “Jim?” “Jim Heinz.” “Oh man. Do you really believe those stories?” “I didn’t say I believe anything. I’m just asking what do you think happened to him?” “Jim was a nutcase since he was a tadpole, everybody knows that.” “It’s possible.” “Yeah, sure. Anything is possible, I guess. But if you want me to believe Jim Heinz was abducted by a hawk and carried away to another pond full of sand and salty water and waves as tall as the trees. And then, after surviving this astronomical adventure--after all that, he hopped his goofy self back here over a period of three spawnings, I’m sorry. No, in fact, I do not believe that happened, nor that it is even remotely possible. " “Either way, I just think about how many ponds could be out there, and it just makes me feel insignificant--how little we are in the grand scheme. If our pond dried up tomorrow, it wouldn’t even matter, the sun and moon and stars wouldn’t even blink. Wouldn’t even miss us.” “Wouldn’t miss you. I happen to think the frog race was put here for a reason, and I try to live my life by that reason.” “What reason?” “Look man, I’m going for a dip. I’m not trying to solve all the pond’s problems right here on this lily pad.” “I’m not trying to solve--” The well-grounded and happy frog leapt into the water and in mid-air thrusted out its tongue, snapping up a gnat that was darting by. He looked back to make sure his buddy saw the feat, and smiled because he knew it gave credence to his views. What other thing in the whole wide pond can do something so complex, so precise, so quickly? Nobody. He knew the frog’s place, and didn’t think there was much need to debate it. He enjoyed the cool water across his face and swam past the grass and the snails. He nodded to the turtle--if the turtle isn’t living proof about the nature of the pond, then I don’t know what is. He liked the turtle, they were nice enough fellows, but there was no doubting who was created first. The sunlight glittered through the water, sparkling and rippling in his wake. He floated to the top and let the sun dry his chest. It was good to be a frog. \*\*\* Follow u/quillandtrowel for more interesting stories.

He wondered what it would be like to only have 4 limbs, dry, bony, dense, meaty appendages. Could they feel the piercing cold, the delicious warmth of magma, the tickling sensation of cosmic neutrinos streaming from space through the core of the earth as if it were a pane of glass? It baffled the capacity of his imagination to dream of no longer having countless slick, writhing tentacles, each with a nearly godlike intelligence of its own, oozing bubble universes from each sucker, popping into existence only to annihilate itself after a few short eternities when it inevitably collided with its antimatter twin. What would it be like to move through time in only one direction, with the flow of entropy, and not to swim forward, backward, noncausalward, or Moebiusward through the slippery 8th dimension? To live like a flat worm, crawling monotonically from one end of a string to another? But most of all he wondered what it would be like to experience Love, the quirky biochemical, parasitic addiction that lodged deep inside the tiny human brain. He had observed Love from every conceivable angle. Psychically luring his experimental subjects into dripping, breathing caverns, he had peeled them apart, micro-layer by micro-layer, tasting every molecule, mapping out every biochemical pathway. Love was as much a part of their higher brain function as the deeper, primeval strata and brain stem. It reached downward to each cellular division. It permeated their primitive and hopelessly messy genetic material, the tireless waltz in every nucleus of perpetual winding, unwinding, tangling, and twisting. He wanted to *Know* know. And how could he without their mortality, or their misguided belief in “separateness” and “apartness” from each other that necessitated Love in the first place? Without being a creature of material instinct, of hunger, of survival, and of the tangible present, it was as comprehensible as imagining being a ladybug or a twig. Love leaked into everything. It drove them to reproduce, to keep their tribe coherent, to be tender, and to be insatiably violent when the object of their love was threatened, and when they felt threatened by the object of their love. When he crossed over and implanted, he demanded to be called Emmanuel, which roughly translated into human conceptual thought as "god creature with us, and within us, in our deepest organs, growing, consuming, pulsing, until it bursts dripping out of our chests, leaving behind only decimated, gaping, terrified flesh." But after he erupted from the ribcage of Mary, his surrogate mother, bones splintering and organs collapsing in sucking, squelching agony, they named him Yesh'ua instead. It was the most common name that year for newborn boys. The first Love Yesh’ua experienced was from his surrogate father, Joseph. He was a quiet, melancholy man, especially now that a portion of his memory was fragmented and scarred over. His mind had mercifully sealed away the trauma of witnessing a mass of teeth, spider legs, snake-like coils, and eyes emerge from his dying betrothed and coagulate into the shape of a newborn. Nevertheless, his Love for Yesh’ua and Yesh’ua’s half-siblings (for this was not the first time Joseph had been widowed) was fierce and animalistic, as one intuitively protecting his replicated genes. To wash and warm and nourish these extensions of himself began as a form of self-preservation, and matured as the objects of Joseph’s Love gradually became distinct and Other. He was willingly deceived, unconditionally inviting foreign invaders into his heart, a Trojan fully aware that the magnificent Horse contained hidden imposters, anticipating their emergence with great excitement and trepidation. Back when Yesh’ua was, is, and will be, multidirectionally eternal, he had sired millions, and had done so without crippling, mammalian attachment and desperation. He effortlessly filled every subterranean continent with his progeny, every blazing swirl of the earth’s core, every world between worlds. There was no biological pressure to shelter or feed or teach those he had willed into existence. Unlike Joseph, he was not propelled by billions of years of genetic mutation to see traces of himself in his son’s face. There was no inexpressible urge to pass down his chromosomes, his life’s trade, his status in his community, his superstitions and habits and traditions, his rituals and scriptures and the Mitzvah of his people. Yesh’ua grew in wisdom, stature, and favor. Each day he worked to scrape, splinter, and coax wood into unnatural shapes and baubles and small pieces of furniture. Each day he committed more of the Torah to memory. If “holy” means “separate, set apart, distinct,” then each day he and Joseph grew a little holier from each other. It thrilled Joseph’s heart and made him Love Yesh’ua more and more. One week when Yesh’ua was 12 years old, he amused himself by taking passages from the Pentateuch, rotating them perpendicularly into the fifth dimension, folding each one recursively inside itself, and then transmuting them back into human thought and speech. The Temple rabbis were revolted and horrified, so much so that they mistook the feeling for awe and wonder. Joseph had to drag Yesh’ua away from the throng of frenzied Pharisees and scribes, all ravenous to hear more as blood from ruptured capillaries in their prefrontal cortexes oozed from their ears and tear ducts. When the adult Yesh’ua began his own rabbinic career at the age of 30, he discovered the Love of the wretched and needy. He transubstantiated water into a fluid that the humans tasted as wine. He stretched out invisibly to push tumors and infections backwards against the gentle current of time, cells shrinking and combining until they had anti-mitosed into non-existence. He held all the countless possible loaves and fish, hanging in delicate superposition, and collapsed them into existence in the single reality where hungry crowds gathered at his feet. They were like strays who just needed their basic appetites cared for, and their simple loyalty and trust flowed as easily as salivation. Their Love and attention felt like a heady rush. It felt much like the Love that came from his disciples. He led them back and forth across the rugged countryside like a piper enthralling children. He carved and sculpted reality as if it were cedarwood in Joseph’s workshop, with smooth and seamless joints and flawless lacquer finish. They marveled at the wonders he brought forth. One disciple did not Love like a simple child. Unlike Peter and the others, John did not boldly and ignorantly declare his undying devotion to novelty, miracles, and magicians. His wit was surprising, even to a being who inhabited all possible timelines. His laugh seemed to make the Milky Way pulse and hum. John could not walk on water, or terrorize herds of pigs over cliffsides, or tell people their secret sins, but when he embraced Yesh’ua, his bosom radiated warmth. His deep sighs into Yesh’ua’s ear always seemed to say, “At last, we are each held.” John couldn’t raise anyone from the dead, and yet power would flow out from him at each touch or graze. Yesh’ua felt it course through their clasped hands, as John absentmindedly stroked Yesh’ua’s palm with his thumb. When they all camped homeless in a field or glen, Yesh’ua liked sleeping next to John, so that he could inhale the warm breath of life that glided in and out of John’s nostrils, like a spirit hovering over the waters. When Yesh’ua washed the disciples’ feet, it felt like washing children’s feet, or wiping children’s noses, or picking ticks off a beloved pet. But washing John’s feet felt like the tingle of imminent lightning. John’s feedback had been invaluable during the early days of Yesh’ua’s ministry. While miracles proved wildly popular, the preaching floundered. Lectures dragged on about topics like “Deliverance from Earthly Suffering, Using Simple Techniques to Inhibit the Neural Pathways Associated with Pain.” If monologues weren’t interspersed with snacks or healings (the lepers almost never said thank you), the crowd would evaporate at the first distraction. A particularly unsuccessful homily titled “Breaking Through the Psychic Barriers Separating Individual Human Minds Using Quantum Tunnelling” ended abruptly when an old woman’s skull partially melted during the practical demonstration. The bored and confused mob stoned Yesh’ua to death. Tenderly cradling Yesh’ua’s shattered body as the crowd dispersed, John mused, “My last rabbi focused all his sermons on repentance and sorrow. He baptized people in the river to wash away their sins.” John rubbed Yesh’ua’s twitching chest as the arduous resurrection process began. “Then you came along with signs and wonders. But you're dressing up the same message: 'You're broken, follow these steps and I can fix you.’” John licked his finger and used it to wipe rivulets of dried blood from Yesh’ua’s brow. Yesh’ua progressed from spasms to loud gasps as his circulatory system rebooted. “Most people are poor, hungry, thirsty, probably downtrodden, persecuted for one reason or another. Instead of encouraging them to divorce themselves from their bleak existence, why don’t you tell them that they’re blessed, just the way they are? Turn your other cheek, there’s blood on that side too.” John leaned his face closer as Galilean sunlight faded into dusk. “You're not going to teach these people how to handle venomous snakes or cast out demons, or how speak in the tongues of angels, or how to use their minds to throw mountains into the sea. Nobody has powers, nobody lives forever, and if nothing else gets done, we might as well love each other.” As Yesh’ua’s eyes fluttered open, the first thing he noticed was how close John’s lips were. Of all the disciples, John was the gentlest and most patient while Yesh’ua was rising again. Peter usually just shook him until he could feel a heartbeat. “And nobody understands when you talk about some ‘Big Bang’ at the beginning of everything,” John continued. “I’ve always imagined that in the beginning was a Word. Just one word, and that Word was Love. Or some seed that one day grew into Love.” Reanimation was pretty much finished, bone integrity restored, heart revitalized, lungs unpunctured. Why did his chest still ache, as if happiness was stabbing him in the heart? Shakily, Yesh’ua sat up and pressed his lips to John’s cheek, greeting him as he did each disciple after returning from a long journey from beyond the grave. This kiss, however, betrayed the emotion throbbing through his flushed face and pounding heart. All was quiet. Inside each man’s head, every thought fled. *An honest answer is like a kiss on the lips.* Yesh’ua leaned in and tried again, more honestly. *Oh, that you were like a brother to me who nursed at my mother's breasts! If I found you outside, I would kiss you, and none would despise me.* Yesh’ua had copulated with other god creatures, with past and future versions of himself, with the vacuum of space. His relations with all those beings had been mathematical and perfect, the spacetime-bending pleasure and agony leaving black holes in their wake. It was nothing like that with John. Instead of endlessly iterating fractals of trillions of mouths and tongues roiling together in hunger, there were only two. *Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth! For thy love is more delightful than wine.* Instead of helices of pleasure spiraling forward forever, so far that they looped back to before the Big Bang, there was only the brief 20-30 minutes of clutching and pawing at each other, as if vainly attempting to cheat death, yearning for eternity. *Love and faithfulness meet together; righteousness and peace kiss each other.* Instead of tentacles lightyears long, intertwining like tendrils, merging at the subatomic level, there were only weak animal bodies hugging each other, as if somehow by squeezing and thrusting they could convince their incompressible bodies to occupy the same volume. *His left arm is under my head, and his right arm embraces me.* They lay panting on the floor of the beached fishing boat. A billion galaxies burned beyond reach above Galilea’s sea. Yesh’ua’s mind and heart buzzed and hummed and burned like the innumerable quasars he had, in another lifetime, snuffed out of existence. “Being with you makes me wish we could live forever,” murmured John. Yesh’ua, sleepy and drifting, simultaneously experiencing the Sun’s supernova billions of years in the future, gazed into John’s nut-brown eyes and was surprised by the hot tears filling his own. The Word was in the beginning. All things were made by It; nothing that exists was made without It. In It was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended It not. And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us. During the Passover supper of Yesh’ua’s 33rd year, he made an announcement to his disciples, “Whither I go, thou canst not follow me.” Hotheaded Peter was the first to respond. “I will lay down my life for thy sake!” Yesh’ua was too numb to be amused. But all John had to say was “That’s selfish,” before excusing himself and walking briskly from the upper room, unimpressed and agitated. That night in Gethsemane, while the other disciples slept, the tempter came to him. “Do you Love me?” asked John. “With all my heart, all my soul, all my mind, and all my strength,” insisted Yesh’ua. “If I was dying of starvation, would you feed me?” demanded John. “I would command that these stones be made bread,” said Yesh’ua. “If I stood on the pinnacle of the temple and threw myself down, would you rescue me?” accused John. “I would bear you up with my hands like an angel, and you would not even strike your foot against a stone,” Yesh’ua assured. “And if we stood on the highest mountain to see the kingdoms of the world and their glory, and I asked you for all of them, would you give them to me?” John’s angry, pleading voice in the still midnight threatened to wake the others. “Anything you asked, you would receive,” implored Yesh’ua. John took a deep, shaky breath, and in a still, small voice he asked, “If you love me so much, then, why the fuck are you leaving?” Yesh’ua closed his eyes for a very long time. “This Love is like living death. You all carry it around like it’s another heart or liver or lung, and you’re all dying.” “Everything dies here,” explained the tempter. “Everything but me. I won’t carry it anymore. I can’t drink this cup.” “Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.” “I can’t drink this cup.” On Friday, Yesh’ua hung impaled from a wooden cross, ostensibly bound by nails, as ostensibly as gravity had bound him to the surface of the stormy lake when he had strolled out to the disciples’ fishing boat. Salome and Mary Magdalene wailed and clawed at the dirt. John supported the limp and dejected Joseph. The nerve endings in Yesh’ua’s wrists and feet screamed up his spine and into his brain, but the pain could only engulf his bodily vessel. The anguish and abandonment dripping from John’s scowling eyes pierced deeper than mortality, past the event horizon at the center of Yesh’ua’s being and into the numerically indescribable singularity beneath.

Atlas was my only friend. My computer keys, worn and scratched with the pain of a martyr, were my link to happiness. Now that my keyboard was somewhere in the dumpster, my happiness was too. The darkness surrounded everything here at the Fawkes, but you could still see the outlines. Alcohol hung in the air, a smell that had never vacated its position. No one that found their way here forgot the experience, that was for sure. The glasses gave an escape, a door that we all strived to find in the bottom of the barrel. The Fawkes wasn't my home, though. I didn't have one. "Leaving already, Nika?" Jim, the bartender, was washing up behind the counter. They never miss anything, bartenders, you can't hide from them. "Yeah, it's getting late." I turned to go but rushed back to grab one more drink. You can never have too many. The night sky was muddled with brown, like dried blood on a piece of metal. If it was blood, though, then who was bleeding? I heard Atlas's impersonal voice telling me "Cannot determine, Nainika," and I laughed. It was nice to feel like I had a friend again. I was in Arctica, where the settlements were kind and welcoming. They gave a chance for a new life, one without the prejudice of the real world. I'd come here with the last of the scraps I made from animatron building, but it wasn't enough to live on. It was times like those, times where my stomach begged and pleaded for something to fill it, that made me miss Atlas. When I made it back to my dark hotel room, the cold biting at my shoulders, I was greeted by Penny. She was lounging on the couch with her socks off and watching a live broadcast. "What are you doing back so early?" Penny always talked with a sort of tone that made you think she was interrogating you. She was a great roommate, sure, but she was more of a partner than a friend. "I came home... you know... with my feet," I said. The Uni-heaters felt like warm wind on my bare arms. I settle onto the couch and shoved Penny's legs to the floor, much to her dismay. "Nainika." I kept looking at the TV, not talking to Penny. The odd thing was, though, that she didn't pry. "What did you just say?" She looked at me sideways, questioning my words. "I didn't say anything," Penny said. She sized me up for a second, and then turned her head back to the screen. The documentary on the screen was about a whale that swam across the ocean to find its daughter. It was a cute whale, if you could even call a whale cute. "I bet it's fake." Penny was always the optimist. I chuckled to myself, my fingers still flexing to combat the frostbite. The whale had a white birthmark, which was odd. I'd never seen a whale with a white birthmark. Then again, there were a lot of things I hadn't seen. "That's sweet of you, Pen," I teased, whacking her with a pillow. She kept her eyes glued to the screen, not acknowledging me. Well, some roommate. I went to the kitchen, still wary of the voice, and started to heat up a pizza. There were no good flavors, so I had to have Jalapeño Delight Magnificence, the worst name anyone would ever hear. The supposedly green peppers were now a sickly yellow, and my stomach turned in disgust. It was a great day for disgusting frozen food. "Nainika," the voice said. I had heard it before, it seemed, in another world. I could hear the flat tone, the pointed words. What was it? "Nainika." Atlas. He was calling for me. I grabbed my coat and rushed out the door, let the wind blow in behind me. The snow piled down on my hood but I didn't care. "ATLAS!" I screamed on and on into the darkness of the night, letting it echo into the glaciers. "ATLAS!" "Nainika," he whispered. It seemed almost like a song, lilting its way into my ears and taunting me. "Where are you!?" I couldn't hear any footsteps, but I have no idea why I expected any from an AI program. My chest felt raw, my heart pounding against my lungs and beating faster. Where was he? I needed him. I needed my only friend. "Why do you cry, Nainika?" "Because I have no purpose. You heard them. That's why you're here." "You have a purpose to me. Without you, I would not be able to understand the complications of human life. However little, that is a purpose." "...It's not the same." "What about your situation is not the same to the one that I described?" "Well, you don't count." "Why do I not count?" "Because I have a purpose in your mind, but you're not the world." "How am I not the world?" "Well..." The tears slipped down my cheeks as I held in the words like vomit. I would never release them, no, not even to Atlas. He would never understand, he'd try to minimize it. What if I just wanted to feel sad? What if I didn't feel like rationalizing it? The memory jarred my mind, the snow piercing my skin like spears. "Why do you cry?" Atlas's figurine appeared in the screen. The snow piercing my skin, the voice disappearing in the wind. Atlas would come back. He would. I knew him better than to leave me. When you come back, Atlas, I'll tell you all the things I've learned. I'll tell you about Jim the bartender and all of the stories he tells. I'll tell you about those documentaries that Penny loves to watch. You'd want to hear about that, wouldn't you? And I'd tell you all of my stories, all of the things I've done. You'd be surprised the places I've gone. I'm here, though. I'm here, waiting for you.

Formaldehyde. It was no lie to say that it stank--even someone lacking their sense of smell could detect it. The pain, searing the back of one’s eyelids and scorching their throat, stinging their nostrils even as they flared wider. The other sensations--the dizzying weakness, the oppressive weight, the foreboding. It was the smell of death, and well Avery Winston knew it. Fifteen years as a forensic nurse, a long childhood as the daughter of a mortician--or, as her father was more commonly known, “Dr. Dead”--and countless visits to the funeral home had instilled a chief detective’s awareness in her. The stench leaked in through her mask, tugged at the elastic straps and jerked at the edges, as though the chemical had fingers and intended to use them. It burned a thick layer over her visible skin--her collarbone and cheeks, the line of her brow, the lobes of her ears, her pale forearms--whatever the mask, her scrubs, and her gloves didn’t cover. She could still feel the scars it had left twenty years ago, when one open door had led her into a lifetime of pain. Daddy had never been a softie, despite his upturned lips and sagging waistline. His career had hardened him, left him hollow and devoid of the life he rarely ever saw as he spent day after day embalming the dead of McDonough. But seeing him hunched over the table that day, normally steady hands trembling like a drunkard’s, countenance crumpling until his usually smiling mouth quivered, eyes fixed upon the body he’d just been delivered. He hadn’t been prepared. Neither had she. Avery was supposed to have gone straight to her apartment in downtown Atlanta that day, to celebrate her success with her roommate and boyfriend. She was supposed to have gotten drunk, passed out, forgotten all about the test she’d passed, and not gotten the news until the next afternoon. Instead, something had taken the wheel of her Hyundai and driven her down to McDonough, forty minutes away from the comfort of her home. She could have called them, relayed the good news over the phone sometime that weekend. She should have called them. Instead, she had driven to the morgue, where she knew her dad would be. She had stepped up to the front desk, easily caught Stacey’s attention, and been solemnly directed to the back room. The smell had never been so strong. It had always lingered on Daddy’s clothes, of course, and hung heavy in the funeral homes and the morgue. But walking into that room...it had more than lingered; it had clung with a vengeance, wrapping onto her every limb, seizing her fingers and her eyelids, her lungs and her heart, rendering her emotionless. She hadn’t heard the indistinct call of her name from behind, in the high-pitched voice of her father’s assistant, hadn’t heard the warning...not until it was too late. Her own hands shook, palms grew clammy, phone slipped and fell with a clatter to the linoleum floor, as she edged over the threshold. A warning siren sounded in the back of her mind, reminding her that she didn’t need to be back here, that the sights and smells of death would only make her sick. That there could only be one reason for her father to show such signs of grief. It wasn’t just anyone on the surgical table. It wasn’t just another nameless face, another careless addict, another texting driver, another heart attack victim. How could it be? How could it be anyone else, when no one had curls so thick and luscious, eyes so wide and luminous, skin so fair and flawless, as her mother? It wasn’t possible, her mind screamed, along with a thousand curses and rebuttals, a million cries, each one shriller and sharper than the last. And yet...wasn’t that what everyone else said? No! Why? It can’t be! But it was. It was over. Her mother lay there dead, her father bent over her lifeless form in silent weeping. Bile rose to coat her throat as formaldehyde and tears pierced her eyes. Shudders shook her shoulders, sobs wracked her frame. Avery could see it as clearly as if she had been standing there, watching herself that day. She had slowly moved to Daddy’s side, dropped to her knees before Mama’s dangling feet. She had cupped his hand, gripping his pen until his knuckles whitened, and stretched it out flat. A whimper had left his ashen lips then, breaking the stiff silence and triggering a tidal wave of emotion. They’d cried there together. Two years later, her career as a forensic nurse had begun. Daddy had been there, the week of her graduation, the year she’d spent interning, the day she finally got the job. He’d said Mama would be proud. He’d said he was too. They never found out how or why Mama had died, how she’d ended up there , then . That was why she’d kept on going, even though the opportunity to live out her girlhood dream as an interior designer had presented itself several times. It wasn’t about duty or expectations anymore, not when people like Mama died everyday and no one knew why . Daddy had been there every step of the way, like Mama would have been. Daddy was her lifeline now. The fingers pinched her skin, picked at the scars until they became scabs again. Then they opened and began gushing blood like fresh wounds. The formaldehyde burned, blazing a path to the pit of Avery’s stomach as she strode into the room with purpose, determined not to show any sign of weakness--not when she was on call. Not when another person was dead. In the distance, Dr. Rayne called her name, the smooth cadence of his voice not quite enough to drag her away from her job, nor wrench out away from the fringes of her memories--her nightmares. His footsteps, growing quicker and lighter by the second, made their way into earshot as Avery realized he was coming closer, coming to her. But why? The patient was already dead and, if she’d been informed, then he certainly knew. “Avery!” His voice was in her ear now, his gloved hand on her shoulder. She shrugged him off, gave him a cursory glance and a reassuring nod before she waved him away and, with little bravado, threw back the curtain. The stench assailed her, each breath a pinprick in her nose and lungs--and then the sight met her eyes. His hands, normally steady but always moving, were completely still. The quirk of his mouth--gone, leaving in its wake an even frown. His eyes, concentrated and clear at all times, were glassy and hollow, floating in an abyss. Daddy? Dr. Rayne’s arm encased her shoulders and tucked her into his side, preventing her from turning and running, while he whispered the customary condolences and rattled off “this procedure that” and “twenty mLs of such-and-such.” It’d never worked. She’d watched it--for Pete’s sake, she’d used it--on grieving family and friends for years, and she knew it did no good. For the doctors and nurses, maybe. But to the one hearing it? Never. She hadn’t been prepared for this, regardless of the smell of death. One could never be prepared.

(WP) The Color of Secrets Indigo was her name, but no one could figure out exactly why she was the way she was. As a baby, and later, a toddler, she’d literally turn blue, either out of frustration or heat. She’d taken her strangeness, her peculiarity, as a fact of life. All her life she’d been told she was special by her parents, weird and freaky by her peers. She’d heard versions of both kinds of comments for so long that they bounced off. For a while, people left her alone; it wasn’t any fun to a bully if you didn’t react. Until this morning, when she’d tripped on the way to her locker and skinned her knee. That all too familiar current of low laughter followed her, spreading through her classmates like a virus. Much to her own chagrin, she could feel her cheeks heating, darkening to a shade of sapphire. She tried to cover the wound; it stung like hell. Much to her shock, the blood that seeped through her fingers was bright, electric blue, the color of a clear sky. For a moment, she was stunned by the sight; it hit her like a blow to the chest. Was she hallucinating? How was it possible for a normal human being to have blood that was blue? She was bitterly reminded of her cruel nickname: ‘Blue Blood’. It was ironic, considering and she and her family were one of the poorest families in town. Cruel laughter and whispers followed her, all the way to the nurse’s office. \*\* After an admonition about not running in the halls and watching her step, Indigo walked out of the office, intending to return to class. Instead, though, there was a pair of people, a boy and a girl, barring her way forward. “Hello, Blue,” said the girl, dressed head to toe in different shades of green. “It’s lovely to see you with my own eyes, at last.” She grinned at Indigo, and her teeth were sharp, pointed. Something stood out livid against her neck--gills? Indigo was pretty certain that she had hit her knee, not her head. But it felt as if she were in a movie, or a frightening nightmare. “Way to sound creepy,” The boy murmured, rolling his eyes. “You realize we’ve never met this girl before?” He added. “You don’t want to scare the poor thing. This is going to be enough of a shock as it is without you intimidating her, Emma.” “I’m Porfirio, and this is my sister, Emerald. Emma for short. It’s a pleasure to meet you. We’ve heard so much about you.” “How did you find me?” Indigo replied, looking in between the two newcomers. “Our father demanded that we find you. We have a mission, you see. Emma, you, and I.” “What are you talking about? This all sounds like a bunch of nonsense.” Emma piped up at last, bright eyes on Indigo. “Hate to break it to you, Blue, but this is real life. Sounds like a comic book, though, doesn’t it?” “We need to see you after school. We have a lot to explain, Blu--I mean, Indigo.

He comes in asking for coat hangers. “Not the plastic kind. The metal ones,” he says, making a gesture like he is unbending and rebending the curved part of an imaginary coat hanger in his hands. The part that makes a hanger, a hanger. He’s tall and big. I’d say about six foot, two-forty, with a noticeable belly. He’s wearing a black hoodie - hood up - with red basketball shorts that went to his knees, and black skater shoes. Not a single thing he was wearing was clean, or without any rips or tears. His voice is deep and loud. Not the kind of deep you’re thinking of: low pitched, bassy. No, his voice was deep, like it came from the dark and lonely allies in the otherwise thriving city at the bottom of his stomach. It carries from his diaphragm, through his chest, out his mouth, and all the way to the back of the dollar store. The way you’d talk if there was an urgent problem, but you knew exactly how to solve it. Now let me tell you something about his chest. It’s infected. Badly. I know this because, before the kid in the green apron could point him to aisle three, he let out a loud, heaving cough. Like it was accompanied with a yell. Like a man being vocally overdramatic about an orgasm. But it explains the deep, congested voice, the air of each word being forced through a defense of dark green mucus that has been mobilizing for days, perhaps weeks. It also explains the snorts. You’ve heard people with the sniffles, right? They have a runny nose, they sniff, and it sends that falling bit of snot right back up their nasal cavity, into their throat, down their esophagus and into their stomach. On one hand, you empathize; having a runny nose is worse than you simply having to endure the sound of the sniffles. On the other hand, you fantasize about shoving a Kleenex - you don’t even know where you got it - right in their annoying face. Not this guy. These snorts were satanic. I didn’t even realize the full extent of their ugliness until he’s right there behind me in line. I have my headphones on - three-quarter volume - but his deep, glutaral snort easily surpassed the soft, orchestral drums of *Rocket Builder.* A cough-yell, and I’m focusing on keeping my eyes straight ahead. A snort, and I’m trying not to look bothered. Buddy in front of me, Jewish looking guy with glasses, takes a step forward and turns his head. Unsuccessful conspicuousness proved that he’s taking in every inch of this guy. Pretending not to stare, but obviously doing so. I take another step forward myself, keeping my eyes forward. But now I do something strange. I take my headphones off my head and droop them around my neck. I wonder why I did that? I wonder if anyone else wonders why I did that. I wonder, why the coat hangers, why metal specifically? The unbending gesture... Chest Infection takes another step, as lines go. Now, he is a little closer. A cough-yell, and now I glance back for a millisecond, hoping to see any evidence of an attempt to suppress the spread of whatever he was suffering from. My sigh of relief. “Fuck me, excuse me” he remarks. I thought about who might’ve followed that advice, in that order. He snorts, and this time, I listen. I really listen, thinking, what is this sound? I mean, I know it’s just a snort, but it’s not any regular snort. This is much more like something else, but I just can’t place it. I’m pondering and I’m interrupted by another cough-yell, just as loud as the other ones, except this time, a small, dark sticky green chunk of infected mucus splattered onto a small Doritos bag beside me. For some reason, I feel like I can smell it. My reaction is to step forward, which prompted Chest Infection to follow my cue. Problem was, Jewish glasses guy front of me never moved forward, so now all three of us are crammed together. Another snort, and I realize: it’s a pig. He snorts deep, like someone is hitting a small bass drum in his chest, but inhumanly fast, each beat as loud and tonal as the last. There was no fluctuation in pitch, no evidence of liquid. Just pure mucus, which lead me to believe he really needed one of the three bottles of water he had bundled in his left hand. In his right hand, a small basket barely hanging from his pale fingers. Inside were a single pack of about twenty-five metal coat hangers, white dish cloths, and rubbing alcohol. A cough-yell and I brace myself, this time visually as well as mentally. A swinish snort. An oink. The woman in front of Jewish-Glasses is now called to the counter, allowing Jewish-Glasses to make a temperate escape from the barrage of obstructive pulmonary disease that was raining down on us. Luckily the woman, pregnant girl in her late twenties, is two whole immune systems away from Chest Infection during the duration of her stay at the dollar store cash line. The small, pregnant girl steps up to the counter, where she fumbles her future purchases - three king sized Snickers bars, prepackaged bundles of forks, spoons and knives, and a - A cough-yell. Followed inevitably by a disease-fueled oink that belongs nowhere but barnyards and hospitals. Jewish-Glasses takes the pregnant girl’s former spot in line, Chest Infection closing the gap between him and myself with haste. In the midst of her fumbling, the tiny pregnant girl drops one of her Snickers bars on the poorly mopped floor. She makes a quick attempt to pick it up, but her soon-to-be baby was not having any of it. She teeters from heel to toe, in hopes the momentum from the forward lean would give her the push she needed to stretch all the way to the floor, but her belly is preventing her from bending over. Jewish-Glasses, being the nice guy I’m sure he is, runs over and picks it up, placing it gently on the counter. “Thanks,” she said, a smile on her face revealing a traintrack of braces tacked to the top row of her teeth. She is now holding her belly the way pregnant women do, the way that you can immediately tell they’re pregnant, even if they’re not showing. “No problem. We won’t let that baby win this battle,” Jewish-Glasses replies. “No, but it certainly won this one,” she says, holding up the three Snickers bars. “Have a good night.” “Yourself as we- “ A cough-yell. Right in my fucking ear. I didn’t realize how close he was, and now I can feel his breath through my flannel jacket. “Damnit,” blurts out Chest Infection, sounding agitated. Becoming increasingly obvious how disgusting he is. By now, the cashier is finished scanning the pregnant girl’s things. She pays, smiles again at Jewish-Glasses, and slowly makes her way out of the store. Jewish-Glasses takes her spot, and I am called to another register. My things - three light bulbs, a pack of dish sponges and dish soap - were quickly scanned, and I practically follow the pregnant girl out. I took one last look at her as she wandered into the busy street, bag in one hand, half-eaten Snickers bar in the other. I can’t stop thinking about those coat hangers.

I hug my parents. They both look at each other astounded. My mother opens her mouth but no words come out. "Mom, I know" I laugh "You've just never acted like this before" My father smiles " I'm 22 now, It's Thanksgiving, I've had a little change in heart" My father pats my back. They both seem afraid I might change my mind. I hear my nieces and nephews chattering. I change my persona. "HEY! Have you guys been thankful?" "Oh yes yes yes" Precious announces as I let her hop on my shoulders. Dion simply nods. Imani latches onto my leg and Dion grabs my other one. I look over at my sister, Olivia. She looks completely exhausted. " You've got an awesome Mom you know!" I speak " The bestest" Imani conceres Olivia mouths the words "Thank you" I shrug my shoulders which causes Precious to start giggling. I walk into the kitchen where my mother is all smiles. She waves at me. "Only 3 hours until dinner so we've got to hurry!" She uses a fake military voice. I pretend to salute. One by one the kids get bored with me and go back into the living room to play. I put the turkey in the oven. I mash the potatoes. All through the day, I am thankful. Thankful I moved on. I used to despise my parents. Not like all teens do. I hated them. My mother is African American. My father is white. I hated them for making me a mixture. In 1987 Rose Valley Elementary school was still very divided. If you were white, That is who you sat with. If you were black, that is who you sat with. If you were mixed? Well, you sat alone. I always thought that was my parent's fault. When I was eleven, I came home sobbing heavily. Once parents found out what was wrong. They told me their story. It was the 1960's. They met in college. My dad needed a belt. Their was a local craft fair. He decided to go. My dad had never really cared much about race so... the fact it was mainly African American didn't bother him. He went up to my mother. She makes leather accessories and jewelry. It started out as a conversation about a belt. It grew into much more. They became Mr. and Mrs. Evans in May of 1966. Blossom and Marcus Evans. I understand how important that story is now. Back then, All they got was... "Love is so overrated, I HATE YOU!" I can barely believe my parents dealt with that so well. I laugh it now. I go into the living room to greet my family. The room is full of color. First I meet my brother's fiance, Jessica. She seems really nice. Her father keeps shouting "We flew in from JAPAN!" There seems to be some sort of traveling distance battle out here. Friendly competition is always welcome in the Evans house. "DETROIT!" "ST. LOUIS" "JAPAN" Jessica's father repeats "MEXICO!" My cousin Jackson shouts before his wife and newest child come in the door. Miguel is the newest addition to our family. Jackson and Sofia's first child. 9 months old. I see more and more people flood in. There are nearly 40 of us. I step back into the kitchen. I find my mother bawling. I change my expression "Mom are you okay?" "Happy tears baby, these are happy tears" I hug her again. She is now laugh-crying. "Oh Symphony, do you know why we named you that?" She strokes my hair. "Because we knew there would be hardship" "But we also knew nothing could stop our family, stop you from becoming a beautiful Symphony." Now she's got me crying. I hold to her and don't let go. Were different. But who wants to be the same anyway? We nearly let the turkey burn. Hugging, Happy-Crying, Feeling love, feeling grateful. I take the turkey out and delicious smells spread across the house. Jessica steps into the kitchen to help. I hear everyone gather at the table. I start taking heaping plates of food out. We have honored everyone's traditions. We have everything from enchiladas to sushi. Everyone seems pleased. I watch everyone grasp one another hands. My mother grabs my hand and squeezes it. I get to pray the blessing. I bow my head. I close my eyes. I can barely gather myself to pray. I'm just so full of joy. I gather myself. Mostly. I am nearly crying the whole prayer. I thank god for my family. The food. Once I'm finished everyone gives me concerned looks. "These are happy tears" I laugh. "Happy enough to eat?" My uncle smirks "Definitely" I respond We chatter. We laugh. We have fun. (Especially Precious). I watch the kids play and come back to steal extra food. I have a brief lapse of wanting to go back. Wanting to be a kid so that I could be as happy as they are. Have moved on sooner. I look down at my hands. I am not sure what race I am. That doesn't make me sad anymore. I return to my happy place. I watch the kids. I watch Jessica making funny faces whenever her father isn't watching. Now that makes me laugh. I step into the kitchen to help my mother clean up. She is washing dishes over the sink. I hear her singing quietly. "You are my sunshine" I sing along "My only sunshine" She harmonizes with me "You make me happy" "When skies are gray" I know that our family is very musical and will sing along if we step into the living room. "You'll never know dear" Everyone sings. I don't even care that half of them are off-key. "How much I love you, please don't take my sunshine" "Away" This makes me feel overwhelming joy. Love and Joy. I am thankful. I am thankful for my family. I am thankful for my friends. I am thankful I got over myself. No matter where anyone sitting here comes from. They are my family. Black or White. Or a mix, just like me. I am thankful for this Beautiful Symphony.

"Why are you here?" She asked wearily. I thought I had come prepared to answer this, I knew I did but when she did actually ask me, I was lost for words. It wasn’t so much the nature of the question or the lack of an answer on my part. It was her. She looked so sad, her eyes void of hope and her voice fatigued. I felt responsible, I had taken this beautiful woman, the love of my life, and broken her piece by piece till she became a shadow of the person I fell in love with. When you fall in love, you never intend to hurt the person you care so much about. You would rather die than see them in any sort of pain. All you want to do is spend every waking second with them. I wanted to be her everything and she was everything I wanted. I never wanted to imagine a world without her. Slowly, but surely the magic wears off. Words and expressions become routine. You become comfortable and begin to take her for granted. The playful quarrels become hour-long screaming matches. Sometimes my actions became louder than my words. You can only take so much and I should’ve done better. I thought I was better than that. I resented who I had become and what I had done, but I always had hope. I just wanted her to forgive me, I wanted us to be us again. I wanted to make her happy and carry on like nothing had come in between us. She prompted me again, “Why are you here?” I saw her eyes tear up, every terrible decision I made or thing I said to her exploded through my head. That’s when I asked myself, what was I doing here? The hardest part of knowing that it was over between us was that no matter what I did, I could never make her feel like she did before. I was only causing her pain and this was a hard truth for me to swallow. I turned around to leave knowing that I would never see her again. I mustered the only three words I saw fit, “I am sorry.” Her face expressed more than her words ever would.

I woke up in a cold sweat, the stench of dried blood and an oppressive musk was heavy and I coughed a few times as my eyes started refocusing on the dimly lit room around me. *"I was dreaming..."* I sat up in my rough bed, the heat of the summer night forced me to remove the thicker layers of the bed sheets. I checked my alarm clock, the red glow of the LED display was flickering slightly. *"It felt so real"* I pondered apon my recent experience with the dream when I put my attention towards the thick odour in the room. It was the middle of summer and a hot room did this, especially when the clouds persisted through the night and trapped the heat in from the previous afternoon. I pulled off the remaining sheets and opened the window to release the odour from the room. I felt the wind enter the room on my face, it tickled my cheeks and that small relief was enough to keep me from closing the window again. It was only a few more hours until sunrise, and I could not leave the window open for too long or the room will be too cold for a comfortable rest. I decided to turn on the lights to illuminate the room. *click *"Holy shit..."* The lit room from the celing light revealed a much different perspective of the room. My fingers were covered in blood, and everything I had previously touched had darkened brown stains. I looked down on the floor only to notice my stomach had massive cuts that were actively bleeding. The realization of the upturned room was startling, my stomach was still bleeding, blood was now nearly pouring out of the cuts and it spilled onto my fingers. I slid onto the floor in pain and attempted to grab something for support. *"Oh god"* I looked at my stained hands, the nails were extended and sharp, revealing small nubs on the tips. I tasted blood in my mouth, only to find my teeth to be sharper and my tongue to be longer. I could no longer breath and I felt like everything was falling apart. The world slipped underneath me and my vision went black. *"I was dreaming"* I sat up in my rough bed, the glow of the summer mid morning sun forced me to remove the thicker layers of the bed sheets. The window was open and the wind was starting to pick up, blowing in and replacing the stale air from my room. I shut the window and pondered apon my recent experience with the dream I just had.

Nora entered the spacious pub on a corner of Katonah Avenue at midday on Monday, an hour before the bar opened. A guy about her age, mid-twenties, with a button down shirt and neatly combed hair was waiting for her at a booth next to the bar. Seeing Nora, he climbed out of the seat and shook her hand. “Nora?” “That’s me. It’s nice to meet you. Joe, right?” “Yep.” Joe gestured to the booth and Nora sat in it. She was holding a folder with her resume and some references from other bars she worked at. Joe examined the resume and references. “So, you have a lot of pub experience it looks like. I see you worked at the Crown & Jockey, Harry Smith’s, Begun’s.” “I did,” Nora replied brightly. “I’ve worked at bars and pubs ever since my first year of college.” Nora had heard that it was notoriously difficult to get hired at this pub, which was the liveliest in a neighborhood full of lively pubs in a tiny quarter of the Bronx, nestled next to the cemetery that gives the neighborhood its name, Woodlawn. And she wanted the extra money, which was, as rumor had it, excellent. “Pretty typical setup here,” Joe began. “So all that should be easy. What we really need is the right personality. We have a lot of loyal patrons, a lot of events, a lot of private parties. We need someone fun. Someone who can remember the regulars’ names. Sound like you can do that?” Nora tucked her hair behind her ear. “Definitely. I always get to know the regulars and the local VIPs.” “That’s perfect,” Joe replied. “We can also get pretty busy. In your experience, what does a typical night look like for you?” Nora pointed to a few of the bars on her resume. “These are the ones where I worked four hours of Friday and Saturday night alone at the bar. I can handle a big crowd. When I was waitressing, I was often doing three four-tops, a six and a large party.” Joe’s eyebrows raised. “That’s a lot. How did you pull that off?” “Magic.” Nora smiled. Joe laughed. “Okay. Let me go talk to the owner, see if she has time to meet with you.” “Great!” Nora stole a look at her phone and tucked it back in her purse. She looked around the bar; polished mahogany and green-backed booths. There was a stone hearth in a back corner and, over her shoulder, the entrance to a larger dining room. “Nora?” Joe peeped his head out of the dining room. “The owner will see you.” “Nora followed him through the dining room, back into a party room, back further into a tucked-away cocktail bar, down a short staircase, and into a small stone cellar. “This pub is huge. Is this a wine cellar?” Joe looked around. “Yeah, might have started that way. We use it for storage now.” He led her out of the stone room and into a well-appointed office. An arresting woman sat behind a desk. Her hair was an enormous halo of red curls, streaked with white. She was wearing a hunter green dress and her large, round eyes were two different colors; one blue, one honey brown. She stood and offered a thin, white hand. “Siobhán Brennan. They tell me I run this place.” She had an Irish accent. Nora shook her hand. “Nora Meredith, thanks for seeing me.” Siobhán looked at the door. “I’ll send her up in a minute, Joe.” He slipped out. “Joe’s one of the managers,” Siobhán said. “Also my son.” Nora smiled. “A family enterprise. That’s great.” Siobhán settled back into her chair and looked at Nora over the tips of her fingers. Nora thought she saw tiny strings of dancing light moving among the strands of Siobhán’s hair. “Another thing we need here at the pub, Nora, is discretion. Do you understand?” “Yes, of course.” In Nora’s experience, most bars were doing a thing or two that wasn’t entirely above board. Siobhán retrieved a crystal goblet from the sideboard behind her and filled it with wine from a decanter. She swirled the wine around the glass three times and ran her hand over the top of the glass. The liquid inside churned into a thick, glowing green, and then, before Nora could even register what had happened, returned to red wine. Siobhán lifted the wine to her mouth, smiled and said, “It’s good to have you on board Nora.” Nora spent a few, sleepless nights trying to rationalize what she saw in Siobhán’s office, which was miles away from what she thought Siobhán meant when asking for ‘discretion.' But, eventually, the pace of work at the pub pushed it out of her head. In addition to her day job, she worked Friday and Saturday nights at the pub, adding party shifts on Sundays and, not infrequently, weeknight shifts. She was too exhausted to think about much of anything. And besides, she loved the pub. The money was incredible. The staff worked together seamlessly. Pints and bottles slid down the bar top. A second cocktail appeared almost instantly with the flip of the mixologist’s arm. She laughed and gossiped with the patrons, and laughed and gossiped with her coworkers. The entire place seemed bathed in twinkling lights, like every night was a blend of the best parts of Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve and St. Patrick’s Day. In fact, it was two days before St. Patrick’s Day that Nora called out of her day job to help set the pub up for the weekend’s festivities, when a man came in, his face obscured by a thick, wiry beard and a flat cap. Frigid air followed him into the bar. “Siobhán. Now.” “Excuse me, sir?” Nora asked, setting down the string of plastic shamrock lights she was unboxing behind the bar. She had trouble understanding his heavy Irish accent. “I. need. Sio-bhán. Right now.” “She’s not here right now, can I take a message?” The man slammed one fist so hard on the bar the glasses in the overhead rack rattled, and with his other pulled Nora toward him. Nora yelped, but before she could say anything, Siobhán emerged from the kitchens. “Hands off, Dáithí.” Dáithí stomped toward Siobhán menacingly, but she held up a hand. “Now, Dáithí. You’ll be wanting to stop right there.” Dáithí halted instantly, but continued to grimace. “You tricked me, Siobhán. Make it right.” “Nora here doesn’t need to know all the world’s business, Dáithí. Come to my office.” Nora, whose heart was pounding furiously, watched as the pair disappeared behind the dining room. She knew it wasn’t wise, surely there must be cameras all over, still she followed behind them through the dining room, then the party room, then the cocktail garden, and down the short staircase into the room of stone arches. Loudly from Siobhán’s closed office, Nora heard, “Damn you, Siobhán. This was a trick, it was. And a rotten one.” Siobhán’s icy voice responded, “Greedy, greedy, Dáithí. You thought you could cheat the system; thought you could cheat me. Don’t you think I noticed the deliveries were padded? And I was going to let it go, I was; find a new butcher and move on. But then you came in asking for my special help so you can go cheating even more. You got what you got. Don’t be crying about it.” “You’re a demonic woman, Siobhán, and I’ll tell everyone what you are!” Nora heard feet thundering down the steps and she retreated beneath a shadowy arch. It was Joe. He stormed into the office. “Everything ok in here, Mom?” “Show your man Dáithí the door, Joe. He’s finished.” Dáithí sized Joe up. “I know my way out.” Nora pressed her back to the wall, tripping on something sticking out of the floor. She caught herself before she made a noise. “He going to be a problem?” Joe asked. “Not for long. Check on Nora, though. He scared her pretty good.” “I didn’t see her up there.” Siobhán nodded. “She probably went to go clear her head. Have a talk with her when she’s back, yeah?” Joe and Siobhán ascended the stairs out of the basement. Nora, panting from adrenaline, slinked to the ground. She felt around her feet, trying to determine what she tripped on. It was a wooden trap door, slightly open. She crouched down to examine it, and through the opening could see an illuminated space beneath. Nora paused a moment to listen for anyone who might be coming back downstairs. Satisfied that she’d be left alone, she prised the door open, revealing a ladder down to a tunnel whose walls were lit with hanging light bulbs. This is a mistake, Nora thought, but she climbed down the ladder anyway. “Good god,” Nora whispered when she saw that the light bulbs were actually free-floating flames, dangling at even intervals along the walls of the tunnel. She continued on, terrified that she’d be caught, that she’d get trapped, and yet unable to turn around. At one point, she heard the roar of cars, trucks and buses above her and worked out that, given the position of the pub and how long she’d been walking, she was under 233rd street. This must lead to the cemetery. Nora continued along the tunnel as the stone path turned to dirt and the walls narrowed. She was ready to turn back when she reached another ladder. She climbed part of the way up toward a cold light at the top. Nora heard a chant of echoing voices. She paused on the rung trying to make out what the voices were saying, but she couldn’t understand. Curiosity pulled her a up a few rungs more, until she could see the bottom halves of three people gathered around a table. Based on all the marble, Nora realized this must be the interior of one of the cemetery’s grand mausoleums. Something on the table was hissing and bubbling. The voices grew louder, crescendoing until a small bang emitted from the cauldron. The commotion was followed by a sweet mewling. Two of the women sat on the ground playing with a tiny, russet kitten. Nora could just make out that one was Lisa, Siobhán’s daughter. She also worked at the bar. The other woman Nora recognized as Reina, who owned a bodega on Webster Avenue. “See, Dáithí,” Lisa said to the kitten. “Things are easier when you’re a nice boy.” Nora gasped. The women in the mausoleum froze. Reina came over to the opening to inspect, her long braids falling just over Nora’s face. Nora tried to climb back down the ladder as fast as she could, but her foot landed on Siobhán, who was on her way up. “Back up you go, Nora.” Nora, sweating and shivering, forced herself up the ladder and into the mausoleum. The three woman stood in front of the table, arms crossed. Nora did not recognize the third woman, who was white-haired and of indeterminate age. The kitten nestled itself on to Reina’s shoulder and closed its eyes. Siobhán gracefully emerged from the opening in the floor and guided Nora by the elbow over to a chair. Nora sat, looking up at the women. Siobhán picked up the cat from Reina’s shoulder. “Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it Nora?” Eyes wide, Nora squeaked, “Please don’t kill him.” Siobhán laughed. “Dáithí? Oh, he’ll turn up right as rain in a few days having learned a good lesson. Won’t you, Dáithí?” The kitten rubbed its face hungrily along Siobhán’s hand. Tears brimmed in Nora’s eyes. “What are you?” The women laughed. Siobhán said, “Of course you know, Nora. You’ve known all along. I’m not just a publican. Reina isn’t just a purveyor of delicious Jamaican food. Mary isn’t just a lady in the Altar Rosary Society. We all have other gifts, so to speak. Sometimes, people seek those gifts. We help them when we can. But, they’re not always happy with the help they get. Like with our friend, Dáithí: he was cheating me, and other customers. Then had the gall to ask for a spell to grow his ‘business.’ Well, I gave him one; earned him a trip to the hospital. Furious, weren’t you Dáithí?” Siobhán stopped to a moment to allow the kitten to amble up her chest. “You’re a good girl, Nora. You won’t tell, will you?” “No one would believe me,” Nora whispered. “That’s true,” laughed Reina. Mary limped over to the door of the mausoleum and opened it. “Go on. Time to go.” Afraid to break eye contact with them, Nora walked backwards toward the door and stumbled down the marble steps. She broke into a run; pumping her legs as fast as they could take her until she had to stop, gasping for breath and covered in sweat. She leaned over a headstone to nurse a stitch in her side. She glanced down at the name on the headstone and jumped back, yelling when she saw it read ‘DOLAN, Dáithí.’ She read the dates etched into the stone four times just to be sure it wasn’t the same Dáithí from the pub. Her first impression of the man was bad, but she didn’t want him dead. Nora told herself not to go back to the pub; go home, take a shower, and find a job somewhere normal. And she did go home and take a shower, but then she dried her hair and got ready for work and headed back to the pub, ineluctably drawn there, unable to stay away. “Nora!” Joe greeted her at the door, concern on his face. “Everything ok? My mom told me Dáithí got aggressive.” Siobhán and Lisa stood in the corner of the pub, watching her. Nora made eye contact with them and looked backed to Joe. “Yep, just clearing my head. Thanks for checking.” The rest of the weekend whirred past. The bar was near-capacity all day on Friday and Saturday, and was mostly full on Sunday. Nora worked thirteen hour shifts each day, but never felt tired. It was like she was moving to a inborn choreography: step this way to avoid a waiter with a tray of food; keep this tab open and this one closed, even though the patrons never specified; bring this table a plate of nachos after their third round. When she had time to recognize it, she understood that so much of how the place operated must be part of Siobhán’s ‘gift,’. Everything always worked. Drinks just materialized. Taps never ran out or tasted off. Even on their busiest and most packed nights, no one ever fought, no one ever got too drunk. They hired a bouncer who slept in a booth next to the entrance; he had nothing to do. She’d worked in a dozen or so bars and restaurants and never experienced anything like it. The following Tuesday, Nora went to the pub to get her tips cashed out from the weekend. Joe told her to head down to Siobhán’s office to retrieve them, so she followed the familiar path down and knocked twice on the heavy wooden door. “Come in!” Siobhán was seated behind her desk, Lisa, Reina and Mary behind her. Nora stopped in the doorway, unsure if she should continue. “You’re ok, girl. Get in.” Mary commanded. Nora came in, less nervous than the last time she was in their company. Siobhán handed over an envelope with the tips. “It’s $2,500. A very good haul.” Lisa said. Nora opened her mouth, but was too shocked to speak. One St. Patrick’s day she made $700 working the bar. Nothing close to this. “Please sit.” Siobhán gestured to the chair across from her desk. Nora obeyed. “What if I told you, Nora, that these extra gifts we have, we can share them with other people?” “You mean like doing spells or something?” Reina grinned. “We mean showing you how to do them.” She extended her arm, her brown fist closed. “Go on. Look inside.” Nora looked at all of them, and then gently peeled back Reina’s fingers. In her palm was a tiny, golden morsel. She understood that these women could just as easily be killing her with this, or turning her into a cat, but still she took the morsel and ate it. Something electric coursed through her veins. Once she was used to the feeling, she stood up. Things around her seemed more possible than they had before, like the world around her was something she could control. “I feel...” Nora searched for the word. “I don’t know how to describe it.” Siobhán held an empty glass bowl in front of Nora. Remembering her first encounter with Siobhán, Nora put her hand over it and it filled with water. She inhaled sharply. “Did you see that?” Nora looked to the other women. Lisa smirked. “We did.” “What you feel,” Siobhán said, gently guiding Nora out of the office and toward the secret passageway to the mausoleum, “is power.” In time, Nora found that there were many more people in Woodlawn with the gift. They met in the cemetery, at the full moon, to discuss the goings-on of the neighborhood, to set limits on the use of power, and to decided how to handle threats. Nora soon learned to recognize when someone else had the gift, wondering how she ever missed the signs of it before. Joe left the pub for law school, and Siobhán promoted Nora to manager. She quit her day job. One morning at dawn, she headed to the pub to accept an early shipment and she walked passed Dáithí, who was opening the grates on ‘Dave’s Irish Butcher and Supply.’ They locked eyes and, after hesitating, Dáithí tipped his hat. Nora smiled. That’s a good kitty. (This was submitted for Reedsy contest #190: Set your story in New York, where someone’s been waiting for your character.

“I can’t believe we have to do this,” Allie huffed, tossing her phone into a bin labeled with her name on it. She grabbed the required headphones-earmuffs really-and moved through the queue. “It’s too far. If I make it through this I might just quit anyway.” Ginny, her coworker and best friend, rolled her eyes and she shuffled along, fidgeting with her headphones, trying to size them correctly. She tossed her phone into a bin as if it was on fire, smiling and sighing like she actually enjoyed keeping it distanced from her. “I think it’s nice spending a whole day in silence,” she stated, and really, she would. As a mother of two toddlers, this was a vacation. A whole day at a silent retreat-mandated and paid for by work. “Now quick, get your talking out now before they shut it down!” She winked, and Allie huffed again. Ginny offered her a granola bar and Allie accepted it with angst, hating that her friend knew her so well. She shoved the snack into her mouth in large bites as they grabbed the rest of their necessities for the day, which turned out to be a bag full of notepads, pens, and resources about meditation and taking time to listen through body language and facial cues. “Noooooo,” she groaned, mouth full. “I don’t even have my phone to play Scrabble on the sly. What am I going to do all day?” The queue led to a medium sized conference room with a stage and small two-chaired tables scattered throughout the floor. There were only about 30 people attending, all local HR departments torturing their reps with an exercise in patience. “Let’s sit by each other and we can play tic tac toe the whole time,” Allie said, elbowing her friend and pointing to an empty table. She searched her bag for a bottle of water and couldn’t find one. Ginny nodded, handing a water that she pulled from her bag like magic. “That’s what I’d do with my kids if they were here, she agreed.” Her tone wasn’t lost on Allie, but she didn’t care-games sounded much better than whatever this would likely entail. The two sat down and waited for instructions. Allie had assumed a silent retreat meant yoga and yurts, not sitting in a stuffy brown room with a bunch of strangers with plastic smiles on their faces. She was sure no one wanted to be there, but honestly she couldn’t tell by looking at them. She glanced at the schedule, seeing yoga was in fact on the agenda at the end of the day. She nodded to herself, mindlessly smoothing her hair and pasting her own smile across her betrayingly expressive face. After a few moments a small woman walked to the stage microphone, seeming to tiptoe or float, her heels making absolutely no sounds against the wood floors. Allie was so focused on that feat of magic, she barely heard the quiet voice through the speakers around the room. Snapping to attention, she tried to put the shoes out of her mind. “Welcome, everyone. We’re going to get started on an exercise in just a few moments. It’ll challenge you, and hopefully educate you on the forms of communication that exist without words or sounds.” She mumbled on about the research, and Allie nodded to herself, thinking the shoes must have pads on the bottom of them. This woman went far in her quest for silence, that’s for sure. “Pads on her shoes,” she whispered to Ginny. “I’m sure of it.” Ginny looked oddly at her, then raised a finger to her lips in a shushing manner. “Whatever,” she mumbled and turned back to the woman on stage, who had moved on from research and onto the rules of engagement for the day. “So when you’re ready, I need you all to rearrange yourselves to share a table with someone you’ve never met before. This works best with someone you don’t already have a shorthand knowledge of.” Allie looked around the room in panic. There went her plan of sticking with the one person she knew. She felt like an HR imposter. Who worked with people without liking people? Ginny hit at her shoulder. “Pay attention!” Allie nodded, not paying attention at all. She wondered if there would be a silent lunch after, and how would they even know if no one could tell them? The thought made her snort. Ginny nudged her again and pointed to her noise canceling headphones. Everyone was putting them over their ears. Shit, she missed something again. She followed everyone else and slid the headphones over her head, huffing again when she had to adjust her ponytail to accommodate them. Suddenly she couldn’t hear anything, and everyone else seemed to know what they were doing. Panicking again, she stayed seated in her chair. Surely someone would notice and guide her to their task if she just sat there. Like when a child is lost, she thought. They always say to stay where you are and wait for a grownup to find you. “Is that what they say?” she mumbled to herself. “Or do you go find someone?” She couldn’t even remember how to be a lost child, she thought, rolling her eyes. She looked down at her shoes, wondering how she would attach magic sound muffling pads to them. Someone sat down in the chair across from her, startling her. “I guess staying put was the right way to go,” she mumbled, raising her eyes to her guest. She started to wonder how she’d pretend to know what the frick was happening, but embarrassment reddened her cheeks. The man across from her was gorgeous. His suit-SUIT-was fitted, and fit well, she thought, before cursing herself for objectifying him. The suit fit well but didn’t look overly expensive. He had a short hairstyle that allowed for his headphones to easily fit over his head. He was clean shaven, had an open and approachable face, and looked to be in his late 20s or early 30s, if she had to guess. Allie herself was only 25, just a few years out of college, the baby in the room, which looked to be mostly jaded 40 year olds trying desperately to get promoted out of the job they’d had for a decade and a half. The man held out his hand and Allie offered hers in return. His handshake was firm, the way you’d expect from someone who worked with people all day. He smiled and she could see his white teeth. One tooth had a small chip in it, but why did it look so charming? She wondered how he’d chipped his tooth. Falling asleep and knocking his face on a table at a convention like this, probably. She sighed. “I’m Allie,” she said loudly, and then slapped a hand on her mouth, feeling like an idiot. She stifled a laugh, and then because she tried so hard not to, she burst out into a snort. She was so glad at that moment the man couldn’t hear her. She mouthed sorry and he held back a laugh too, a dimple appearing in his left cheek. Then she grimaced. She still had no clue what they were doing, and she didn’t know how to find out. Sighing again, she motioned to him and put her hands out in a “What do we do?” shrug. He motioned back to her in a “go ahead.” She narrowed her eyes at him and stared him down. There were brown specks in his green eyes. She narrowed hers more so he wouldn’t see that her brown eyes had green specks. It seemed like information he just didn’t deserve to have. Without breaking eye contact, she crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. She could do this all day, she thought. Except really she couldn’t. The truth was, Allie was bored. She turned to look at what everyone else was doing, and honestly, it just looked like they were playing charades. Their arms and hands moved around and their faces held exaggerated emotions. She shrugged, and reached for her bag to grab the pen and paper. “I give up,” she wrote. “I don’t know what we’re doing. Oh, and I’m Allie.” She grimaced and slid the paper toward her partner, shrugging and handing him the pen. She expected him to be angry or at least exasperated for wasting his precious time. She waited for him to write something scathing about wasting her time, but he just winked and wrote something down, using his hand to cover it so she couldn’t peek. He looked left, then right, and then slid the paper across the table. It reminded her of when she was in school, passing notes to her friends in Study Hall. She mimicked the exaggerated looks to make sure no one was watching, and then looked at the page. She instantly laughed-snorted again-and glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised. “I wasn’t paying attention,” he’d written. “I was hoping for puppy yoga. I’m Daniel.” She looked at his hastily drawn lines, a big X in the center square. “Tic tac toe?”

I was the first to recommend the procedure to him. The technology had been around for a few years at that point, but at first I was too afraid to ask him. To me it felt unnatural, and to erase memories was, but I would have tried anything. I’d seen what grief had done to Patrick. Anything would be better than what he was then. ​ I’d watched as the family went from the two of us to three, and then suddenly back down to two again. And six years after that it was only me. After the fire, when Patrick moved back into the house with me, I was forced to watch as he faded into no one. His body became thin. His hair became thin. It turned grey. Everyday he looked more like dust. ​ That night, I stood over him shaking the pamphlet in my hand and begged him in a raised voice, “Please, consider it. It’s been six years and I don’t see any end, and it hurts me to see you in so much pain, but you don’t have to fight it anymore.” “And I envy the fact that you don’t feel so empty all the time,” He spat from his armchair. I walked back to my chair and sat down across from him again, resigned. I sighed, “If I could bear your pain, I would do it in an instant. You know that Patrick... I’d be a terrible father if I didn’t. But I don’t know how much longer I can see you this way, and...” I gestured at the collection of unopened envelopes on the coffee table, “this is still piling up.” He stormed out of the room. ​ I sat in on one of his therapy sessions after I first suggested the procedure. That’s how I learned that his friends had left him because he had been “too depressed to be around.” When he said it, he looked to check if I was still in the corner of the room before he turned back to Dr. Kuntz to speak. I couldn’t help but notice how old he looked: he was thirty-three. Patrick continued on: “But there’s this notion of happiness, that it’s a flowing, unending. Pure ecstasy that fills every crack. That’s not true though, the cracks don’t get filled. They exist on the edges, because to be filled with a single emotion is, well, boring. The cracks are what define you and remind you what it means to be a person...” There was a pause of silence, all of us understanding his reservations on part of his person being erased, because of course his fears were valid, and it wasn’t Dr. Kuntz’s or my decision to make. Then Dr. Kuntz said, “But what your so-called ‘cracks’ drain every emotion you’ve got until all that’s left is emptiness?” ​ In the end, Patrick decided that it was for the best. And I was the one to gather all the photos, tokens, anything that might have significance to him. I was the one to do the erasing. I scoured the house for anything that might remind him of *her*, but most of what Patrick and Quinn had owned was lost in the fire. I created a small pile on the kitchen table. Bits of paper with her name on them, photographs of the two, a few metal trinkets. Patrick walked through the doorway while I arranged the memories, and spun around when he realized what I was doing. In the end, every piece of their life together fit neatly inside a small wooden box. When I told Patrick I finished, he came in and left a letter and their wedding ring on top of the wooden box. The night before the operation, I went out into our backyard, dug a hole and buried the box, covering the hole up so it was indistinguishable from the rest of the yard, all while I wept and Patrick tried to sleep. ​ When we arrived at the clinic, we were met with the jeers and howls of a handful of protestors. I tried to usher him from the car to the doors with my arm around his waist. I tried to take his attention away from the signs, but even I couldn’t help but glimpse the word “unnatural” on one of them as we walked past. Right by the door, a balding man in his forties hissed in my ear, “You’re erasing yourself. You’re giving up.“ I ignored him, but at that moment I was reminded of a quote by the writer Osamu Dazai: “Is non-resistance a sin?” ​ The operating room was lit with harsh fluorescent lights and smelled sickeningly of disinfectant. White floors, white walls, white lights. The doctor walked in wearing a white lab coat. And I held Patrick’s hand as he recapped the basic procedure with him, but I don’t think either of us were listening. “The next thing you know, you’ll be waking up in your house,” he said to Patrick. I helped him onto the operating table. The doctor flipped a switch on the side of the table and a howling whir of machinery began to start up. He said, “Dad, I’m scared.” I squeezed his hand even harder as they slipped the anesthetic mask over his mouth. The hiss of gas added to the noise, the whirs, and high-voltage hums of the room, and I felt myself going faint. Before a masked nurse ushered me out of the room, I said to Patrick, “A lot’s going to change.” ​ I don’t have many videos of Patrick as a young child since it’s always been the two of us, but do have one I watch alone every once in a while. There’s no audio, but in the video, he’s four or five, and I’m chasing him around on the lawn of our old house. He’s laughing silently and at one point he trips, and I pretend like I’m going to grab him. Just as I close my hands around his leg, he gets back up again, smiling. ​ That afternoon, he woke up in his armchair at home to me sitting across from him, as the doctors had instructed me to do. The sun shone through the translucent curtains and bathed the room in a soft light. A summer breeze rustled the room. Patrick gave me a questioning look. “How long was I asleep for?” He asked. I looked up from my book as I shut it. “Not too long,” I said, “Do you remember falling asleep?” After a pause, he said, “No, I feel... like I’ve been in a deep sleep.” “Probably just the grogginess,” I replied, my voice getting shakier with every word. “Would you like to make us some tea for the afternoon?” Patrick nodded and walked out of the room. I looked out through the french doors and thought of the wooden box buried in the yard--that part of Patrick he had bestowed upon me to keep: almost an equal exchange, but not quite. Not quite because my life was almost over and I could bear the knowledge he lacked so that his life... could begin again. A tear came to my eye. ​ This is what Patrick’s letter--buried deep underground--read: *Dear Quinn,* *They’re going to do an operation on my brain that will erase all my memory of you. You know I would do anything to bring you back, but I can’t fight it anymore. I’m just not strong enough to carry all the guilt and pain and anguish, and I’m sorry for that. Everynight, I wish it had been me who had died that night in the fire.* *This has been the most painful decision in my life. You made me who I am, and brought me love that I didn’t think possible to feel, but I think that you would want me to be well. I am going to try to live again.* *Maybe I’ll see you again soon. Until then, thank you for all the years of happiness.* *Sending you all my love,* *Patrick* ​ I sat in my armchair and listened to the muffled thuds of cabinets opening and closing, the clink of ceramic mugs on the counter, the hiss of the water-boiler, and through my own quiet sobs of both sadness and relief, I heard Patrick too. It was difficult to make out, but it sounded like he was humming a tune that I hadn’t heard in years.

Trigger warning: This story contains mentions of physical abuse and self harm. Running is a poor man’s exercise. So why am I even doing it? Oh, yeah. Because I’m poor now. These sneakers are tight but my budget is tighter. Dad bought me these shoes before he cut me off. I mean, Dad also used to hit me before he cut me off. Sneakers for some bruises. It was a fair trade, I guess? We don’t need to think about that anymore, though. I’m free now. And broke. No gym. Just running. At least this neighborhood is safe. Well, technically, I cut myself off. I didn’t do anything wrong, right? I just moved out like adults do. I’m an adult. Financially independent. Am I just going to ignore that Mom has cancer? Yeah, I’m trying not to think about it. That’s why I’m even running in the first place. Exercise relieves stress...and prevents cancer, which is what Mom has. I have to go back home. I’m her only child. Her baby. Mom used to call me that all the time. Her only baby. I cried in her arms countless times. Soon those arms will be lifeless. I miss her. It’s so hard to say it out loud to her face. Words of affirmation don’t come naturally to us. We’re more of a read-between-the-lines kind of family. In our case, the lines are ultra-thin. Oh, yeah. Mom’s cancer. Sure, she looked okay on video call, but did she, though? She lost so much weight. I could literally see all her bones. She looks like a cancer patient. She used to be so beautiful. She still is. It’s just that she aged thirty years in three months. But she was energetic! And smiling! Of course she was. I’m her daughter. I know her. As always, she’s putting on her best performance. For me. She’d rather die pretending than let me see her crack. That’s why I can’t go back. I’ll take up all her energy. Or rather I can’t go back because I’m not like Mom. There’s only so much I can fake. If I break, I’ll have to stay in that house forever. With Dad who’s only hanging on by a thread. He loves Mom so much. Mom is dying. He’ll kill himself if she goes. He wouldn’t stay for me. I know that. Remember when I failed that math test? He got so angry, he went to the garage and got a pistol and unlocked the trigger and aimed it at me then pointed it at his own head yelling, “I regret having a daughter like you! You useless piece of shit!” He said that a lot. I thought I was going to die. I thought he was going to die. All because of a math test. Our lives were worth less than a math test. “It’s because he loves you.” Mom said that a lot. In our house, love is learning every expression of anger on Dad’s face so that I know when to expect a blow up. Love is accepting that I deserved it. Because he wouldn’t hurt me if he didn’t care. Love is pain. I felt a lot of it. Dad only knew how to express love with anger and money. That’s why I’m recovering three-thousand miles away from him. And running in the shoes he bought for me. Maybe I am a useless piece of shit. Just running, running, running. It’s all I’m good for. Running away from all my problems. What else can I do? What’s wrong with me? I should care so much more, shouldn’t I? That my family is falling apart? I should be crippled with grief but my legs won’t stop moving. I haven’t called or texted in half a month. That’s not normal, is it? Well, it wasn’t normal going to school with wounds all over my body. Or lying to my teachers about it. It wasn’t normal when Dad socked me so hard in the stomach, I couldn’t breathe. Folded on the floor and sobbing. Or when he locked me in the garage for a week. I slept on the cement floor, listening to rats scurry around at midnight. I was eight. Moving out is a rite of passage for most eighteen-year-olds. But for me, it felt like a long-awaited escape plan. It’s not normal to be afraid of your father. But I don’t think “normal” is our style. And what about Mom? Strong-headed, quick-witted Mom who always knew how to make me feel comforted and ashamed at the same time. The effects of her words have lasted longer than any of Dad’s bruises. “You know you had it coming. You just make him so angry. He can’t help himself when you provoke him. It’s your fault." I believed her and sometimes still do. But I don’t want to anymore. It just makes me tired. So, so, so tired. Yet I can’t stop thinking she's right, especially now. Mom has cancer and I’m making it all about me. My pain, my grief, my guilt. It’s hard not to agree that I’m terrible. Mom, Dad and I had good times, after all. Watching movies together, eating dinner, joking. But even the good times were riddled with anxiety. One second we could be laughing and the next second a fist would hit my face because something I said was out of line. And there were so many lines. It was hard to keep track. It was so much easier to just expect violence at all times. No matter how good things were. Happiness and anxiety are a package deal. Anxiety keeps me safe. It’s family. I’m running but I can’t escape it. Family. The only one I know. It’s broken and it's mine. Mom in the hospital. Once regal, now frail. Dad beside her. Once feared, now hopeless. And me. Once trapped, now lost. We’re drowning, but at least we’re drowning together. I've tried to hate them but I can’t. They’re all I’ve ever known. So, after this run, I’ll call them. Tell them I love them. I miss them. I can’t imagine life without them. But I’m not going back. I can’t. For my own sanity, I need to keep running. Full speed ahead.

She stared down at her feet realising it was covered in the slimy greenish water. She gave a disgusted squeal when the slime creeped between her toes. This wasn't what she thought the Victorian Castle camp would be like. She visualised herself walking around the castle and imaging people dancing all kinds of different dances in the ballroom. Instead she's building campfires and swimming in the Victorian lake next to the castle. Camilla sighed and called Mr. Wicksen her history teacher who planned the entire trip. "So are we actually going to go into the castle", she asked him. He looked at her and thought a while before answering her question. "Yes Camilla but we must first wait for Mrs. Anderson to approve the entrance form before we can proceed". Camilla knew that if they get time to enter the castle their time would be limited and she wouldn't have enough time to see Miss Small's bedroom. Miss Small lived during the Victorian era she was considered as a well accomplished young lady. She was soft spoken, sophisticated, elegant and she was truly beautiful, men has always said it was the innocence in her eyes that captivated them. She had every feature but unfortunately in 1855 she passed away due to a heart attack when she was only 17. Her life is considered to be tragic due to the fact that she would've married the handsome and wealthy Prince Louis who she was in love with but passed away the night before their wedding. After her death he was forgotten, he went on and lived in a foreign country leaving his crown for his nephew to grasp. Rumours said that Prince Louis never looked at another lady and died alone on a cold winter evening somewhere unknown. Camilla relates in alot of ways to Miss Small and always believed that in some unknown ways they were the same she has always been obsessed with her. Miss Small's first name is also Camilla and both Camilla and Miss Small celebrate 21 August as their birthday date. "I honestly think that she'll only approve the forms once we're away, she has secrets and she's scared someone will find out the truth about the castle", said Mark who stood beside her. She turned to face him and looked at him curiously, "I have a plan, I also think that the next 3 days will be swimming and waiting. I think we should break into the castle". "Are you crazy?", he was surprised by her plan and thought it was wild and that they can get into big trouble if they get caught. "I'm just thinking that no one's in the castle at night we can climb through the basement window which is always open and we can solve the mystery the castle has kept for centuries. Plus I really want to see how it looks like inside you know I'm obsessed with the Victorian era". He agreed with the plan and said that he only agreed because he strongly believe that the castle holds secrets and if anyone were to find out these secrets it would be him. When their watches struck at midnight Camilla and Mark sneaked out of their tents as quietly as they could. The night watch who was Mr Wicksen and Thomas were both sound asleep next to the fire. The window of the basement was wide open and they both climbed through the window. The room was dark and only lighted by the moon that pierced through the window. Mark took out his phone and turned on his flashlight. The basement was a fairly large room there were stacks of papers and some furniture stored in the room all covered in a thick layer of dust. They went up the stairs which led to the drawing room. Everything in the room was exactly as it was the day it was abandoned. The next room was the ballroom which was the most favourable room in it's day accompanying more than 300 guests. The Small's hosted the best balls and everyone who was invited saw the invitation as an accomplishment rather than a dance. The room's walls were covered white paint and a portrait of Miss Small with Mr and Mrs Small hanged on the wall across the entrance doors. Miss Small had round blue eyes with dark curley hair and a fair skin tone illuminating her other facial features. Mark stood with Camilla and stared at the portrait. They walked through the castle until Camilla came in view of Miss Small's room. She turned the doorknob, this was it everything she has waited for so long she held her breath until the door was open. They stepped into the room and it looked exactly like Camilla imagined it. It looked exactly like a princess's room. The bedspread was ivory in colour and made of silk. Near the window was a stack of books original editions of Shakespeare, Austen and Dickens she was accomplished in literature. All the books was on a desk with some ink and wax an unfinished letter caught Camilla's eyes. It was Miss Small's handwriting. The letter's content was about Miss Small's feelings of the wedding and her love for him it was written to Prince Louis. Camilla read with passion the letter aloud to Mark who listened and applaud once she was finished. The letter unfortunately had only one paragraph and Camilla left is exactly the same way she found it. She looked at a wedding dress on the dressing table with a corset on top. The dress was made of lace but dust made it look more brown than white. Camilla gazed through the rest of the room admiring every single object that completes it when they heard footsteps. Both their eyes were glued to the door. The doorknob turned slowly and the door opened revealing a lady standing there holding a lighted candle in her hands. Camilla and Mark's eyes were filled with terror and their faces were as white as sheets. 'It couldn't be' was Camilla's last thought before all else perished.

TW: Eating disorder, body dysmorphia. Have you ever read a horror story where the main character has a mirror that doesn't reflect what's standing in front of it? A mirror with a reflection that talks, or speaks, or walks, or moves on its own? Have you read anything like that? Surely you have. And if you're anything like my mother or my best friend or her brother, I'll ask you this question, then perhaps you'll get a scared look in your eyes and you'll say: "But things like that don't really exist. It's great for fiction, and I once saw a scary short film on YouTube that was pretty good, but it's nothing more than that." Why will you look scared? The question I asked - it's a normal question, isn't it? Well, that's because you'll notice that as I'm asking you this question, I'm standing in front of a mirror. I have my back to it, but I know you're too curious not to look. And I know what you're seeing in there. You'll stare at your reflection in the mirror as your voice trails off. That's okay - for some reason, it's a natural human reaction to look at yourself in a reflective piece of glass whenever you have the chance. Your eyes will drift away from mine, and you'll keep bringing them back until you can't anymore, and your gaze is lost in the mirror. I know you will, because I do the same thing. The mirror is across from the door that leads into my bedroom. Whenever I open the door, its brass knob cold in my hand, that mirror - and my own reflection in it - is the first thing I see. It’s so hard not to look at it. Even if I’m in a hurry, or if I was thinking about something else before, I still freeze in front of the glass. Every time. I see the outfit I chose the night before, the one I put together painstakingly while listening to the song my classmates raved about in the group chat, lyrics so muffled I can barely understand them. I’ve never heard it before, and I don’t think I like it. But since I’m doing what I should be doing, it's a cozy atmosphere, one where I feel like I'm fitting right in. Though, when I look at my clothes in the mirror the next day, the coziness is gone. Instead, there's only wishful thinking. Thinking that they should have looked nice, but they don't. I see little red spots on my forehead, relics of relentless hormones and cheap drugstore skincare that was supposed to be helpful. No amount of makeup will cover them up. Wearing makeup, in fact, makes me such a fraud that nowadays, with the mirror as my guide, I don't dare. One time I tried, and I looked into the mirror and saw a dried-up wheat husk. It sounds crazy, I know, but you have to think about the way the foundation caked on my dry skin, the wavering line that was meant to be eyeliner, the red spots peeking through like a child's messy coloring ... and when you look in my mirror through my eyes, you’ll see it too. I see my schoolbag, loose and heavy, draped over one shoulder. It has seen better days. I didn’t choose it - Mom did. I was thirteen when she grabbed it off the shelf, held it up against me, and smiled. “Do you like this?” she asked, and I did. It looked like something a preppy, fresh-off-the-bus high school student - the one that all the seniors would baby - might carry. I saw a little metal grommet where I could attach a keychain. I’d put a photo there, I thought, pictures of me with friends or silly photoshopped pictures of me with celebrities that my friends and I would laugh about together. But I’m still waiting for that. The plainness and the wear and tear adds character, or so I thought when I saw my bag sitting on my shelf. But when I looked at its reflection in the mirror, it just seemed shabby. Strange. I see that I forgot to exercise this week. Hold on - is that thought really coming from the mirror, or did I just happen to remember it right when I opened my bedroom door? I don’t like to work out, and I’m always hungry, and I can’t stop myself from eating a good cookie when Mom makes them to tempt me. But, come to think of it, I guess I should get back on my "routine." Maybe my clothes would fit better if I did, and I wouldn’t have to see them bulging out in all the wrong places. The scale says I’m underweight, but BMI is all a lie anyways. I don’t look underweight, and it’s better to be under than over, isn’t it? That’s what the other girls at school would say if I asked. They’d laugh while they said it, too, and that would be intended to make me feel better, but it wouldn’t work, for I'd still be hungry. It’s safe to say that other people’s mirrors aren’t like mine. When they look in their mirrors, they don’t see wheat husks and tired eyes that were laughing just a moment ago and ugly sweaters that were bought at trendy stores. They see reality - they see themselves. Just themselves, just what other people see. I have a friend who calls herself an “influencer.” I don’t know what that means exactly, but I do know that she’s pretty, pretty enough to call herself whatever she wants. She wears platform sneakers that would make me look like a tree trunk, and they make her look willowy and dainty and cute. She wears a little white skirt that would show too much of my veiny thighs to be attractive. She scrunches with her heels flat to the ground and holds her phone up over her face. Click. Her phone flash reflects off her mirror, adding an eerie, angelic glow to her photo. And voila, she’s beautiful. That’s all there is to it. So I’ve been told, but it has never been that easy for me. I thought that when I saw myself in her mirror, I would look beautiful too. Because the reflection in my mirror at home, I think, isn’t reality. How could it be? How could I be so wrong about myself? But I was sadly disappointed. I only saw my reflection in passing, but it looked just the same as it did at home before I left. Sad, sorry, pathetic. Droopy and lame. The mirror isn’t magic, not like the mirrors in horror stories. The problem is me. It must be. But you see it too, don’t you? You have an idea of what you expect before you look in the mirror, but you don’t see it when you finally do look. Your reflection is all wrong. You’re shaped differently than you thought, and your clothes aren’t the same color, and your cheeks are waxy and sallow. Never, ever does a mirror work the opposite way, telling you you’re better than you really are. It's like mirrors have a secret plot to take over the world by making themselves superior to those who look in them. Now the only question is, which one’s real - the mirror, or the reflection I think I should have seen? Will I ever find a mirror that tells me the truth about myself? That mirror - will it be someone's eyes, perhaps my best friend's, or Mom's, or a person that loves me? Or ... my own?

“Why did you turn me?” I asked Him once, a few months into my vampire life, and not out of maliciousness or a desire to draw out of Him any secrets. I was simply curious in my teenage fashion; I only wanted to know why I had become His companion in immortality, why He had chosen me and not any of the other beautiful boys at the Catholic school He plucked me from. He responded to this curiosity by ripping my door off of its hinges, by tearing my pillows until they exploded into puffs of down and cotton, by taking my favorite of His antique lamps and shattering it against the wall. There were certain topics which He was extraordinarily sensitive about, only one of which being the question of why He crawled into my boarding room that night and stole me away. He was unwilling to talk about His own turning, nor the existence of vampires aside from the two of us. Politics bored Him into slumber, most music irritated Him. He could tolerate few TV programs, with one nonsensical exception in the Andy Griffith Show. He petted my hair mildly while we watched it together, like I was some sort of exotic cat He had spent a pretty penny on. He preferred, at least for that first period of our time together, to discuss our current life and reality. And it most thrilled Him and He was at His most jovial when, every night, we went on the hunt. My first time was a disaster. I had just accepted that I was truly a vampire, against all logic and the teachings of my childhood. For the days it took for me to escape my maze of confusion, He spoon-fed me blood from His own kills in His Manhattan penthouse. Besides, He said, my powers needed to develop. And develop they did. My hearing sharpened until I could, if focused, hear a bird chirping from three blocks away. If the neighbor downstairs cut himself shaving, the scent wafted to my nose. I was too fast for my own good, often overshooting my distance and ending up ten paces ahead of where I wanted to go. I fought my urges to do those human things, eating and using the toilet, now only out of habit rather than need. On the very first night I was with Him, He showed me my first corpse, told me how He paid handsomely to have them disposed of discreetly. He knew everyone in this city, I found, had his fingers in everything. I spent the time from then until my first hunt wandering His apartment, probing my teeth with my tongue, waiting in fear of the day I would have to gather the limp form of a man and fly it over Central Park. I knew I would be inclined to drop it, to watch it splatter on rocks from this great height, to show the world what had been made of me. But I was far too scared of Him for that. He placed the most exquisite, soul-rending fear into my soul. He would have it no other way. As we walked to the location of our first hunt, which He would not disclose to me, He explained which kinds of people we ought not to kill. “Policemen, obviously. Anyone rich. Celebrities, though they can be tempting. Those who may not be rich but are notable in the city, those popular with their peers.” The night was cold and dark and dry, so unlike my home in Atlanta. It was hard to keep up with Him, so quick and assured in His every movement. “So, who should we go after?” “The rabble.” He shook his hand dismissively. “Prostitutes, beggars. In general, the poor. People who will not be missed.” I supposed it made sense in a logistical fashion, but the thought made my stomach hurt. “But shouldn’t we kill the rich? Those who do bad things?” I could tell His easily-triggered temper was flaring up by the way the high heels of His boots clicked insistently on the sidewalk. I purposefully avoided His gaze by looking up to the buildings that rose high above us. I was forced not only to get acclimated to my new vampirism, but to a city I have never even visited. My whole life was in Atlanta, then Decatur, where my private school sat like a crown gem. New York City, though, was the crown gem of America. Later, I managed to tease out of Him that He stayed here because it reminded Him of His original birthplace. Much later, I learned that this birthplace was Constantinople, a thousand and change years before it became as we know it now, Istanbul. He did not dignify my supposition with a response. I knew He tried to be gentle with me, in those early days. From this I gathered that He had some sort of wound from His own turning that had never been quite healed over. He did not want to treat me as He had probably once been treated by His own maker. It was these pinprick moments of kindness, which I justified largely through fictions of my own creation, that stoked my love for Him. The hunt was the only thing that promised to turn His mood around. I watched His demeanor relax once more as we got closer to our apparent destination. “It will be jarring at first.” He admitted to me, with a rare note of tenderness in His voice. “But you will grow to enjoy it. Everyone is different. Some go quietly. Others...” He trailed off. I knew He was trying not to upset me before anything had even transpired. “Are less so. But you are stronger than them, faster than them.” We came upon an empty lot, so rare in the city, dotted in makeshift tents of tarps. Grocery carts filled with piles of indistinguishable trash park next to them like cars. He must have detected my confusion and said, “Building burned to the ground two months ago. They’ve already made use of the place.” His upper lip curled into a barely disguised sneer. They , the homeless, I supposed were meant to be our meal. I nodded. “How are we supposed to get them? Seems as if they’ve all turned in for the night.” “We’ll wait.” So we did. He led me to an alley across the street, where our vantage point was good, and the two of us crouched and bided our time. I took the time to use my newly acquired night vision, to observe every inch of His face. From the side, He looked like a grand statue, or a picture in a history book. His complexion was tawny and His hair was black and pin-straight, relaying a complicated racial makeup. He was quite beautiful, in a harsh way, like a desert of snow. If he noticed me staring, He said nothing. I was sure that His interest in me, that the reason He’d taken me and me alone, was less than pure. But we spent years and years together after this (nothing, in the scheme of his 1,626 total years on earth) before He deigned to touch me in any way that mattered. I think I was still basically human to Him at that time, not yet ripened. He didn’t want me until I was as much a demon as He was. Eventually, one of the homeless wandered out of their tent and stumbled towards us. The man wavered, unseeing in the dark. My maker took me by the wrist and pulled me back, as gently as He could ever. “Quiet.” He whispered to me. “He will relieve himself. Sneak up behind him, and put your fangs into his throat, like I showed you.” The night before, He brought a man back to his (our) apartment and fed from him in front of me. He showed me the exact place where it was best to pierce the neck, when they stop spasming in pain, how much blood is enough to be satiated. I have never, in my decades after that night, forgotten the raw look of that man dying, the wildness of his hands as he tried to dig his fingers into the shag rug. I felt confident that I could perform my task successfully, but I didn’t think I had the stomach for it. Despite His descriptions of my new life as a good thing, a powerful thing, a thing to be respected and cherished, I had a hard time seeing it that way. It felt like a tremendous responsibility to be 18, to be told that this is your life now, and you better give this man a good death, or he will die suffering and knowing that an unimaginable creature is killing him. I looked to Him with real fear in my heart. “I can’t.” I whispered. “He didn’t do anything wrong.” “Of course he didn’t.” He whispered back. His eyes flashed menacingly in the dark. “This is the sacrifice you make for your power. Now do it.” But greater than my moral compass was my terror of the idea of saying no to Him. I still didn’t know how a vampire could die, if He as my maker could snap me from existence with ease. I wasn’t yet aware that He was extraordinarily fond of me, despite his brusque manners, and that He might rather kill Himself than me. His motives still confused me, the idea of His hatred petrified me. And the hunger was setting in, quickly and maddeningly, with the ferocity of a wild beast. So I moved, as slowly as I could, towards the homeless man who had just unzipped his pants. I could feel His eyes on my back as I crept up, unheard. Before I could talk myself out of it, or cry for God, I wrapped my arms around the man's waist and pierced his exterior jugular vein with the new fangs that I still wasn’t used to yet, that will snagged on my lip painfully. Feeding is a whole, messy process, especially if you’re as inexperienced as I was. You’re supposed to bite, immediately release, and form tight suction around the wound. But with the first hint of blood on my tongue, I became deranged, ravenous. I sucked his blood around my teeth frantically, holding the man so tightly to me that I heard his ribs and spine crack and break in my grasp. He tried weakly to pull himself free, but He had been right. I was stronger. It was almost comical, how easy it was. I slurped until the blood flow slowed to a trickle, until I was wet and sticky down to my shoes. Then I dislodged my fangs and looked up at Him, my maker, the man who put this monster inside of me. He leaned against the brick wall of the alleyway, floor-length jacket rippling. He had a smile on His face, the first one I’d seen of His. I am still shocked today when it’s directed towards me, the hint of pink tongue behind His teeth, the cracking of the stone resolve in His eyes. His approval was warmer than blood, could prop me up better than my own bones.

I woke up with a start, the sound of footsteps on the creaky steps pulling me from my dreams. I slipped out of bed and left my room, peeking down the hallway. “Rose?” My sister limped into view, “Hey Mari, I’m just going straight to bed.” I didn’t have to look closely to see the mud on her boots, mixed with the easily recognizable crimson of blood. Her knife was peeking out of her belt, it was permanently stained red. “Rose, where did you go?” She rolled her eyes, even though I was older than her, she still acted like I couldn’t be a mom figure. “It doesn’t matter, I’m going to bed.” I opened my mouth to object, but she stomped into her room and slammed the door behind her. I heard the lock click into place. Rose Crasson, my little sister, fifteen years old and an absolute firecracker. It usually wasn’t a good thing. Rose tried to hide it from me, but I knew, of course I knew. She was just like mom, a killer. She left at night to, “go hunting," but really, she was going into towns, snatching up random people, and slitting their throats. I had followed her one night, the nightmares still terrorized my brain. The vision of her crushing skulls with her steel toed boots, plunging her knife into flesh, smiling the entire time. Sometimes at night I could hear her, listing the names of her victims, the sound of stone on steel as she sharpened her blade, small giggles escaping her mouth. It made me shiver. The hardest part was knowing that she has killed countless people, and I just sat around and watched. I didn’t have the guts to call the guard, they would take her away, she could be in a dungeon for the rest of her life. She was all that I had left of my family, I couldn’t lose her too. I sighed and went back to my room, wondering who had died this time, and how many. So many lives stolen from this world, at the hand of my sister. I had had this argument with myself so many times, every day, multiple times. I could end all the suffering she was causing, but lose her in the process, or I could keep her close to me, but people wouldn’t stop dying. She wouldn’t stop killing. How high would the body count be before she was stopped? How many children would lose their parents. I sat up, my racing thoughts refusing me sleep. No, I couldn’t. But... I had to. I slipped back out of bed and threw on boots, creeping out of the house, making sure to grab a lantern on my way. Her footprints were easy to see, bright red in the pale white snow. I followed them, all the way to Andervia, a small town about twenty gegits away from us. It wasn’t long before I found what I was looking for. A fire, dozens of bodies burning away in it. Most of them reduced to nothing but ashes. Out of all the ones still in tact, there was one that caught my eye. I covered my mouth to stifle my scream and felt my knees buckle under the weight of what lay in front of me. Nothing but fear and pain spiking through my heart. I felt my eyes get wet, the tears slipping down my face. There was a child, a child that I knew. My best friend's child. It was hard to tell through the flames, but I recognized the little blue dress she was wearing, I had made it. I staggered to my feet and ran, pumping my arms and legs, trying to escape the inevitable truth. She couldn’t have, she couldn’t have, but she did. She did, and now, she was murdering children. I couldn’t let this go on any longer. Rose couldn’t hurt anyone else. My throat felt tight, I wheezed and coughed as the cold air hit my wound up vocal chords. My feet pounded against the snow covered ground, pushing me forward. I didn’t stop until I reached the house of the enforcers, or, the guards. Throwing my fists against the door, I banged on it, screaming for help, until someone threw the door open. It was Kace. My long time friend. My bottom lip trembled and I broke down, sputtering, “Rose, Annie, fire, dead, please.” His eyes widened, “Annie? Layla’s kid?!” I nodded and he ran inside, leaving me to fall to the ground, a heap of tears and ash. Kace, alongside the rest of the guards, all piled out at once. Kace pulled me to my feet, “Mari I know you’re upset right now, but I need you to take us to where it is, ok?” I nodded and broke into a run, I didn’t want any of the evidence gone. When we got there, all of the bodies had burned, all except for little Annies. I collapsed into Kaces arms, he held me tightly as the guards quickly doused the fire in water and pulled her tiny form from the flames. The head guard came to me, “Mari, who did this.” I turned to him, Kace slipped his hand into mine, squeezing it. “My sister, Rose. She’s at home right now, sleeping, or sharpening her weapon; if you don’t stop her now, she’ll go back out tomorrow, and the next day and the next. She wont stop, the bodies will keep coming.” Kace looked at me, his eyes seeded with pain, “Rose is underage, the most they can do is lock her up.” I nodded, my voice shaky, “I know. Do whatever you can.” “You realize you won’t be able to see her-” I cut him off by backing away, “YES, I KNOW THAT! JUST PLEASE...” I sank down and hugged my knees. “Please, don’t let her hurt anyone else.” Kace nodded to the guard and he and a bunch of the others left in the direction of our home. Some staying behind to take care of Annie. Kace sat next to me, “Do you want to be there when they take her?” I sniffed, “I think so.” He sighed, helping me to my feet yet again. It felt like my world was tipping over, like a gust of wind would throw me to my death. I clung to his arm, holding on to him, using him like an anchor to my soul. They had already gotten her when we got there, she was fighting furiously against them, her blonde hair matted, her green eyes glowing with hatred. She stopped struggling when she saw me, “Mari?” I felt the tears pooling in my eyes, my voice barely coming out in a whisper. “I’m sorry.” Her face was struck with realization, her eyes set on me. “You. You did this.” I lowered my head, staring at my feet, Kace looked down at me and then up to the guards. “Take her away, take no chances with her. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.” Rose started screaming as they dragged her away. “YOU’RE DEAD TO ME! YOU HEAR ME? I SHOULD’VE KILLED YOU LIKE I KILLED DAD, YOU MEAN NOTHING!” Her screams echoed into the night, getting fainter and fainter as she was pulled away from me. I held my hand against my heart in a fist. I’m sorry Rose. I did what was right, even though it broke my heart to lose her, I had done the right thing. Rose would never hurt another person again.

“I want to express how lonely I am here, but I am finding myself short of words. I am getting really really bored out here. Just imagine that I learned how to make animal shapes by using hands. I have learned 5 languages, have studied all sorts of psychological theories and studied few religious manuscripts even. I can’t take my mind off anywhere else...sick and tired of brooding all day long. When I see earth from here, I listen to all kinds of earthly sounds, the traffic, sea waves, a dog’s bark..every single sound of earth is audible to me for half of the day. Though this feeling is temporary, the permanent feeling is of accomplishment, I am getting very meaningful data which can result in milestone findings. The samples I am collecting here shows that, we can build up colonies here and can live in a controlled environment. Anyways, say my hi to everyone out there. I better be a famous personality when I come back after 5 years.” He stood up from his chair after completing his mandatory daily video log. He knew that there is no way he can send these video back home. They will see them once he has reached back home, in case he does. The trip was supposed to be of 7 years and after 2 years, the nature of trip was becoming sempiternal. He looked at the mirror and noticed the mark over his chin and that day flashed again in his mind. **2 YEARS AGO** In a bathroom pub, only quite place there, he was noticing the mark over his chin. Then a friend came inside the washroom and said, “Dude you’re leaving in a week and therefore now will be a good time to have fun for the first time in your life.” He hated socializing, but his colleagues insisted that before this milestone journey, they should all have a fun night wherein they can ease off before the daunting task ahead. Sitting in a group at a pub, he generally is a surreptitious one. Not today though, he was facing all kind of questions; ‘What will you miss the most?’ ‘What will you do there when a day work is over?’ “You’re just 25, what made you take this decision?’ ‘Won’t you miss sex?’ Frankly, he had no answer for any of these questions and cursed himself for giving into his colleague’s pressure to come to this place. He decided he need to go away from them and started to look out for a place to smoke. Smoke saved him from such situations and let him be alone with himself and apart from science, loneliness was his bailiwick. Away from everyone, he lit up his Ultra Mild and looked at the Moon. He started staring various dark spots the moon had. He could recognize each spot and was looking at his own spot for a long time when a girl interrupted him and asked for a lighter. ‘I borrowed from someone too, I am sorry, here use my ciggerate and light up yours.’ She obliged and was smoking quietly when he noticed the Jim Mullen T-Shirt she was wearing. He was genuinely surprised. No one knows him, no one listens to him, how can she listen to him? He found himself intrigued by her and he just went to her and asked her, ‘How do you know Jim Mulen?’. ‘I don’t’, she smiled.’ I just listen to him.’ She took a puff and gave him a long stare as if studying him. ‘I am impressed you recognize him, not many people know him, is he your companion too?’ She asked. ‘Yes he is! The last one of the self taught jazz player. I keep listening to him in these prolonged emptiness when I travel from one place of relevance to another place of relevance, both in time and distance.’ She smiled and asked, ‘Let’s go inside and dance?’ They both threw away there half burnt smokes and left for the dance floor. Both of them were awkward dancers, clearly both of them were not used to such behavior, neither dancing and talking to someone unless it is work related. After 5 minutes they left the dance floor and were sitting at a private booth. Both of them had a drink in their hands but not drinking, uneasy and unsure about each other, both of their minds are asking them to stand and leave now but both were just sitting there and staring nowhere. Then he said, ‘I don’t do this generally, like dance..or talk, but I feel lighter with you.’ She said to that ‘Don’t ruin it by mentioning it.’ He smiled and she returned the favor. He asked for the bill and paid and they both started to walk towards the exit. ‘So where do you work? he asked, ‘I work with the government’, answering his own question initially. She told him that she was a teacher at school and then he told her that he was going away for 7 years. She was clearly surprised but then trying hard to not show that to him and asked. ’Where are you going?’ **PRESENT DAY** His thoughts were disturbed by the siren signalling him that it’s time to work. He gave himself a last look and then he wore his work suit. He had to be very meticulous with his suit, he checked everything and finally checked the oxygen levels and then opened the gates of his shuttle. Earth was visible from his shuttle, it was visible half of the time. He sighed and went on with his work. Every day he has to take air samples in the controlled environment he had built over moon. He took some soil samples and started making notes. He had built more than hundred controlled environments sectors so the checking would generally take more than 12 hours, but he loved it. He liked if any progress in any of the controlled environment is made. That would be a landmark thing. He had left his girl of dreams back in earth, it better be worth a ground-breaking discovery. **2 YEARS AGO** He just told her that he is going to the Moon for 7 years for a feasibility study of possible colonization at Moon. He was dropping her back home, wanted to say so much but was not able to. Million possibilities, there was an obvious connection. He knew in his heart that she feels the same too. He finally found someone whom he wanted to know but the timing was such a bitch! In his heart he was playing millions of scenarios. What if she agreed to wait for me? Why would she? We just met 3 hours ago! What if she agreed to wait and when I come back she won’t be waiting anymore? What if she is not interested? She is just being friendly..No it doesn’t seem like that! I am sure very few must had reached till here! The connection we have is not normal!! The things we are sharing are arcane for everybody else. She was blank. She just wished he would stop and won’t go. But in her heart she knew too many things are riding on him now. He can’t back out now. That won’t be fair to him. She still just wished. The eagerness to know him better was very high. ‘So what about us?, he asked blankly. He had used all his courage to say these four words. She was taken aback by sudden candidness, and the blood started rushing inside her body and her face was red within seconds. ‘You know that it is not practical, right?’ Silence. ‘I know’, he finally said, reluctantly ‘But this is not something which happens to me on regular basis, all my life I have been a loner, never been able to gel with anyone, I found every other one pretentious, hence trivial. You are real. You get me. I feel like I can be real me around you, who spends major part of the day studying research papers and listening obscure jazz players.’ ‘ I know, its new to me as well, but tell me, you are going next week, what’s the point, it will bring us pain and nothing else. What do you expect? I will wait for a guy for 7 years without any contact with him all this time and whom I have just met 3 hours ago? Part of me wants to, trust me! But there is rationale part of my brain as well who will overcome the stupid one, then what?’ ‘You are right! This thing is conceptually wrong! No point! I am leaving in a week, I will be better off up there if I know no one is expecting my return. Will focus on my work instead. Sorry for bringing this up.’ They have reached till her place. She kissed him goodbye and both were on their own way. As he reached home, he sat down and was trying to decide what is that he was feeling. He was not sad. He was experiencing butterflies for the first time, He was happy that something like this happened to him. He was feeling alive after many years. He decided that he should be happy that it happened. This was a new feeling. He was happy in his own little world and needed no one else. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Next day at office, one his colleague came and asked, ‘Where were you last night? We realized that you met a girl and you guys were hitting off very well and hence we left without disturbing you. We never saw you smiling so much, did she drugged you?’ He smiled and said, ‘You guys did a right thing by not disturbing!’ Colleague kept staring and was wanting more info on what happened but he was not giving away anything. ”That’s it? You are not going to tell me what happened?’ ‘I’m going next week anyways, so no point’, he said with a smile on his face, ‘I will like to keep it this way only.’ His office phone rang and the caller from other side said someone is here to meet him. It was *her.* He asked receptionist to show her the way to cafeteria, and inform her that he will join her in a minute. ‘Hey! What a pleasant surprise!’ he said awkwardly. ‘I am sorry to show up here like this but I had no other place where I could reach you.’ She was speaking too fast. ‘No problem! So what’s up?’ he asked blankly, urging her to keep speaking. ‘You said that you have a week before you leave for the Moon?’ ‘Yes, exact 7 days!’ ‘Look, here’s the deal! I am not the one who live her life by thinking what could have been, I know the odds are not in our favor and I still want to take this chance, between no feeling at all and pain of missing you, I chose pain.’ **PRESENT DAY** ‘Hello Earthlings, What’s up? Everything is same here at my level. Still miss earth. About findings, I think we may have found a controlled environment which is stabilizing and is almost identical to the atmospheric pressure one would feel at the height of Mount Everest. Not ideal, but still a start. We will reach there I am sure.’ After completing his video log, he put Jim Mullen on his music player and started looking at her pics which were everywhere in his room. These photographs were of those 7 days they spent together before he left, they were eating, laughing and even making out in a photograph. He refer those days as the craziest week of his life. Had to be. He had 7 days to create memories that will help him go through these 7 years. Those were enough. Her words kept haunting his mind, *“between no feeling at all and pain of missing you, I chose pain”* He stared at earth from his window. His country was visible to him. He waved at her, hoping she knew that he is waving right now, Back at earth, she waved back, smiling.

You wake up in a white room. No walls. No ceiling. Only a white floor that produces no shadow. You start to walk aimlessly, looking for something when you have no evidence of its existence. Unfortunately you do find something: a lone TV with a remote resting on top. You walk over and pick up the remote. You sit down and you turn the TV on. The screen is filled with static. You continue watching as all you hear is white noise and all you see is black and white particles bouncing around. Hours, days, weeks pass. Still static. You start wondering if anything is ever going to play. You start to get up, but you decide against leaving because theres nothing else to do here anyway. The moment you sit back down, the TV goes from static to black. You tilt your head, wondering why the TV turned off. But it did not turn off, far from it actually. The screen overflows with immense light. Now things are getting interesting. The TV shows the expansion of that light, getting brighter, but the objects in the screen are growing farther apart. You understand what’s happening now. You know exactly what this TV is showing you. The passing of time itself. As millennia pass, you witness the expansion of the universe, the formation of the first star, elements being born; you witness entire civilizations rise and fall. The history of existence, showed in a 32 inch retina display. Millions of years pass as you cover each system’s individual history, yet you aren’t bored... you’re intrigued. Billions of years go by, when you finally reach a tiny yet familiar blue planet. You watch as species rise and fall, nature deciding who lives and who dies, until you see one of the animals learned how to make things. At that moment they spread like a virus, destroying everything that came in their path. For a few thousand years they only fought each other, mostly over petty grievances that they could have easily talked out. They stopped and learned how to control themselves after they almost destroyed the planet...twice. It was at that moment that they assumed nature’s role; they were the ones who decided who lived and died. They consumed everything in their path, devouring everything that they thought was necessary to further themselves as a civilization. You continue watching, horrified by what you see. You watch a species learn how to master aspects of their surroundings that they should have absolutely no control over. They mastered their planet. They consumed their planet. They mastered their star. They consumed their star. They mastered their system. They consumed their system. Their viral infectivity increased at an exponential rate, they were becoming unstoppable. Every civilization has its filter, something that stops it from advancing as a species. The virus overcame that filter with flying colors. This was the first you’ve seen of a civilization beating its filter. You start to get frightened for the sake of the universe because this is no longer the history of time. No, this is the history of the virus. Its a story of how it spread in its influence and power, consuming everything in its path. This is the story of how the universe was infected and overcome by a virus named humanity.

The Last Mess My head is pounding as Jadsy straightens the throw rugs and vacuums the errant crumbs that still remain on them. She is a perfectionist and does everything in a slow, methodical way. This time she is being extra careful I, myself, couldn't care less about the remnants of cake she is gathering with straight, consecutive strokes. Straighten, vacuum, repeat. Straighten, vacuum, repeat. There is a sort of rhythm to her work and it lulls me even further into the befuddled state I find myself in. Straighten, vacuum, repeat. Straighten, vacuum, repeat. The repetition going through my aching head also gives me a reminder of the state my stomach is in. Too much liquor has a way of doing that to someone who does not imbibe on a regular basis. She throws a hurried glance my way as I lay on the sofa, feet propped up on the back cushions, head on the arm of the comfortable old piece that used to belong to the previous tenants. A mixture of blue and purple flowers with dusky green leaves adorn the couch giving the impression that Mr. and Mrs. Elliot who used to live here just might have been color blind. My arm is over my eyes to shield them from the light streaming through the window. I can just barely glimpse Jadsy through the open space made by my elbow. She clears her throat and looks my way again, this time holding her stare. “You could help, you know?” I sense both irritation and sarcasm in her voice. I groan and sit up. I feel both disoriented and dizzy and I can't imagine my cleaning techniques to be up to her standards. Certainly not this morning “What do you want me to do?” I ask, not really wanting to know. She sighs and comes to where I sit. “Get a trash bag and fill it with whatever you find that wasn't here before the party. Paper plates, cups, napkins.” She sits next to me. Maybe she is still upset about what happened at the party. Looking back I mentally shudder, but she seems calm. “ I think the mini sandwiches turned out to be rather tasty don't you?” Is she trying to talk about mundane things on purpose? I don't really have an opinion on mini sandwiches even when I am not battling a hangover. And right now all I can think of is Layla. Layla who got herself drunk on the excitement of landing her dream job as well as on the freely flowing drinks. Layla who danced too close and left the scent of her perfume on my shirt. Layla, who I knew I had to see again. “The food was delicious.” I say trying to come up with a generic comment that doesn't reveal that I really don't care much about the contents of the buffet. Come to think of it, I don't really care much about anything right now except for Layla. I don't think it would be a good idea to mention it to Jadsy though so I get up and retrieve a trash bag from the kitchen and begin gathering the remnants of last nights party. I struggle to think of something that happened at the party that I can mention to make me appear interested, but only one thing comes to mind and Jadsy is obviously not the one to discuss it with. I made a big mistake I know, but when hard liquor mixes with the engaging advances of a beautiful woman, what's a man to do? For a moment I allow myself to think that Jadsy has forgotten it by now. That she really didn't see me ask for Layla's phone number, that she fails to remember the closeness that we shared on the dance floor. But I know Jadsy too well to imagine that she doesn't have every smile, every held hand, and the kiss that Layla gave me as she said good night etched in her memory. I made a big mistake I know. A huge mistake that could result in the dissolution of a relationship. Not that I care that much anymore. It's the coming confrontation that I fear. How could I have been that stupid to do that in front of her. I watch Jadsy take the tablecloth from the buffet table and throw it in the corner, waiting to be washed. I doubt that some of those stains will ever come out, but I'm finding it difficult to imagine it really mattering. To me at least. She seems so calm, as though nothing is wrong while my insides are churning. Maybe she doesn't really care. So much the better. For her, anyway. But a thought is nibbling away at me that things will never really be okay for me again. And it's all my fault. But why does it seem so final? A breakup is a breakup and nothing more. Except when Jadsy is involved. Her temper is volcanic and she has the ability to back even the strongest of individuals into a corner of surrender, trembling and struggling to breathe. Of course I didn't really have a break up in mind necessarily, but if she remembered last night she probably would. “Help me move this table back to the kitchen,” she says as I tie the bag filled with the left overs from the party. I help her without saying a word and wonder if she realizes... But she must, she must know and want to talk about it. What kind of game is she playing? I was never as good as Jadsy at that sort of thing. I wonder what she is up to. I've never known her to exert any restraint over her fierce temper. She screams, yells, and throws whatever unfortunate object happens to be near her. Yet now she is so calm. We both return to the flowered sofa and sit next to each other. “I love you Conner.” She puts her head on my shoulder. “I don't know what I would do if you weren't here with me. I'm so scared.” Of what I am not sure, because she doesn't sound frightened at all. No, not at all. I, however, am shaking. “I love you too.” I answer without much conviction. But she seems not to notice. I am a failure at hiding my fragile state right now, waiting for her to begin berating me for last night. She has every right to, but still I am hearing the clock ticking inside of me, pounding out the seconds until she loses control. A countdown to unmanageable rage. We both lean back on the soft, flowery, cushions and rest our feet on the coffee table. She sighs, a deep sigh of what I mistakenly think might be one of resignation. We sit there long enough to fall asleep and when we awaken the room is full of shadows. I turn on the lamp and look at her. She goes to the kitchen to put on some coffee. When she returns I am still sitting in the same position. My nervousness is becoming overwhelming, and for the first time today, she looks a little nervous too. We sip the coffee in silence. When both cups are empty, she looks around the room. “I think we did a pretty good job in getting the place back to normal.” She says. “At least nobody threw up on the rug,” she attempts a joke. I let a small smile pull at the corners of my lips. But I am in no mood for humor and normal seems a untenable distance away. Then she gets serious and looks down. “What do we do now?” “I don't know.” I answer pushing the hair from her face where it has fallen. “I honestly don't know where we go from here.” As I say this I find myself wondering if I'm talking about the same thing that she is. “We have one last mess to clean up.” And she looks right at me with that unwavering stare of hers that could bore a hole through a concrete wall. She is torturing me more than any bamboo shoots ever could. She maintains this penetrating gaze for what seems like hours. I decide to break the silence. “Look I'm sorry about last night. I behaved inexcusably. Am I forgiven?” This last comes out in a begging tone. Not what I was going for, but it will have to do. A slight grin appears on her face and I cannot fathom what is happening. “Don't apologize, Conner. Everything is just fine. I wasn't exactly a good little girl myself at the party last night.” She reaches out to me and we embrace. I still don't know what is going on. Did she do something last night to get even with me? Did she flirt with some other guy. Is that what she is trying to tell me? Did she do worse? “Jadsy, whatever you did, I probably deserved it. Don't think about it ever again.” Even as I say these words my mind is drifting to Layla. I shake my head to help me concentrate on the moment. “Then you forgive me for what I did?” She asks in a small voice, so unlike her. I want to ask what exactly she is talking about, but I answer. “Of course, I forgive you.” And I truly do. I find myself not caring about anything Jadsy has done. My mind is elsewhere getting lost in the smell of Layla's soft flowing hair, her lovely brown tempting eyes looking up at me. Jadsy smiles one of her most endearing smiles and for a brief moment I begin to believe that everything is going to be alright. I kiss her on the cheek. Part of me feels sorry for her and part of me fears her coming reaction. “You've been forgiven since last night,” she says. “Everything is perfectly okay with us. We're even.” This last statement has an ominous tone to it, but I chalk it up to my nerves and nothing else. And no, Jadsy, everything is not even close to being okay with us. If there even is an us anymore. She stands and grabs both of my hands. “Now we have one last mess to clean up. Will you help me? There is a teasing quality to her words and I stand to join her. “What kind of mess” I ask, looking into her light blue eyes which at the moment are sparkling with anticipation. “You'll see,” she grins, “You'll see” She leads me down the dark hall to the guest room door and stops. She opens the door and turns on a small lamp which doesn't throw much light. I scan the room for whatever it is Jadsy wants to show me. The lamplight is not bright and I squint as I look around the dingy room. And then my eyes find it. I almost faint but hold on to my composure long enough to let a few words tumble from my lips. “What happened.... Why... For the love of God...” My inner disarray spilling out in fragmented phrases. But then what I am seeing isn't your average party aftermath I don't realize it but I am slowly backing away. I suddenly turn and and walk towards the front door. I should be running, but I walk. I vaguely hear Jadsy's wails demanding I return. “Don't you see, we're even now.” she screams, following me. But I don't fully take in any of her words. I merely walk towards the door. I stumble in my shock and bump the end table where a lamp falls to the floor and shatters. As I reach for the doorknob I feel something whiz past my head, and a mug shatters on the door frame in front of me.Then she is coming at me with a deranged look on her face and a kitchen knife in her hand. I slam the door behind me and race to the stairs. For the next hour or so I roam the dark streets aimlessly. My headache is gone and I begin to think clearly on the events of the day. I spy one of the few phone booths left in the city, sitting on the corner ahead of me. The relic beckons me. I anonymously dial 911. “I want to report a murder.”

Suddenly, upon finally waking to my surroundings, I was a serial murderer. I could only tell this by two things--of course, it’s not detrimentally obvious at first; it took a few moments, a few breaths, a few blinks, and then I noticed the incessant dripping sound. Vexing me. Drowning me. Calling me. The space I’m in, wherever it was, was dim and cramped and horrible. I blink, blinded with static-y swarms, and identify the dripping; it sprouted, red and copper, from the length of my arms and pooled around my fingertips before drooping into a large metal puddle. The smell was disgustingly delightful; like the smell of coins and death. It was certainly not from myself. I felt desperately at my own skin in the half-dark, the dripping carrying on with merry and boiling my nerves. There were no incisions, slashes, gouges, lacerations, bites. No amputations of any kind, no oozing blisters, nothing I could find or feel. I felt wonderful, in fact, and that itself was a horrifying discovery. The second piece of evidence that condemned me was the location and mangled body at my feet; while this should’ve been the first, I supposed, it was not nearly as damning as the dripping was, which still persisted. I wiped excess blood away, flung it ladenly off my arms, and still it stayed in a steady tune. I turn my attention to the body, to the room. The box room was tight and suffocating as it was, and there was only a door on one wall, a tiny nightstand, and a ratty bed. There were no windows which was a relief. I was certainly looking unattractive covered in blood, I thought. The corpse, if it can even be called that, was torn open, and gore spattered over the floor and walls and me. It was unidentifiable. Certain parts, such as the index, middle, and ring fingers were missing; so was the left ankle and foot and most of the facial structure. The stomach was cut open and the organs seemed unnatural in their places, almost as if they’d been stirred about in the skeletal cavity. Veins, mostly major arteries, had been stripped delicately from the flesh and laid out in a fragile pattern around my feet; it looked like a cluster of branches dripping blood as rain, and then splayed around the body like murderous wings. The hair was also gone, the skin sliced loose, and the limbs looked posed into that of a final prayer. There were no clothes, but still the heap of flesh seemed to be wearing them. I couldn’t comprehend it. With great caution, I inched over to the nightstand and fumbled with the lamp’s switch to be further enlightened. The sight, now bathed in sickly yellow light, was even more ghastly than I had previously seen; blood seemed to seep forever into the floorboards, and the dripping still did not cease, in fact-- drip, drip, drip-- the dripping clung onto my mind like a vice. I felt queasy. I don’t remember what happened. How I got here, who this was. I could barely remember who I was, actually, what with this maddening sound. My eyes traced back and forth over the pattern of veins. They were so thin, and so very purposely intact. This was a practiced sort of thing. Serial murderer . At least it was artful. I neutralized my face and thought. I don’t really know what’s behind this door, where I should go, what I should do. I couldn’t be in charge of this body. Panic quickly arose--what would I tell people? The only way to clean myself would be with the bedsheets, and any wash basins would be sternly outside. I glared at the body. Clearly, as this had been planned, there was no true afterthought on getting away innocently. With mild irritation, I began stripping the bed, roughly scrubbing my arms and face and shirt with the threadbare sheets. I eyed the door, the corpse, almost expecting it to rise, clean itself off, and then jaunt back outside. When it didn’t move, and there was hardly anything but stains on my skin, I threw the bloodied sheets over it in horrid aggression. I stomped over to the door, careful to avoid the stream of blood and arteries, and gently twisted the bronze knob. It opened with ease, and with an air of satisfaction, I exited the room. I was on the second floor and met with a balcony overlooking the lame parking lot of a motel. At the entrance of the parking lot there was a sign that read, “ The Stainsbury Motel ” and a very subtle for sale sign. Charming. I glanced at the door--Room 23. The rest of the rooms, also at a quick look, seemed to be the exact same and count up to thirty. I made my way to the stairwell, thinking near fondly about the crime I just commit. It burned, red and iridescently, into my mind and pleased me with a certain degree of shame. I wonder if I have a public name, I think. It would have to be a good one. Something that marked my artistry. I was not responsible for the bodies, no, just the canvases they were made into. I wonder, I do, if I have a high body count, and the thoughts of each murdered piece excited me. I watched my footsteps down the stairs, hoping to not see bloody tracks, and played a game of just being silent. Crickets chirped, cicadas lowly hummed; wind rustled the deep dark wilderness. It was extremely far into the night, and the only light around was that of the slim, pale moon and dim orange lights. It was a starless night, with pale red lines clawing at the skyline, and my steps down the metal platforms seemed loud and cantankerous. Drip, drip . At the bottom of the stairs, I glared back up at the room. I could still hear the terrible dripping of the corpse through the floorboards and drywall and peeling door. It dragged on, endless, infrequent, darkly irking me. I ran a hand through my hair, my palm still sticky with crimson, and tried to locate the reception office. Wandering in the dim and damp parking lot did nothing to ease my mind, but it was fairly simple to find the reception; it was, objectively, the nicer piece of property on the lot, with pleasant yellow lights and wallpapered walls, wrapped with a shining veneer and a polished but worn wooden flooring. Upon entering, there was a mellowly colored rug in the middle of the room, a few old lounge couches, a payphone, and the aroma of deep caramel and forest rain. There was a decent L-shaped desk with a bored receptionist, and behind her a wall of keys that had a few missing here-or-there. I approached her and she looked up with a gleam in her eyes. “Hello, welcome to the Stainsbury Motel.” She greeted, nearly dry; but her interest, fleeting as it was, was piqued at a middle-of-the-night customer. I wondered how visible the blood stains were. “Hi.” I said lamely. “Where am I?” She gave me a look, incredulous, and started to say something, but--drip drip, drip drip-- the dripping, horrible and squeamish, started again, and irritation fizzed like carbonation down my spine. It burst bright and wonderful through my skull, locked my fingers and toes into a stiffness, clamped down into my bones with its teeth. The dripping was awful. The receptionist mouthed words at me, and for a moment I allowed myself to imagine her as a canvas, too, cut open and bloodied. Another drip prowled in my ear and I felt more than sated and nauseous. “I just killed a man,” I confessed to her, abandoning my prior question. “I’ve made him so beautiful, and he haunts me now. How is that fair?” A distinct terror fell upon her. “Completely fair. How many have you killed?” I ran my tongue along my teeth in consideration. “I don’t know. It must be a lot, though; I’ve clearly had practice. You should come and see. It truly is beautiful.” “You’re a monster, a serial killer,” she cried, and she started to reach for the phone on her desk. I grabbed her hand and tugged it away, hysterical. “A serial murderer,” I corrected, “don’t call anyone, they’ll ruin it, I’m sure! I thought you might appreciate it. Find it wonderful. Find it inexorably gorgeous and intriguing. And wouldn’t you? Don’t call someone.” She paused, looked me over; with caution, she pulled her hand away and scratched vehemently at her throat. I thought, now, that she would come with me, that I’ve convinced her to look at the painting I’ve laid to completion upstairs. A part of her looked interested. A part of her looked horrified. I sympathized with her contrasted convictions. There was a silence that screeched between us. The stutter in dripping was certain to resume soon, and I found myself aching to have anything but it. I’d prefer screams, even, over the dripping. The receptionist’s eyes met mine. I prepared myself for another vexing drip. And there it was-- drip, drip, drip, drip... Suddenly, with the fury of a wraith, the receptionist lunged across the desk and tackled me down onto the ground. Terror swirled with hues of resentment in her eyes, in her face; she quickly pinned me by my throat, resourcing from a well of strength I was oblivious to, and reared back to punch me. I, with hatred and betrayal, clawed at her hands in turn, and the grip she had heightened. I could not breathe; her eyes turned almost black and she salivated venom. She reminded me of a spider, almost, and dots began to dance cheerily in my line of sight. The receptionist screamed, bringing her other hand down to aid in choking me tighter. The dripping increased and my figure shook with the sound of it. “I’ll kill you,” she roared, an expletive on the tip of her tongue but never quite making it out, “I will kill you.” I fought. Drip . “I will! I will, I will! You horrid creature!” My sight started to wane, and still I fought. How she could act such a way when I offered her the nicety of such art would torment me forever. Drip drip drip . Ah, as would that. She leaned down, her voice poison in my ears. “Wake up, or I will kill you.” I sputtered for breath, watched the world start to crumble, listened only to the dripping, which went in a drip, drip, drip drip drip, drip... ... I awake with a gurgling yell, heart in my throat. My room is dark and cramped and hot. Shaking, I feel at my neck--my earbuds, a pair of white wired ones, had wrapped and tangled themselves around my throat while I was asleep. I remember feeling like I had been dying, the air squeezed out of me. Now I know why. The dream, fleeting as it is, horrified me to my core and I feel absolutely awful. I feel as though I’d been hit but a bus, actually. My mouth is dry and my fingers twitch incessantly and my spine spasms as if it is on fire. With great care I sit up and simply stare at the wall, trying to relax and reorient myself. Drip. My head turns, and on the floor of my tiny, tiny home--with only a peeling door, a nightstand, my ratty old bed, and a wardrobe--water spilled out into a large, gooey puddle as it seeped into the wooden floor. Drip, drip . As the dream starts to fizz away into nothing and I begin to shake off my drowsiness, I think to myself that I will most certainly go mad from the sound of the dripping.

Out of all the planets Aitne had seen, Sol was different... Aitne had led a tormented life. Two things were her constant companions- an unbearable, lonely ache, and a curious, tickling pull. A pull to somewhere in this universe. Somewhere in this endless mass of bright pricks in the cosmos. Pull and Ache had accompanied her for many, many years... -Three centuries ago- Aitne woke. She was lying on a flat white stone, in a world filled with a cold sort of beauty. Warm gas clouds swirled in delicate patterns around her, in hues of blue and brown she had not seen before. She looked around. Where was everyone? Then, who am I? Why am I surviving? She felt the tips of her fingers. They were raw and scratched, but very much whole and human. Human... why did she know that word but not her own identity? Languages. She knew them all. She knew all about these humans. Memories flashed through her mind, but they were not hers. Only fragments of knowledge gifted to her from God knows where. A bustling city, full of creatures who looked just like her. Space probes that did not scratch the surface of the vast expanse of the universe. A flurry of birds screeching into the air, disturbed by a passing car. And these humans food. Hot French onion soups, sugared apple pies, steaming stir-fries, tacos and gyros, sushi, and pasta. So they must exist, right? Aitne looked around her bleak surroundings. A human could not survive on this planet, she knew. Her eyes softened. It was a very serene planet. Crisp and cold and unforgiving, yes. But the soaring white cliffs were a wonder to behold. And the hurricane-like clouds that sailed high above her were hypnotizing in their never-ending circles. Aitne could sense the moon’s light, dazzling as a thousand diamonds just outside the gas layer. She longed to see it. And just like that, she was there, hovering with her toes just barely skimming the thick clouds of gas. The stars shined bright, billions of them lighting up the sky. But even brighter were the moons. Varying in size, shape, and color, the only thing they had in common was the great white glow that edged its ragged silhouettes, clinging to them like desperate blankets. Space dust hung limply in the air, in shades of purples, pinks, oranges, even golds. There were colors out here that no human had ever experienced. Human. Aitne frowned. All hopes of being human had been quashed. Yet why did she long for their company so? She reached out her senses. The next planet was not far. She could sense it, revolving around its golden star. An image appeared in her mind. A child squatted next to a model solar system. “Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars...” Aitne gripped fiercely onto the memory, picturing that solar system in her mind. It was where her kin lived. She would find them. She willed herself to the next planet over. She hovered over the ball of twisting gases, looking out at her birth planet. It would need a name. She stared at the moons circling it. Tsukichikyu, she decided firmly. Now to find her kin. It took Aitne a full century to find Earth. It was a tiny, blue planet with an equally small moon. She willed herself closer but allowed herself to go slowly. It was an instinct by now. Aitne always took time to appreciate a solar system’s beauty, no matter how hurried she was. She bit her lip. This was it. Her kin. She had her memories of them, but what if they were different than she imagined? She landed softly on a patch of yellow grass, her toes scrunching up at the touch of the scratchy organism. Smog filled the air, thick and obscuring. The sun glowed red, a perfect orifice patched into the choking sky. She floated forward, pushing apart the smoke with her pale hands. Where was everyone? Akari and Ren rolled around on the grass, laughing. The smog was oppressing, muffling their shrieks of joy and laughter. “You are such an idiot!” “You’re more of an idiot if you actually believed me!” Akari giggled, wiping a tear from her pale green eyes. “You know we shouldn’t be out here at this time. The smoke’s way too bad.” “No one’s out here. It’s a perfect time.” Akari snickered, shutting him up with a soft kiss. Then her eyes widened as she stared over his shoulder. “Actually...” Ren paused, looking behind him. “Oh.” “There is someone out here,” Akari confirmed. She stood, brushing grass off her dress. A figure floated out of the smoke, coming to rest gently on the ground. Her eyes glowed a gentle white, like a mother’s milk. Her skin was dark and smooth, without blemish. Her hair danced behind her, floating in the air like it was syrup. Her lips curved in a heart shape, a pale, strawberry pink. She was beautiful in an innocent, sad way. Akari placed her hand in front of Ren’s eyes. “Excuse me?” The woman smiled at her. “My kin. Yes?” Akari frowned. This woman was strange. “People around here usually wear clothes, in case you haven’t noticed.” The woman smiled. “Thank you, my kin.” She closed her eyes for half a second, and a long, flowing dress appeared around her, decked in colors Akari didn’t know how to explain. She had never seen anything like them. Gossamer threads of fabric flowed behind her, all of the colors of the rainbow, and more sparkling like it had seen a million suns. “What...are you?” Akari asked. “I am not sure,” the creature confessed slowly, her hair swimming in circles behind her. “But I think you are my kin. I do not know why.” “You aren’t human?” Akari asked, frustrated and confused. Who was this lady? “I am from a distant planet called Tsukichikyu,” the woman in the dress said. “My name is Aitne.” Akari burst out laughing. Ren chuckled beside her, deep and soulful sound. “You expect us to believe you’re an alien?” Aitne frowned. “You do not understand me.” She murmured. “Are you truly my kin?” Akari ignored her. What a freak, she thought. “Come on, Ren. We’re going. She’s obviously on drugs or something.” Aitne called out from behind them. “Please, answer me this before you leave!” Akari rolled her eyes. “Fine.” “Who has caused this smoke? This parched grass? This noxious air?” Akari turned back to face the woman, marching up to jab her finger into her chest. “Listen, freak, I know humans are miserable little creatures, but just because you’re in a drugged-up haze, don’t go thinking you’re better than us. You’re human too.” She turned and stormed off through the smoke, feeling only slightly guilty. Aitne watched the girl’s back as she faded into the smoke. She had found her kin. So why did the ache not cease? Why did pain not cease to gnaw at her lonely heart? She was afraid. What if she never knew happiness? What if she was destined to be alone? What if she never found where she belonged? Was this her existence? Endlessly searching for something that wasn’t there, with no way out? She looked up at the stars and willed herself to the brightest one. She found herself skimming the surface of a cloudy, mud-and-orange-colored planet. She was tired. So, endlessly tired... But she knew there was no way out. Not for her. The pull in her heart would not let go. The pull from this universe would not let go. She loved these worlds too much. She loved the beauty of it too much. She placed her hand over her heart, where the ache was strongest. Then she looked up to the stars. She willed herself to the next star in the sky. And the next. And the next. On that day, after a century of searching already, Aitne made a vow. She might not know what exactly she was looking for. But she would never stop until she found it. Out of all the planets Aitne had seen, Sol was different... The planet was in the farthest reaches of the universe, and after years of searching and memorizing each of the planets and solar systems and stars, Aitne knew something was different. Something was strange. It was a white and yellow planet, surrounded by rings of meteors. The white was from snow, and the yellow was to be credited to bright flower fields. A vision flickered through her mind. An endless plain of iridescent, yellow flowers, twisting around each other in a tangle that covered the planet. The sun was warm and yellow- bright, too. Aitne’s heart nearly stopped. This was it. She paused. Ache and Pull hadn’t felt this pronounced since she had visited Earth. She approached slowly, three hundred years of habit taking over her. She knew what she would call this planet- Sol. It was her radiant sun, come to end her suffering and pull her towards the light. She could hear a voice- just snippets of a song. She recognized it- it was a human one. Excitement roared through her. She moved forward slower still. Was this creature singing like her? Not human, but with human memories? She had to know. She paused, sitting to listen to a meteor. “What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing And what do we think we might see? Someday I’ll find it, The rainbow connection...” Aitne sighed, resting her head on her hand. The voice was radiant and beautiful, soft, and thoughtful. “Have you been half asleep, and have you heard voices? I've heard her calling my name...” Aitne smiled for the first time in her long lonely existence. She could wait and listen a while more. After all, she had waited three hundred years. For down there was her soulmate. Her kin.

It’s the start of summer and a baby yellow jacket named Higg is born amongst many siblings. He looks up to his mother, the queen, and the many other workers in the hive for food and support. High continues to grow big and strong and the nest, originally only occupied by the queen, now has thousands of members. But the queen has grown tired and weak. In August, just a few months after the baby yellow jacket was born, He loses his mother and queen. Higg does not know why he was born or what he is supposed to do with his life. He has started wondering “what is my purpose?”. And with that he decides to leave the nest and find his purpose . The first creature the yellow jacket comes across is a honey bee, this bee looks just like him and is flying out of a beautiful red flower, Higg stops and asks the honey bee, what is that you’re doing? The bee lights up with pride and tells the yellow jacket that she is “saving the world one flower at a time”. The bee explains that it pollinates different plants and flowers helping them to spread and grow. “Without bees there is no food and no planet”. Higg was overjoyed to hear that a creature so similar to him had such an important role in the world, he asked if he could follow the honey bee and try to learn to pollinate plants too. The honey bee tried and tried to show Higg how to pollinate but o matter how hard he tried he was not able to do what honey bees do and with a disappointed heart he left the honey bee and flew on to continue his search for his purpose. Soon after he was feeling thirsty and decided to land by a nearby river for a drink. After a refreshing sip he noticed a big dam built further down the river. Higg flew over to see a beaver chewing branches and building this dam higher and higher. The yellow jacket asks the beaver why he is doing that and the beaver tells him that it is “creating an ecosystem”. The beaver says that the trees he cuts down bring sunlight to the Forrest and the pond he creates with his dam improve water quality, helping flourish and even prevent Forrest fires. Higg can’t believe that one creature can do all of these amazing things, he asks the beaver to show him how to make a dam but the yellow jacket cannot even break one tree branch down. He sadly realizes that this cannot be the purpose of a yellow jacket and flies away to keep looking. Higg gets hungry and lands on the ground in a nearby dirt patch to scoop up some smaller insects for lunch. He comes across an earthworm plowing across the soil. The yellow jacket asks the earthworm what it is doing and the earthworm replies that it is making the earth new. The earthworm says that it can make soil much more fertile by recycling dead plants and creatures and freeing up space in the dirt it moves through. Higg tries to eat the dead plants and organisms but cannot create fresh soil, he tries to move through it to create space for water to flow through he can’t burrow through any of the dirt. He becomes fed up with this and flys away losing hope that he’ll ever find his true purpose. The yellow jacket decides to fly further then he has ever been and finds himself in a strange place outside of the woods with streets and houses, he looks for something familiar and finds a grassy backyard to rest. There Higg sees a dog playing with a human, when the dog brings back a stick the human pets it with their hand. Higg approaches the dog and asks what it is doing. The dog tells him that it’s man’a best friend and it’s purpose is to provide support and love to humans. Higg thinks that this is very interesting, no other animal that it has met has done anything like this. Higg decides to give it a try and flys next to the humans hand like the dog did the human swats at him. Higg barley dodges the hand and is terrified that he was almost hit by the human . It flies upward towards the humans face and the human swats again, this time getting even closer but Higg moves out of the way just in time. The human begins to angrily shout “ stupid yellow jacket, these things are useless, they serve no purpose”. At this point Higg realizes, that maybe after all his searching yellow jackets do not have a purpose after all, he feels an angry shaking twitch in his stinger. He points it directly at the human and flys full speed into it. Higg stings the human and it yells at the top of its lungs OW and with power and speed smacks Higgs against its arm. Higg falls to the ground and glances up at the clouds one more time before a large boot smashes down.

The first time that I remember seeing them, I was five and my sister wouldn’t give me the time of day. At first, they were just vaguely humanoid shapes that I’d notice just out of my peripheral vision. I’m not going to lie, they scared the shit out of me for a while there but, as time passed, they became less skittish and I less wary. The first one I saw up close was a little woman about four inches tall. She had green skin, yellow hair, and white eyes. I don’t just mean the irises were white, she had no pupil and no irises like her eyes had rolled to the back of her head. I had been outside playing in the garden and she had lighted on the grass next to me. She slowly creeped towards me, almost as if testing the waters. I sat there unsure of what to do. As she reached out her hand to touch me, my mother called to me from the back door. “Honey, lunch is ready!” The little being grinned, waved, and took off into the bushes. After that incident, I went to the garden everyday to look for my new friend. When a week went by without so much as a glimpse of her, I started leaving little trinkets in hopes that they would coerce her to come out. Two weeks later, my sister had some friends over and they had banished me to the other end of the garden claiming that I was a little kid and would ruin their fun. As I stood by the bushes pouting at the unfairness of it, a little voice called out, “Have you brought me more presents?” Startled, I whirled around to find the green lady peeking out of the bushes. “I-I don’t have anything else for you,” I said as I lay on my stomach to be level with her. “Is that why you’re crying?” she asked. I furrowed my brow. “My sister and her friends won’t let me play with them because they say I’m too little,” I explained. She cocked her head to the side and smirked. “Would you like to make them notice you?” I shrugged and quick as lighting she had moved to the other side of the garden and knocked into the stone birdbath the girls were sitting by. It seemed to fall in slow motion and fell right onto one of the girls’ legs with a sickening thud and audible snap. Screams erupted, the girl was crying, and my dad ran out and immediately lifted the birdbath. There was so much red, and her leg was bent at an awkward angle. The sight that forever haunts me was the bone protruding from the girl’s shin as my father carried her to the car. None of the girls ever came over again. After that, I didn’t venture back into the garden alone and I ignored any shadows that flickered just in my line of sight. It all changed when I was 14 and my sister was 18. We got along well enough even though she was a cool senior and I was her dorky freshman sister. She was going through her “partying stage” (at least that’s what my parents called it) and, since they didn’t like her going out alone and unsupervised, I was routinely drafted to be her chaperone and report and suspicious activity. They figured she wouldn’t get into so much trouble if she had her little sister to take care of. Boy were they wrong. I somehow turned into the (underaged) designated driver for her and her senior friends Stacy and Olivia. Some of the seniors were having a party in the woods just outside of town and lucky me got dragged along. She was talking to some boy by the fire and I went to get a drink. At parties my sister always made sure that I stayed in her line of sight, so it was weird when I turned around and she was nowhere to be seen. As I walked further from the party to the edge of the woods, I could just barely make out voices in the trees. I looked closer and realized it was my sister and a tall lithe boy. And I know what you’re thinking, “Why are you following your sister and some boy away from a party in the middle of the night? Don’t you know what they’re probably going to go do?” But trust me, what really happened was much worse. I followed a little way behind them and struggled not to make any sound as he deftly led my sister through the forest. They weaved through the trees...no the trees seemed to bend out of the way for them. That’s when I noticed that the night had gone deathly quiet. I barely had time to grind to a halt as they stopped at the edge of a clearing. She seemed to be stuck at the wood line as the boy went further in and stopped dead center. He beckoned her forward with his hand and I saw him muttering something. I figured this would be as good a time as any for chaperone little sister to break in. I yelled her name and the boy’s head snapped towards me. I marched up to my sister and pulled on her arm, but she wouldn’t budge. Slowly she turned her head to face me and I realized then that her eyes were a milky white. Eerily like the little woman in the garden. The boy stared at me as he called her name once more and she started to walk towards him. I was screaming at her at this point and pulling her arm so hard that I thought it might pop out of its socket. But this didn’t seem to phase her. As we neared the boy, I noticed that he was standing in the middle of a perfect circle of toadstools. I jerked back as if by some primal instinct and my body screamed at me to get the hell out of dodge. I realized my mistake seconds later and reached out for my sister again. Just as I touched her, her foot crossed the line and she vanished. I stared in horror at where my sister had been only moments before and slowly looked towards the boy. He cocked his head and smirked. “What the hell did you do with her,” I screamed at him. He stayed silent for a moment and his next words chilled me to the bone. “She is mine now. You could join her. Would you give me your name?” I paced outside the toadstool ring. “I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at, but I swear to God I’ll call the cops,” I threatened. His features shown confusion and quickly morphed to glee. “You have the Green Sight!” he chirped. And then he laughed and laughed and laughed. Tears of frustration pooled in my eyes. He stopped and straightened. He looked at me stoically and said, “I will not take you tonight. You will remember while others forget. But only for a while. I will come back for your name one day little one, when you no longer remember and when your Sight fails you.” And with that, he was gone. That was years ago. I am old now and I know my time is coming. I can feel it in my bones. I still live in the house that I grew up in, hoping it would help me remember. Its fuzzy sometimes but every now and then I’ll look into the garden and see green skin, yellow hair, and milky eyes staring back. They know what’s coming too. There are no photographs of her. It’s like she never existed outside of my mind. Even now, she fades, and I’m so far gone that I can’t remember her name. He took it with him, as he’s taken others and as he’ll take mine too.

The woods were spooky, owls hooting and for some reason in sync with the sound of crickets, Eddy had never been there, especially not at night. According to him, anyone with half a brain knew this was where the evil vampire or werewolf in a high school fantasy show gets you to either feast on you or turn you into a monster like him. The only thing compelling Eddy was the thought of a date, one he had been promised by his crush, Evelyn. Ever since the second year of high school, he had been madly in love with her, but she never gave him the time of day or rather never had his time, she was too busy spending time with her brother--her best friend. Evelyn told him to meet her in the basement of the abandoned house in the middle of the woods, she opened the door after hearing him knock, and he was welcomed to a room lit up with candles, chalk markings on the floor, and her in a long black dress, this one he didn’t mind because she looked beautiful in it. They say loss can change a person, and that has been no truer than in the case of Evelyn ever since Jordan died. The thirty-year-old man was not only her only sibling but her best friend, for siblings with an age difference of thirteen, you would think they were fraternal twins, they went to concerts together, restaurants, and most importantly, the cinema. “Did you bring the knife?” Evelyn asked Eddy pulled out a sharp jagged knife from a sheath behind his waist “Yeah I did” “Okay I’ll get the bunny” Eddy worked with his father, the town butcher, ever since he was fourteen, He knew the different ways to slice open different animals, but he had never killed one before. Many boys would buy flowers or read a poem or play a song from a boom box beneath a window so the girl they liked would go out with them, but for Eddy, he was to kill an innocent little rabbit who thought he was gonna have a loving home when he was brought from the pet shop. Evelyn, bunny in hand motioned for him to walk to the center of the circle where she was, of the circle drawn with chalk had three different sets of triangles and signs within it, He was not afraid to show that he was scared, what they were doing looked occult as hell, no, it was occult, he began to regret ever showing Evelyn the website, a website for juju where members claimed they could communicate and even resurrect the dead. At the time Eddy wanted to do anything( he still does) to help Evelyn feel better when her brother died, he was desperate and went searching, he came across the website on the dark web, and then taught Evelyn how to access it, thinking it would at least help her find solace but it did not, and now he has to either report her to a mental hospital or see her go through this to the end, love made him choose the latter. “Do you remember the spell?” He gulped, “I do” Evelyn held on to the rabbit’s limbs, while Eddy raised the innocent creature's head to have access to its neck, they started reciting the spell and before the second verse he slit the poor animal’s throat, the blood splattered around the entire room at first but Evelyn quickly directed its neck to the center of the circle so the blood would flow there. “It’s my turn now,” Evelyn said, putting her hair on his palms “Could you ?” “yeah,” Eddy said, reaching for her long flowing black hair and cutting it down, then spreading it on top of the rabbit’s blood. They both recited the spell once again this time holding hands, the room shook slightly like a mini earthquake and then there was a short moment of silence and then a blinding light, and after, nothing. Eddy and Evelyn opened their eyes “Is that it?” Evelyn asked, looking around hoping she would find her resurrected brother somewhere. Eddy Screamed, and pointed towards the ceiling, there he was his back against the upper walls of the small room and his belly and privates facing the floor, he fell to the floor shortly after. “That was creepy, we agree that was creepy, right?” Evelyn felt too much happiness to feel fear, her brother was back. Eddy woke up tired and still felt weird about the ordeal the night before. “You guys woke up early,” he said to Evelyn and the previously dead Jordan “We didn't sleep” Evelyn replied “Oh” “How is he?” Eddy asked “He’s fine” Jordan interrupted, not liking the fact that he was treated like he was not there “He’s fine,” she said, backing him up “he had some issues speaking last night, but he’s good now” “Riiight” Eddy was skeptical “Hey Evelyn can we talk outside for a bit?” “Sure” she stood up and followed him out “Don’t you think this was way too easy?” “Eddy, I don’t think killing a rabbit is easy, do you?” He couldn't tell if this was her attempt at a joke He scoffed, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” “I don’t know what you mean then, we did what the ritual said and we got good results” “But think about it, if it was this easy” “wasn’t easy” she interrupted “Okay, if it was like this, wouldn't everyone be bringing their loved ones back to life? Come on Evelyn there has to be a catch” “I don’t know Eddy, it seems you regret winning yourself a date with me,” she said, trying to shut him up, she knew he was not wrong, it was kind of easy but her brother was here, and that was all that mattered. “I’m not” “Good then. We’ll go on Saturday be ready” He resigned “I will, and what will you do?” she looked towards the basement where her brother lay, “I’ll take care of him” “Alright. Call me if you need anything” “I will” she added “and Eddy, thank you” Jordan had completely regained his speech, he seemed a different person from the night before, he was no longer scared, cold, or stuttering, he was him, the him she used to know. Evelyn told Jordan all that had passed ever since he passed, the abuse she went through at the hands of their mother, and Eddy’s crush on her, which led to her having her brother back. “You are not going to stay with Mum anymore,” Jordan said. He knew how their mother was, he knew how nasty she could be with words, this was a woman who told him he had the face of a sex addict when he was thirteen, simply because he licked his lips, a woman who said he was in a rush to give oral sex because he wanted to go to his college inauguration. “it’ll be just like before!” She shrieked “I’ll live with you and not have to see Mum again” “Well not exactly like before” he corrected, “I do have to find a place again and a job and the issue of credit cards, I might actually need to move to a new city” Evelyn had not thought about the reactions people would have about a dead man coming back to life, she didn’t take into account how he would reintegrate into society, but that did not matter to her, she would think about it later because right now, Jordan was here, which meant everything would be okay. “We should go see a movie” Evelyn suggested “I haven’t been to the cinema since you know” “Really?” “Yeah” “Not even with the eddy guy?” He teased “oh stop that” she blushed Evelyn had to mention that she was not dating him, but he did want to date her, as a guy Jordan could relate to this quite easily. Her phone rang “Fuck” “Language” “It’s mom and really?” “What?” “you came back from the dead and you are worried about how I talk?” He shrugged, “Resurrection or not, I’m still a big brother” Evelyn rolled her eyes and answered the call reluctantly A strong unladylike voice spoke through the phone “I know you are at the age where you want to stay out and meet boys and let them touch you, but do make sure you get your ass to school” Her mum cut the call before Evelyn could reply “ugh sometimes I just wish she would die” “Done” “What did you say?” Evelyn asked “Nothing” “umm okay,” she said,” I have to go I’ll meet you later and we’ll go to the movies, deal?” “Deal” Evelyn arrived pretty late to school, but the teachers did not chastise her because they knew her predicament, at least what it used to be. Eddy came up from behind her “Hey about the date” She gasped, “Maybe don’t sneak up on me?” “I’m sorry, I just wanted to say I know where to take you for our date” “Where?” “the movies,” Eddy said, all excited “No not the movies,” she said, “anywhere but the movies” “Oh, um can we get a burger at the diner then?” “that works”. For as long as Evelyn could remember, her parents used to fight, they would argue, scream, and throw all types of objects and they did it all in her presence, at age seventeen, Jordan who had grown accustomed to his parent’s ways had pretty much become immune to their toxicity, but he did not wish the same for his sister, because the price he paid for immunity, was constant exposure. Jordan Loved telling stories, so whenever their parents fought, he would take Evelyn as far as he could, and tell her the most magical fairy tail, drama, comedy, or thriller he could come up with, this always made her forget when she turned seven, he took her to the cinema for the first time, for the first time she not only had to imagine a story but she got to see it too, the cinema became their thing, it was not only an avenue to experience stories but also a medium that saved her from her parents toxicity. Her father died soon after her ninth birthday, leaving only their abusive mother. Evelyn immediately headed for the basement the minute school was done for the day, she did not want to think about it, but she could have sworn she saw a slight glint in her brother’s eyes when they spoke in the morning, but it probably meant nothing, at least that’s what she wanted. The basement was Empty even though she had told Jordan to wait for her, there was no way to contact him since he no longer had a phone, and she could not guess where he could have gone, her first instinct was to call Eddy, the only one she’d been able to trust for a while. “Have you checked your house?” Eddy asked after she explained everything to him “No” She panted “Do you really think he’d go there?” “Well, it’s possible, people tend to go to what’s more familiar to them” “Okay I’ll check the house” She ran as fast as she could, it would take her ten minutes to get to her house from the woods if she ran. She burst through the door to the living room and it was empty, the same as the kitchen. she was lost on what to do. Eddy called this time “Did he mention anything to you or you to him when you guys spoke this morning” “I can’t really think of anything” Her head was spinning and her body gave out sweat, “wait, I was a bit mad and I said something about wanting my mum to die and he was like ‘done’” Eddy was right, it was too easy, there was no way that was the same Jordan, but this was not the time to gloat or make her feel bad. “I’m on my way,” he said. She could hear him running from his end. She heard a cry from the bedroom, she had not had time to check it before Eddy called. She saw Jordan's body on the floor, her mum with a gun in her hand, confused and crying profusely “How does he keep getting up", she asked, pointing the gun at the body "Why does he look like Jordan” Evelyn ran behind her mum, “I can explain but we have to go Mum” The pair ran outside, but not before Evelyn glanced at her brother's corpse she just had him, and now she is losing him again. She did her best to stay calm, even making sure her mum did the same “Mum can you tell me what happened?” Her mum could barely form a coherent sentence but she listened hard enough to deduce Jordan had attacked and thanks to her gun she was able to put him, numerous times. “So Jordan can’t die?” she was almost happy to hear that “He kept getting up” her mother gulped amid tears “his wounds healed themselves, and his eyes were glowing black” She fell into Evelyn’s arms for comfort and while it could have been because of the terror of the moment, or guilt, Evelyn let her. Eddy arrived on his motorcycle and immediately ran to the pair “Evelyn,” he said, showing her the PDF in his phone, it was a copy of the spell book she had used, “I asked around the forum and they said we got the spell wrong, there are two ingredients needed” “yes, I know” Evelyn replied “the life of an animal and parts of a person the dead loved” “exactly but we only got the second part right” “What?” “There has to be a balance, Evelyn, to bring a rabbit back, you kill a rabbit, do you get it?” Evelyn's eyes widened “We used the wrong animal!” “We did but there is a way to break the spell for good” “oh no” Evelyn cried “he’ll be gone for good this time” “he never came back, I’m so sorry” Eddy cried, seeing Evelyn in pain hurt him and in a way, he saw himself as the cause since he told her about the site. Jordan burst through the window and caught them outside, Evelyn saw what her brother had become, he was demonic, he was wild, he was... not Jordan. Her mother raised her gun again and with a headshot, Jordan fell once more. “Okay, we need to draw the circle again and you have to recite this spell” he gave her his phone. Everything was prepared and the irony was that the spell did not require Eddy to kill an innocent bunny, it was easier in a sense but the hardest thing any human can do: say goodbye twice. Jordan woke up but Evelyn had recited the spell, his black eyes were normal once more, he smiled, he was Jordan, she looked at her brother and remembered all the stories he told her “I love you, Evelyn” he looked at Eddy and mouthed a thank you, after which his body turned to dust. He was Jordan, but he was gone. Evelyn fell to her knees in the middle of the circle and cried the hardest any human could, Eddy hugged her, she could feel his kindness, his warmth, Jordan was gone but Eddy was there, he always had been. It was two days since the event, Evelyn and her mother cleaned up, and she had explained everything to her mum, who for some reason understood and was calm about it or she was just buzzed as usual. Eddy called to ask how she was, she was happy to hear from him, she wanted him to talk to her for as long as the sun was up “Do you still want to go on a date with me?” “I thought we already had one planned” she smiled “Eddy, I'd like to go to the movies with you” “I’d really love that, Evelyn.” THE END

The day before Emily went missing, I ran seven miles in the predawn chill, slipped and landed on the icy pavement on my way back. I shook it off, my bloody left knee be damned, to finish one more mile. It’s really not safe to run solo, or go anywhere alone here. I don’t really care, because running is my escape from everything I hate about my life. The wind grazing my back, the solitude and the peace of it all fills me with the best natural high I can get. I strolled back to my room, showered, bandaged my leg and read for class before I changed into jeans and an Astros sweatshirt for our 10:00. The lecture began when I arrived, and I was powering up my laptop when Emily sashayed in, a leather backpack slung over her shoulder, wearing a bulky white cable knit, cutoffs, and flip flops, on a forty degree day. When she tossed her designer sunglasses onto her fuchsia notebook, I noticed she had no pen, so I fished a blue one out of my bag. When she had it, thanks to the guy sitting in front of me, she winked as she mouthed “thanks''. When class ended, I packed my stuff, with the few notes I'd taken, and glanced up at Emily. “Hey, babe! Thanks again for the pen,” Emily said, readjusting her backpack on her shoulder. I nodded. “You hungry? I barely made it here and skipped breakfast.” I felt famished, realizing my last meal was sometime before 6pm. “I want a burger, or some pizza!” Emily said. “Lead the way, Em.” A few minutes later, we stood in line at the pizza bar- a pepperoni for her and a Margherita for me. We settled at a patio table. I would have preferred to eat inside, but Em loves the outdoors in any type of weather. Silverware clinked, snatches of conversations filled the air. A breeze brushed Emily’s hair as she picked the toppings from her cheesy slice, popping one between her cotton candy pink lips. “Ready for break?” Emily asked, stuffing a piece of tomato in her mouth. “Hadn’t really thought about it, since I’ll be working for most of it,” “Well, I’m ready, this semester has been super tough,” Emily said. She chomped a second slice, lips curling and lashes fluttering. I shivered, and nearly dropped my slice beside the table leg. “Anna, you OK?” “Just tired, and a little chilly.” I pushed around my second slice, with less than a handful of basil leaves and overripe tomatoes. “Davis and I have a date tonight. I’m not sure why I said yes, but maybe it’ll be fun,” Dark circles curtained Em’s eyes, and her shoulders drooped. “Do you know what he’s planning?” I really didn’t want to know. “Probably dinner and a movie, not sure.” I eyed the clock above our heads. Instead of wishing her well and heading off to avoid being late, I said, “Are you sure you want to do this?” Emily’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean- that I shouldn’t date Davis, Anna?” “I’ve heard that he’s a creep, Em. Concerned is all I am.” “Just because you hate every guy here doesn’t mean I have to!” Em elbowed her drink off the table, which splashed on me as I caught it. The corners of her mouth twitched as I nestled her bottle beside her plate, but she didn’t speak. “I don't hate anyone, Emily. I’m just not interested in any of them.” My heart raced as if I were in the middle of a sprint. “Emily?” “What, Anna?” She piled sauce-stained napkins onto the empty plate. “I apologize if I offended you. Have a good time tonight, and let me know when you make it back, OK?” Emily gave me a curt nod before she sauntered away without a goodbye. My stomach ached, and I couldn’t figure out if my soggy pizza or her stormy exit was the source of my uneasy feeling. Emily and I had never argued in 3 1/2 years. The only time I’d ever seen her upset happened when she told me about her grandmother, who died the summer before our freshman year. Even though she knew her Gran’s illness was incurable, Em was inconsolable, having lost her best friend. I racked my brain to understand her reaction during a brisk walk to the Science Building. After our lab ended, I stayed to finish my assignment, because I hate having things hanging over my head-chores, assignments, whatever. Then, I traded my button down and jeans for fleece, grabbed my earbuds and phone, topped off my refillable bottle and added a few leaves of basil from my plant. When I reached University, wispy cotton ball clouds replaced the bright sunshine. I didn’t notice anyone trailing me until I reached the intersection of University and North Hampton, three miles from campus. “Cold out, huh?”, the voice said. I nodded at the hoodie clad girl. “Haven’t I seen you, in the Science Building?” she asked, turning her head to reveal a chunky braid, a smile playing across windburned lips. I noted her height, nearly equal to my own, and that I’d never seen her on campus. I stepped to the edge of the sidewalk to stretch my stiff right calf and hoped she’d take the hint to leave. “Maybe,” If I crossed here, I could go all the way to the Gardens and loop back to campus. The girl reached into her pocket, and I sprinted across the street against the signal. I heard her shouting, “Hey, come back for a sec” when I was halfway down North Hampton, near the Botanical Gardens. I peered over my shoulder, beyond grateful that she hadn’t followed. A while back, I discovered a hidden way into the park near its entrance, allowing me to skirt the park’s perimeter. I darted between twisted, fragrant pines, their bare branches resembled gnarled arms that threatened to crush someone. I was gasping for breath when I stopped at the entrance to campus, rounding the corner where I saw another one of those flyers. This one showed a girl I’d seen a few times, her hair streaming behind her, poised and perfect. When a disappearance happens, there’s an uproar for a week or so, a vigil on the Lawn, and these annoying flyers. Then, we have these forums with the campus police, about varying our routines, and they appear outside the buildings for a few days, especially during evening classes, to monitor and encourage us to travel in pairs or small groups. But I don’t care. I'm not worried about going it alone, because no one would want to snatch me-what would be the point? Once I made it back and changed, I read my bio chapters. At 2:30, when I couldn’t summarize another paragraph, I grabbed my phone and dialed Emily’s number. She didn’t answer, so I decided to call it a night. The next few days raced by, between classes and study sessions, and I hadn’t heard from Em. I went over and knocked on her door to no reply. Before I left, I stopped at the hall office to leave a message for her with RA, who barely looked up from her book when I explained I had not heard from Emily in half a week. I walked to my morning class and watched Davis Walters tromp through the quad, trailing a gorgeous brunette in a red miniskirt, his lips screwed up into a scowl. The girl ducked into the Arts Building. I followed Davis as he entered the Student Center cafe. He cradled a water bottle, then grabbed a muffin. Next. he unfolded what looked like a $20 and thrust it at the cashier. I swiped my own card, and watched him dash toward the exit, disappearing when I reached the lobby. I could take the direct approach and talk to Davis. Or, I could confront him and threaten to share my suspicions, with no real evidence to support them, with Campus Police. Then, there was the third option, but for that, I needed the element of total surprise. After I emailed and left yet another voicemail on Emily’s phone. Then, I decided to take a risk. Inside his Davis’ building, I passed a deserted front desk to a long corridor, and noted the nameplates on the doors. I tried the second floor and stopped halfway down the hall when I saw Davis’ name on the placard. Could it be this easy? Later that night, I rifled through my closet for anything resembling the white jumpsuit I’d seen the cleaning crew members wear. I unearthed an ancient white T-shirt and hip hugging white jeans. probably not the best attire for the job-dark colors would be a better way to blend in during the commission of a break-in. I arrived at his residence hall and waited outside the door of Davis’ room until a familiar face approached. “If you’re looking for him, he’s on a date,” he said. “He said I could borrow his notes.” The guy chuckled. Tall, with a wide grin and smooth, manicured hands, he stepped closer. “It’s Saturday night, darling. Why don’t you come over and wait here with me? Or, we could go out somewhere.” “Another time, maybe?” I bit my tongue on what I really wanted to say-when hell freezes over. Davis’ neighbor shrugged and returned to his room. He'd definitely remember me, but I’d come this far, and I had only my life as I knew it to lose, and the life of my friend. I ducked inside the unlocked crew closet and left the door cracked to watch the hallway. 30 minutes later, I was ready to give up. How the hell would I get in, since these doors had locks I had no idea how to pick? I didn’t see anyone else on duty whose keys I could use (or steal), which they’d be unlikely to do anyway when they realized I didn’t belong. Yet, something urged me to stay. I emerged from the closet and made my way to Davis’ door. I grasped the doorknob. Hoping against hope, the door opened. Providence and entry granted. The room resembled the aftermath of a rushed date prep. Sweaters were strewn across chairs and the scent of a pungent aftershave hung in the air. I dropped a boot on the carpet, and a shallow echo bounced off the walls, though nothing fell out of the shoe. When I heard a key turn in the lock, I grabbed my stuff and pushed up the window. The door opened, and I threw myself out into the endless, frigid darkness. I awoke shivering. My entire left side, especially my shoulder, ached with the pain of 1,000 jabs. My knee pulsed as if it had been slammed by a jackhammer. Davis peered down at me from his window. “What the hell?” Before he made it down to confront me, I hauled myself up and across campus. Somehow, I settled myself onto my bed and didn’t stop the tears soaking my pillow, mangled and no closer to finding Emily. I woke up at 6:30, feeling as if I’d been in a car wreck. The headache was the least of it, and my shoulder hurt so much I wanted to saw it off, along with my grapefruit sized knee. Later, during my appointment at the Health Center, I endured the painless, tiresome lecture from a nurse on personal safety. I would need to begin physical therapy for my shoulder, and she gave me a brace for my sprained knee, which I was assured would heal. Thankfully, the pain meds provided some relief and a dreamless ten-hour sleep. When I awakened, I flipped on the lamp switch and noticed a brown mailer under the door. When I tugged the flap, a tattered, bloodied wristband with a 6 digit number printed on it slid out into my hand. Then, I shook out a light yellow card with a phone number printed on the bottom. On the back of the card was a logo, the silhouette of a female and something resembling a Greek letter. Somehow, I knew this was not a calling card for a sorority or group I would want to join. I dialed the number and heard two clicks and a long beep, no response or outgoing message. With trembling fingers, I stuffed everything back inside the mailer for Campus Police. On Thursday, the last day of the semester, I dragged myself out of bed at the last moment. I tried to move my shoulder when I shrugged off the sling, and bullets of pain shot through my side. After I popped another pill, I dressed for the day and hobbled out into the nearly freezing temps for class. I was so lost in thought that I never saw it coming. The dark green van appeared beside me, and a pair of hulking arms encircled and carried me away. The last thing I remember is the pain coursing through my shoulder, before the world faded away. When I awakened, my voice wouldn’t allow me to scream. A searing, stabbing pain coursed through my entire being. My clothes had been changed into a stiff white gown tied with a silver sash, which my reddened blotchy skin loathed. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and I propped myself against a stone wall, drenched in fear and confusion. A door clicked open, a shaft of light streamed onto the wall. A petite woman in a blue surgical cap and mask hovered over me. She snipped off my wrist restraints with surgical scissors and checked my pulse and vitals, her ice cold stethoscope a shock to my clammy skin. The woman shook her head before she disappeared. Sometime later, I realized I wasn’t dreaming when a blast of frigid air swept over me. a package of animal crackers and a bottle of water were tossed onto the floor near me before the door closed, and I crawled to get the food. I’d made a mistake by playing detective. Because I tried to find her on my own, I had put us in more danger. Because I spent so much time alone, no one would have any idea that I’d been taken. I sobbed until there were no tears left, and another memory of Dad, Mom and Jenny in the yard making a snowman during a rare blizzard aced through my weary mind. I would have given anything to return to that time, my heaven on Earth. I woke up to another woman standing over me, this time accompanied by a pair of hulking men clad in black leather. She wielded an enormous needle, a clear liquid streaming onto the floor. It was now or never. I sank my teeth into her hand and broke free as one of the goons lunged for me. The second one attended to screaming Nurse Wicked, giving me the opening I needed. My chest burned and drummed as I scampered through a dim corridor. A stench pierced my nostrils, an odor so foul I stopped to catch my breath. A woman was sprawled on the floor, her wrists bound and blood gushed from a forehead gash. One of the lumbering assholes closed in. I staggered up three flights of stairs, using my good shoulder to nudge the stairwell door, which led to a place I never expected-the first floor of the Science Building. Brilliant beams of light flooding through the enormous windows blinded me, and I leaned against a wall, noticing the stares of students who surrounded me. “Help me!” Sandy from my bio lab grasped my shoulder. “Who did this to you, Anna?” she asked. My field of vision narrowed, and I could no longer stand. “Anna, wake up!” The cool tile felt like sweet relief to my aching head. Two weeks later, I had recovered and returned home to celebrate New Year’s with my parents and Jen. What I learned later was that the missing women were snatched and held by a group of radical individuals operating all over the country for the purpose of impregnating them against their will. Our university received money for each student who was stolen, more than each one paid in tuition. My escape led to the rescue of the other victims in that basement, including Emily. The entire plot was revealed by an administrator that involved more than a dozen schools across the country. Needless to say, I never returned to campus, being given the option to complete my final semester remotely, free of charge. But, I never attended medical school. I was accepted into a creative writing program to earn a graduate degree. I wrote an essay, which I submitted to one of the few remaining independent publications aimed at young women. I poured every bit of terror and anger I’d felt into that piece, and it was accepted six months later by the magazine. As for Emily and I, we spoke for eight hours until well after midnight when she’d finished reading my piece. “So, you really don’t want to be a doctor, Anna?” “Not at all, and it’s not just because of what happened.” “Well, you definitely have what it takes to be a great writer, Anna.” “I guess. Hey, I’m sorry about that day, Emily.” “You don’t have to apologize, Anna. You were just concerned.” “As misplaced as it was.” “But who could have known? Anyway, pizzas are on me when I’m in town next, OK?” I was sure she could see the grin spreading across my face. “I can’t wait, Em.”