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Allura 74

Halloween's time!! People dressed up as different creepy creatures, Streets filled up with trick or treats, Oh!! Here comes Alan and Alex, Both looking creepy, Ah, They were Damon and Stefan... Woah!! Am a big fan of Vampire Diaries, being in a crowd of clown, Frankenstein and Pumpkins. Alex noticed something weird, he found one of the old man in a long black beard with a black dress on, Looked like he was stalking them on their every move, He had a creepy smile, Alan approached towards him to talk, In seconds, He vanished into the crowd, That’s crazy, They searched him for a while, then got back to the party, They left the party soon and headed up towards their trailer, walking down the road as a vampire, Alan noticed something at the edge of the road, Board pointing towards the west marking “GRAVEYARD”. The Graveyard has not been used for years was kept abandoned, Alan quickly asked Alex, “Can we spend the night in a graveyard”. Alex replies, Oh, “That’s a perfect plan Alan”. Let’s Go do Something Crazy, Both of them heading towards the yard, “It looked a lot bigger than they have imagined”. Gate of the graveyard is creepy, half open looks like someone is inside, That’s Suspicious, As they moved further, Alan and Alex heard something, moving towards the bush, Suddenly a creature bounced back. Oh, that’s Dooby, Alan, “How come you are here”. Strange!! Alex laughingly, I Guess, “He sniffed us back here”. They took Dooby with them, passing by the gate, they saw the same old man standing who stalked them before, He looked creepy and funny, Not bothering, crossing the old man. He spoke in a low voice, warning them not to go and smiling creepily, But, Alan and Alex followed by Dooby, walking faster. Planned to settle in a comfortable spot, Alex wanted to have a quick trip which was weird at 2am in the middle of the graveyard. Night was getting colder, Cool Breeze touched their cheeks and neck. They sat in one of the bench, talking stuff about ghost and witches, Alan asked Alex, “Do you think they are real”. Alex replied, “I don’t really believe in them as it's just a belief travelled among people”. Dooby starts to frown in a low tone, In a while, Alex saw someone approaching them from an opposite side, looked like a girl in a white gown, Alan dusting his shirt, waiting to have a talk with her. Alex punching him, What if it’s a ghost!! Alan, “She might have come to visit her lost relative and by the way she looks a lot like human”. Come on dude, Let’s go talk. As she came towards them, Alan clearing his voice, “Hi, It's nice to meet you”. Sadly, She didn’t respond. Alex laughing, “That was quite embarrassing”. Alan smirking, Let's see where she goes. That girl was moving in a different direction rather than heading towards the exit, Looks like she has been possessed, After a while, They found the girl fainted in the middle of the way Alan tried to wake her up, But Alex alerted him, They both hid behind the tree not knowing what had happened, Dooby ran behind the bush too, Alex found a crowd approaching her which was quite nasty at the midnight, Alan felt a bit scary, That’s unusual. Alex guessing those people as zombies. There were like six to eight people, as they came closer. Alan guessed them as witch and warlocks. Alan freezing, I can’t believe my own eyes. Why are they acting so weird? That’s what they are, watching them, Alex suddenly in a low voice, Oh My Freaking God!! They all were in a circle of fire, looked a lot like a ritual. They had that girl as a bait, Alex couldn’t watch. Walking out of the tree, As he went near them, He was trapped in a fire circle too. He froze, Alan had no clue to help him back, He waited for a while to see what their intentions were but waiting longer is of no use. Witches and Warlocks chanting, Girl’s body turned blue, She started floating in the air with her white dress flowing all over. Alan couldn’t bare, he didn’t want Alex to suffer in the middle, As it was him who asked Alex spend night in graveyard which was insane. Throwing himself, he tried to make Alex come out of the ring, Dooby barking and frowning at the witches. Alan caught their eyes on him, fear burst out!! Both of them shivering. One of the warlock with his horns came forward frowning at the Alan. Someone screamed, “Stop”. Alan sighing hard, quickly looked back. Oh!! That’s the Stalker, smiling in the same creepy way, The old man came forward to the warlock and said they are not part of our ritual, Warlock frowned and turned back to the girl, As Alan went to thank him, he found the old man chanting, In a blink, He disappeared. At the same time, Alex's ring of fire faded into the thin air, The Warlocks and witches with the girl disappeared leaving no scars, That’s totally insane and creepy, They didn’t want to stay in the yard , Alan, Alex and Dooby ran out of the gate, joined the road and couldn’t believe what just had happened, As they were walking, In half a way, They found Dooby disappearing, Alex said Alan, “I don’t think if I say others, They would believe me “. Alan replying, “Am worried about Dooby, I don’t want him to get hurt “. As they reached the trailer, Insane!! Unbelievable, That’s Dooby shaking his tail harder, Alex ran into Dooby petting him, Alan kissing him badly, Went into the trailer, Moving into the trailer and bumping into one of the bed, Alex found something strange on his bed, It was some kind of note, “Never try to track us, You would end up harmed “. Frozen like an ice, Staring at each other, They couldn’t sleep the entire night, Alan shaking, “I don’t want this to happen again in our life”. Guess this is our worst creepy Halloween, We have ever had. Alex accepting the day, making his heart stronger. Alan took it as advice that they were lucky to have each other back, We should never be on their way, Alex started to laugh loudly, It’s all my fault, we really shouldn’t have followed the girl, Alan, I warned you but I guess we have learned the lesson”. Warning!! To the readers, Everything in this world is a “MYSTERY”. Mystery is better than a misery, If you guys try to stir it up, You would end up in consequences, So, It's better to leave the other side all alone.

She couldn't see me coming. She didn't even know I existed. I would just be a face from the street, a stranger that she might have seen before. But i know her. I see the way she swings her hips as she walks. I know that she plaits the under-layer of her hair when she gets nervous, and that she bites her lips when she tries not to cry. I know that every night she goes into her apartment, completely oblivious to the fact that her windows face the street, that everyone can see in. She'll put her hair in a bun, change into some pyjamas, usually shorts and a vest top, and sit on her couch to watch Netflix. Her cat will snuggle into her side, and she will stroke his soft fur as she watches the screen in front of her. Then she will pause it and make herself a drink. It depends on her day. Wine for the bad days, tea for the good. If it's an especially bad day, she takes the wine bottle with her to the lounge area, as opposed to putting it back in the fridge. No boys ever go near her apartment, and on occasion a friend will go in. Here's the thing, Jenny is not the most social of people. Most of her friends are online. So she depends on them to keep her company, but they can't keep her warm at night. Not like I can. As I make my way into the building, wearing my uniform, she walks straight by me. She is talking to someone on the phone, but even still, she takes a break to smile at me as she passes. Her face seemed to glow as her lips curved into a smile. Those lips. She began to climb the stairs, her heels clicking as she walks. That's another thing about Jenny, she is deathly afraid of elevators. Even though she lives on the fourth floor, she would rather climb the stairs, no matter how tired she is, or how many groceries she is carrying. Tonight was the night though. I promised myself i would wait until the day she wore the colour red. Normally she stuck to neutral colours, so that her coworkers don't point it out. They have a habit of doing so, or at least i heard her telling her friends she did. I finished cleaning up the lobby, and made my way to the basement to the 'janitor's office'. It was basically a broom cupboard with a broken desk in it. However, i had access to most of the building's utilities. Though i wasn't trained to go near them. But the maintenance man often refused to show up for work, and issues in the building were not an unusual occurrence. Leaky pipes, rats and blocked water filters were fairly common, especially within the last few months. So with the picture of Jenny in my mind, i made my way over to the breakers, switching the fuse to one that had been previously blown, and allowing the leaky pipe to drip onto it. I heard the unmistakable fizzle of electricity, and made my way to the exit. People in the building could be heard rustling around in their apartments, likely looking for candles or torches. I walked slowly up to the fourth floor, and knocked on her door. "Oh, hello. Can I help?" Her strawberry blonde hair flowed loosely around her shoulders as she leaned her head out of the door, likely trying to see if it was just her apartment. "I was just coming to check on how you're doing. Maintenance has been called, and they should be here soon." I explained with a smile, and her composure seemed to relax a bit. "Would you like to come in?" She stepped back slightly. "Sure. It's Jenny, right?" I followed her into the small apartment, and clicked a torch from my waistband on, so that we could see. I closed the door, and silently turned the lock. "Yes, and i'm really sorry, but i don't actually know your name. Wine?" "Cameron, and yes please." I made my way around the apartment, shining my torch on various items, and taking in the sweet scent of vanilla that stayed around everything that she owned. She made her way towards me, and we sat on her sofas. "I think i have some candles in the kitchen drawer, let me just go check." She smiled as she made her way out of the room. As she left i properly took in her appearance. She was dressed in some black shorts and a white knitted jumper. I could see the straps of a black bralette sticking out from underneath the jumper, and i struggled to hold in a groan. When she was out of sight, i fished the small vial of liquid from my pocket, and poured it into her drink. She returned again, and lit the candles, which gave the room a warm glow, making it seem even more romantic, and i felt my muscles tense. We got to talking, and eventually i saw her eyelids begin to flutter closed, the orange-tinted light shining on her face. I reached out and stroked her face, allowing my fingers to run over the dimples and curves of her face. My pulse raced as I watched her sleep, and then I laid a blanket over her, and sat on the chair opposite her keeping my eyes steady on her as her chest rose and fell. Then, once the lights came back on, i picked her up, and carried her to the elevator, where i pressed the ground floor level. She stirred slightly in her sleep, and i smiled down at her sleeping figure. I carried her out to my van once we reached the bottom, and climb into the back with her. Her delicate wrists were easy to put into the zip ties, but i was careful with the tape over her mouth, sticking it down and placing a gentle kiss over it. I finally had my strawberry blonde angel.

Plink My world is spinning out of control. I’m tumbling helplessly in a hot, humid hell. Not only is it hot and humid, it’s dark and noisy. I feel like I’ll never get out of this place. I hate the clothes dryer. Tossing, turning, and tumbling around in here with me are a couple of tee shirts, one of those shirts with a little reptile embroidered on it, a bunch of briefs with sagging elastic, any number of socks with grayed soles, and a pair of jeans. Last and least, there is a pair of black satin boxers with red hearts on them; they’re downright embarrassing. They’re the reason we’re here in a Laundromat, instead of at home, where we belong. I’m the oldest of the bunch, but I’m also in the best shape. I may be a humble chambray shirt, but I’m sturdy and handsome. There is a faint plink. Damn! I think I lost one of my buttons. It’s been hanging by its threads for weeks now. No one could be bothered to sew it down and now it’s gone. I’ll bet that when The Guy comes back to get us, he won’t even notice the missing button and I’ll never get it back. It’s easy to get overlooked when you’re a little button. Plink. Plink. Plink. If the cycle doesn’t stop soon the plinking is going to drive me nuts. The dryer sheet that’s supposed to make us soft and static-free is loathsome. The odor permeates my every fiber, lingers for days. I’d puke if I had a mouth, but all I have are buttonholes. I wish we were at home, where the woman with the brown, callused hands pinned us on a clothesline. I love dancing in the wind, feeling the warmth of the sun. When we’re dry, the Brown-Skinned woman takes us down, smoothes us with those same strong hands, and carefully folds us. The others get put away as they are, but she’d carefully iron me. She understands my value. I wish she lived with us, but she comes in only once a week. Plink. Plink. Plink. I want to be back in my closet where I hang next to the pink silk blouse. I love the softness and scent of the blouse. Like the woman who wears her, Miss Pink Silk smells of flowers and spice; it’s a perfume the Pale Woman calls Dolce Vita. Occasionally the Pale Woman would wear me. It was nice, even when her hair tickled my collar. Her skin is soft as the silk blouse. The Brown-Skinned woman does not wear me; she only takes care of me Plink. Plink. Plink. Ours was a happy house until those black boxers showed up. I don’t know where they came from; I just know that there was a lot of screaming and door-slamming when the Fair-Haired woman found them. The closet door was ajar and I saw The Pale Woman throw the black shorts in The Guy’s face. She wasn’t pale then; her face was as red as the hearts on the shorts. Now, no more Dolce Vita. No more hanging around with the pink silk blouse. No more tidy closet in a nice old house. Now we live in a cramped closet in a one-bedroom apartment. No more Brown-Skinned woman to take care of us, to sew my button back on. I hate having a gap right in front so everyone in the world can see how ill-cared for I am. When The Guy thinks to wash us, which is seldom, he stuffs us in a duffle bag and hauls us here. Afterward, we’re lucky if we get put away. Some of the time I hang in the closet, un-ironed; other times I hang on the backs of chairs or on doorknobs. There are a few barbaric times when I lie wadded in a corner of the bedroom or, worse yet, get tangled in the bed sheets. It’s a most humiliating situation for a loyal chambray shirt. Plink. Plink. Plink. It’s a wonder the button doesn’t melt in this heat. Finally, the dryer grinds to a halt. Naturally, the jeans land on top of me. I hate being under the jeans, they’re heavy and rough and still somewhat damp. Socks are scattered all over. UGH! The black boxers are wrapped around my right sleeve. I wish I could move my sleeve by myself. I’ll just have to endure; it’s my lot in life. At least the plinking has stopped. I hope The Guy hurries up and gets us; I don’t want any wrinkles to set in me while we wait. Thank goodness it’s quiet now. Waiting in the dark. Reeking of the dryer sheet, which is between me and the jeans. But not between enough, a bed sheet between us would be about right. Gag! Flopping around in here with it was bad enough, having the dryer sheet on top of me is unspeakable. We probably haven’t been waiting forever, it only seems like it. Damn it! I want out of here. Even being shoved into a duffle bag wouldn’t be so bad. Hopefully, The Guy would eventually take us out and throw away that damned dryer sheet. The last time I was in a dryer static electricity made the dryer sheet stick to my back. The Guy never noticed. Can you imagine how humiliating it was to be worn around town with that stupid thing stuck to me? Someone yanks open the dryer door. A moon-like face peeks in. It’s a woman, but it’s not our Pale Woman. When she sees the dryer is full, she slams the door. After a while, the next dryer rumbles to life. When is The Guy coming back? Doesn’t he realize we’re waiting? And waiting. After what seems like half of forever, the dryer door is yanked open again. This time it’s a man wearing a black baseball cap from which white hair sticks out. He mutters a curse, hauls us out of the dryer, and dumps us on top of another machine, then stuffs his own wad of wet clothes in, dropping a pair of briefs on the floor in the process. He curses the briefs, as if it was their fault for falling, throws them in the dryer, and starts the machine. Out here we at least have air, but it’s as noisy as being in the dryer. Coins clatter out of the change machine. Washers and dryers groan and whine. Something thunks and one of the machines starts to rattle. A mother with a couple of children comes in; she’s carrying a hamper of laundry so full she can barely see over the top. The kids yelp like puppies. There were no children at our house. I know the Black Boxers were largely responsible, but I can’t help wondering if The Pale Woman would have let The Guy stay home if there had been children. A blond woman spreads a gray plastic trash bag under the door of one of the dryers before starting to empty it. In seeming defiance, a pair of lavender panties leaps over the bag and drops onto the bare linoleum floor. The woman picks them up, slaps them against her leg, and stuffs them in a hamper. Everything here, except the machines, is plastic: The beige tops of the folding tables, laundry baskets, blue molded chairs, a forlorn green plastic plant in a woven plastic basket. A TV attached to a bracket in a corner, up by the ceiling, mumbles and mutters. It’s ignored. Like us. The Guy we are waiting for does not come. At last, everyone has gone. A woman with brown hair pinned up behind her head vacuums the floors and runs a rag over the tables where people fold clothes and take them home. Finally, she grabs up the lot of us and dumps us in a cardboard box where a red tee shirt and a dark green sock already wait. This time I’m on top, free of the despised heart shorts. I can still smell the damn dryer sheet. If The Guy doesn’t hurry, they’ll lock the doors and he won’t be able to get us tonight. And that’s what happens. All but one light in the back goes out. The TV is turned off. One last car flashes its brights through the plate glass windows, then backs away and disappears. Outside the sky is dark as a pair of brand new jeans. Silence at last. What happened to our person? Why isn’t he here? Will he come tomorrow? How can you forget your laundry? Especially your blue chambray shirt. I don’t think there were any more briefs left in the drawer, so he needs those saggy shorts. We only get washed when there’s nothing else to wear. I wonder how long that green sock and red tee shirt have been here? What will happen to us if The Guy never comes? I’ll bet my poor button is still in the bottom of the dyer. I almost miss the plinking.

21? Twenty-one sounds like an overrated number. I should probably explain that better; I’m twenty and only four weeks away from being twenty-one. I don’t know why this impending birthday is my first mid-life crisis birthday. Most people get excited to hit the bars and welcome the most exciting years of their lives? Maybe it’s because I have a lot of friends in their twenties who are already tired of the bars and $8 beers when that money could be spent on better things? Or maybe it’s the awful commute from the “up and coming,” real-estate lingo for overpriced and out of the way, neighborhood. You know the ones that have the “great coffeehouse culture”, also known as generic hipster remix of Dunkin and latte art. Life gets busier, work gets harder, people grow farther apart and there is no such thing as spring break, or summer break, or syllabus week!!! Then again, why should I be worried. There are plenty of stories that are going well. My friend hit it big with some Wall St. firm, and now he’s got a great place in Brooklyn and went backpacking in south America for 8 days. I’ve done my homework. I should be in a good place. I should be free from the worry that “I’m not going anywhere”, and into that place of “I’ve got myself in the right position to be in an amazing place tomorrow.” That relentless optimism that comes with youth. There never seems to be a middle ground in the twenties. It’s either the best time or the worst time. Hopefully, I’m on the right side of this fork? Of course, I haven’t tackled the biggest source of angst for most twenty-one year old’s. The highly anticipated access to the bae4life app. I know the algorithm is said to be perfect. The AI’s comprehensive interview analyzes every aspect of who you are to find your perfect match for life. Sometimes, I feel like an old man. I just cannot fathom how a five-hour facetime conversation with an AI and its advanced neural network developed from over a hundred years of match making has yielded an app that will not only give someone a match and that match is the perfect match. Things have happened to my friends who matched with this much touted “one.” Sure, people say love’s one hell of a drug, but I still can’t fathom how Dereck went from being constantly high on some drug or another since he was fifteen to meeting his match and getting clean by himself. Hell, his girl’s got him convinced he should go to college. Flash forward to a year later, and this stupid shit ended up in Harvard. Ironically enough, Emily who hasn’t so much as sipped on a beer or spoken any second language got matched to some Thai drug lord last week. They hit it off so well on their first date that she decided she wanted to stay in Thailand. People hadn’t even know what happened to her until she sent everyone gold-plated wedding invites. I know you probably think I’m crazy for thinking the best part of turning twenty-one is the part that worries me so much. People have used the app for generations now. It seems like when they meet their bae4life match they find that part of their soul that was missing for twenty-one years. It’s been found in some of the most unlikely places as well as the most mundane of places. There are the normal ones out there like Mike and Ashley who have been dating since middle school. They lived across the street from each other since the 2nd grade. Who was surprised when they matched with each other! Of course, anything sounds better than going back to the old days. My triple great grandpa loves to tell the agonizing stories of all his failed marriages. The disgusting divorces he went through until the app got developed and turned his life around. Ugh, I’m not really sure how to explain divorce. Essentially, it’s when you are older than 21 and you break up with someone. I know crazy right? Back in the 2000s every other marriage used to end up in divorce. Since the app Bae4life started no ones had a divorce in three hundred years. I guess the reason I’m worried is because all these people really thought they knew themselves, but what they thought wanted turned out to be so far from reality. I could just picture myself being matched with some psychotic, roid raged, and half deranged stranger. Surprise, your best complement for life is a complete nut job because you are one too. If I’m being honest with myself, that would probably be the favorable outcome. At least there’s someone else on the match screen. Someone is always better than no one. I don’t know why, but some sixth sense tells me the app won’t work for me. It’s like I am wired different from everyone else. Almost as if I’m not a human, and the algorithm’s going to break when I use it because it has never had to match a non-human. Could I just be another angsty young twenty something? I hope I am, but something tells me the radiation my pregnant mom endured during her deployment in the fifth moon wars did something more than just give my skin it’s signature bluish glow. Two weeks to go, and I can’t help but wonder if now, might be the appropriate time to hit the panic button on life. My roommates think I am being melodramatic again. I have a hard time believing that I’m the one being histrionic. I can’t understand why everyone wants to keep taking me out to party. Everyone says they are doing it so I can enjoy the last days of the “single-life,”. It really just seems like everyone wants an excuse to party. Last I checked the single life consisted of sad hot pockets and sadder Netflix shows about the moon wars. Is it weird that I worry about future worries? I’m worried that I’ll wake up the morning of my twenty-first and complete the interview only to find that I’ll have the most anxiety filled time of my life until I get my match. It isn’t an instantaneous match because there may not be someone in the world at that moment that clicks with you. The wait to match can take weeks and knowing me every second I don’t get a match is a second of agony. One day to go...I had the weirdest conversation last night. My mom basically asked me if I had ever considered setting my location preferences for the moon colonies. I don’t understand why she would want me to match with a second-class interplanetary colony citizen.

"Order, Order!" The grand wizard slammed his gavel onto the table made of magical stone. The spell muted all of the creatures to stop their blabbering discourse. Nothing had been done in the last fifty years since humanity had been introduced into their magical realm. A reoccurring issue with the main species was that they consistently fought amongst themselves. The wizards, the dwarves, and the elves. Standing at the front of the small group of lords and leaders of the realm, the Grand Wizard let out an exhausted sigh. He knew from the great book, it was not his choice nor anyone else to determine the validity of humanity and their existence in their wonderous world. A world where Elves lived prosperously near the water, the dwarves lived sheltered in the mountains, and the sparse wizards separated in the far reaches of their planet. "We must give the humans a chance to live." The wizard began, "They do not have the luxury of evolving for millions of years, as we had just discovered them less than a century ago." The grand wizard slammed his staff into the ground forming a white cloud above the large table for everyone to see. In three separate segments, the leaders watched as individual projections of their species evolved in front of their eyes. They watched the Elves, who initially grew from an ancient mermaid in the depths of the sea. The dwarves who began as a rare mushroom troll deep in the earth, and of course the Wizards, who were flower pixies before eventually gaining their true power. Lastly, he showed the ancestor of humans, a three-eyed monkey, who had once been able to communicate with all the creatures on the planet, telling signs of the future. As it goes, the Great Book was written by one of the ancient Monkeys who had lived during the stages of the other creatures' infancy. Humanity still had yet to discover its true powers in its primal stage. "You see now, these Humans will one day be able to help us. We must be patient as they are still growing. One day they will use their powers to bring us together as their ancestors foretold." With a wave of his gavel, the spell was uplifted from the room. "They won't come together in time for the war. They are too selfish." Interjected Ravi, the General of the mighty Elf fleet of the East. "Yes, they are too greedy. We cannot depend on them!" Added the Dwarf king from the south. "This is true, this is true. They won't be ready for the war if we keep them here." The grand wizard picked his long white beard to the troubled question. If the humans stayed, they would one day no doubt try to overpower the elves, dwarves, and maybe wizards too, for their bidding one day. Once they had full control of their psychic abilities, they could just as easily use evil to overthrow their planet to serve themselves. Shaking his head at the thought, the wizard repeated themself "As I said, they are not ready." "Yes, and the Book says the war will begin in 2,300 years. I say we raise them as elves. They will do fine within our culture" Exclaimed Ravi. "Oh, you want them, so that you can make them slaves. Just as you tried to do with us and our mines. We must fight for ourselves, and hold true to our own people. The humans can die amongst their own self-pity!" The dwarves cheered at this response from their king, while the elves ignored what they considered small-minded opinions. Again, the room was in an argument, and loud. Mostly because of the dwarf leaders who were yelling. Frustrated, the Grand Wizard saw the meeting going nowhere over everyone's disagreement. If they did not find a way to evolve the humans, the great war would be the end of all their planet. What shall they do? Are they doomed? "Silence!" Slamming his staff into the ground, the grand wizard grew 20 feet tall, a dark cloud over him. He had the power to send these people to another world lightyears away if he wanted to get them to shut up and he sure as hell felt like doing it... Drawing axes and arrows on both sides of the table, everyone waited on edge for the first strike to initiate, however, it didn't come. Instead, they watched perplexed as a sense of peace looked to befall the Grand Wizard. The dark cloud above his head turned into sunshine. "I've got it. Eleanor, please bring in the Human King." Walking down the long hallway into the realms court, was Jesus, the leader of all man draped in rags. The only sign of royalty he had was a sword. "Yes, grand wizard," he answered kneeling before the room. "You will select a boy and a girl from your people and bring them to me before the days end." "What for?" asked the King. "We shall place them in a new world, and they will grow your species there. In time, they shall learn to grow with each other much faster than if they would in our world." "Will they be safe?" "No, they will suffer and go through much pain, however it necessary in order for them to grow. In 2,300 years they will grow more as a civilization than if we kept them here. Don't fret, you and I shall help them in moments of change." The King returned to his village, and selected young Adam and Eve to go as partners to this new world. He did not tell the young ones why they needed to start the species or of the war. All he said was to obey the simple commands given to them by the gods. "But how can we know if we are doing this right, my King?" "I don't have that answer, Adam, all I've been told by the Grand Wizard is this. You must keep your knowledge of this world between you both and nobody else." "How will we survive.?" "The grand wizard will advise you. Remember what the great book says --above everything, and anything, love everyone, and anything.

The cold stung my nose and cracked my skin, though I don't mind. I have come to enjoy the coldness that January brings. It adds a pleasant tingle and isn't as irritating as summer, especially the sweat and humidity. I dug my chin further into my scarf, reveling in its warmth, the cup of coffee's heat leaked into my hands. Smuggled into warmth on a cold morning is one of winter’s finest bliss. I walked down the street to my work, thankfully it was a walking mile away from my house. The world was drenched in gray tone with clouds camouflaging the sky. The coffee shop’s little bell announced my arrival with its little tinkling sound. “Good evening Mrs. Ichigo!” A woman popped from behind the counter. Her benevolent smile had etched lines around her mouth and time had done it under her eyes. “Aren’t you early?” her tone had a buoyant swing, as it always has. “Well you know, had nothing to do so came early to help around the shop.” “You can watch the counter and fill the shelves,” she gestured towards baked goods. “I’ve done half of it but the storage needs organizing so I’ll head there.” “Aye aye captain!” The shop was empty for it was a weekday and the rush hour had its due in the morning. Few folks came in a few minutes after I had arrived, the shop’s ambiance was tranquil with a homely tint. What was better than a warm and cozy shop in winter. However , having hot cocoa milk spilled all over your apron without an argument is not blissful. As I was about to serve a customer their order, a man had run into me splashing that good all over my apron. The small crowd gave a small collective gasp at the commotion. The heat stung my skin. “God, I am so sorry.” He gushed with a red face. “No sir, no need to apologize. It’s okay,” I say as I pick up the order from the floor. “No, I should’ve looked where I was going and shouldn’t be in such a rush in a crowded area. Can I pay for the dry cleaning?" “Oh you don’t need to, ” I returned as I got up and for once, took a look at the man. There was something familiar about him, as if I know him but can’t put my finger on it. "No please, let me, It was terrible of me to ruin your clothes like that. Please let me pay for the damage." Knew him or not, this man did not know how to take no for an answer. "Can we talk later about it? I have to work right now.’ I excused “Then can I have your number to call you later? I don’t have money on me right now, I can pay you later= though.” Jesus, there is no escaping this man. “I’ll give it in a minute.” “Once again, so sorry.” I was finally released to attend to other customers. Well, that man ended up with my number when he came to order at the counter. He was in a rush to meet someone, that’s what he told me as I wrote my number down on a piece of paper. He expressed how glad he was that his guest did not arrive. It had to do with his job and he would’ve looked like a blundering fool. “Can I have your name?” he asked. “Nathan.” ‘Uh,’ he said it as if it ringed a faraway memory but he was unsure. “Nice name.” "And yours?" "Aslan." I've heard that name before, was it from the Narnia movie? -no wait-it was somewhere else, but where? Soon enough he was busy with the man he was supposed to meet and I was busy with my job. Though it still startled me how familiar he looked, I couldn’t remember the details of it. The crook in his nose, the light’s embrace on his cheekbones, even his perfect smile seemed like deja vu. I racked my memory storage to recall from where I knew him. I recalled every face I could from everywhere and he was there, In the depths of my goldfish memory, but blurry-very blurry. He left along with his guest. “Goodbye Mrs.? Ichigo, see you tomorrow.” I waved her goodbye and trudged down the sidewalk toward my home, which rested a few blocks away. Snow sauntered and the wind danced lazily. Albeit the serene weather, the street itself was animated with activity and noise. People bustled in their world and the building’s bright light illuminated the street. The city was just as alive in the night as it was in the day. I reached my small apartment that consisted of a small living area, a small kitchen, and a small bedroom. I was having my dinner when an unknown number called me. “Hey, it’s me, the guy that ruined your clothes.” “Oh! Hello Aslan.” “When do you have the time to meet up?” His tone jittered like a nervous cat. “I'll give the money then and perhaps treat you to a coffee.” “You don’t have to go to such lengths.” “I insist.” “Well, umm.....how about this Saturday?” “Works for me.” “Meet up at Seong Cafe at........five-umm-thirty?” I suggested “...works for me.” “See you then,” I say. “Yeah.” He says. And the call ends with a click. Well, this ought to be interesting, first being that I seemed to know him from somewhere, I just don't know where that is. Second: he seems keen on inviting me to have a coffee with him. For what purpose? Well, I’ll procrastinate on that and sleep for now because I am exhausted. Good night fellas. _____________________________________ Saturday came after two days with snowfall and cold whispering winds. I arrived 15 minutes early at the cafe. Seong Cafe was a few streets away from ours. It was a cozy and homely shop with modern and sleek steaks. The window showed a white and cold world inside from a warm shop. He soon arrived. His dark hair was hidden under a dirty green beanie and he wore a blue jacket. I waved him over. “Did you get something?” He asked after our greeting “Besides water, nothing.” “What do you want?” He asked and his hand went for his wallet. “It’s my treat.” I was about to protest when I remembered arguing with him is as good as arguing with a wall. I got a Caramel Macchiato and he got himself a cafe special mocha. We each ordered a slice of cheesecake and sat near the window. I still couldn’t figure out where I knew him from. “Sorry to interrupt but do I know you?” I asked. His deep brown eyes widened as if I told him that Russian were aliens. Then his eyebrows dug in a frown in a pensive manner. “Well you look familiar too,” He said. “ but I can’t recall how.” “Well, that’s fantastic. Two strangers that know each other but can’t tell how. Isn’t fate beautiful.” I remarked “Did we go to school together perhaps?” Said Aslan. “That’s a possibility but I’m hoping it’s not true. My school wasn't my prime years.” He gave a small laugh, “ well how about I treat you to dinner and we can figure this out then.” Dinner caught me off. He did say that I looked familiar too. “Nah, dinner will be on me this time. You already paid for coffee” I said. He opened his mouth to protest. “I’m not taking a no.” I cut him short with a brick answer. “Alright alright,” He raises his hand in surrender. “ So tomorrow at seven. If that’s alright with you.” “Where to meet up?” I ask. “This place serves fine.” We continued to sip our coffee with small talk lingering between us. He seemed to talk about plants a lot. We also discovered we both lived on the same street. He paid me for the dry cleaning and we bid each other goodbye. I reached home around 7:48. ------------------------------------ “Jesus Christ it’s cold.” Aslan rubbed his hands and blew into them. “You should’ve worn more clothes then,” I said. “Or you could’ve allowed me to drive you to the restaurant.” “Nah, walking is better. I like feeling the cold.” His lips turned a little at the end. “ Do you find that weird?” He asked suddenly, taking a nervous edge. “Not at all. I quite enjoy it too.” I replied with a slight smile. He took me to a small weather-beaten Chinese shop. “It doesn’t look pretty on the eyes but they sell the best dumplings ever.” “I’ll take your word on it.” We sat in one corner and ordered two bowls of dumpling soup. He was right about being great food. “It is great.” I exclaimed, savoring the spices and perfect texture of the food. “Glad you like it.” A minute or two might have passed when he suddenly made an “OH!” Sound with an extra exclamation mark. I was a bit startled. “I almost forgot to tell, I figured how we might have known each other.” He seemed ecstatic. “So how do we know each other?” “I was right, we went to high school together.” I choked on my dumpling, “we-we did.” I dreaded this. He gave a soft chortle, “now I know why your school wasn’t your prime years. Who knew you keep long dyed hair with piercings.” I buried my face in the cup of my hands, mortified. He continued to laugh at my reaction. “No wonder I couldn’t recognize you. You look so different.” Well, I did change my hair to its natural honey brown shade and cut it short. Lost the piercing and had to get a pair of glasses. “So what about you?” I asked. “I was on the football team.” It didn’t ring a bell and I must’ve shown it on my face. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” He says after studying me for a bit. I shook my head. “Wow, your memory has some other level of damage.” I shrugged and took another mouthful of that dumpling soup. “Well, we met an old friend and are having dinner with him. Who cares about the past.” I say with a free and lazy tone. “You’re just saying that to cover up your terrible memory,” Aslan said with a raised eyebrow. I shrugged. We ended up having two more bowls. He continued to talk about his school days and what he thought of me. He talked and I listened. Miraculously I remember him through the course of that meal though I did not say. He is a stranger now and was before. I don’t consider him a friend. I remember him being outgoing and friendly, the type to have a smile all the time. Easy going and an extrovert. I was the opposite. Nothing about him intrigued me back then, we were two different people. “Did my stories bring anything back or is it not working.” Aslan sashes with a stuffed mouth. How is his food not cold with him talking all the time? “Your stories did unpack a lot of trauma. I also remember you. You were a real friend to everyone, weren’t you.” He gave a small chuckle. We then brought ice cream and a little walk in a nearby park. We talked, we laughed, and had fun overall. “I enjoyed today,” I said as we were about to part. “Oh, and the meal. The food was the best part.” “Great, I had fun too.” There was a pause before he continued. “Would you wanna do this some other time. I can make a wicked chicken roast If you are interested.” “I’d like that.” “I’ll give the details over the phone.” “I’ll be waiting. Bye now.” “Bye.”

Surfacing \ Readying his shocker spear, rhythmic waves bounce the jockey up and down as another whine of migratory drones fly overhead towards the shore. “Hurry up, coaster... we don’t have all day”, crackles the patrol captain from the jockey’s ear-bud. “Oh don’t mind me, I just LOVE the smell of putrid fish and toxic runoff. I’d be out here forever if you’d let me,” the jockey replies snidely. Just one more catch container to fill with fish before nightfall. He needed this haul to be complete or it would be another week stuck on land. The jockey looked toward his spear tip noticing the exposed wires from the hilt and dulled-edge of the blade. Scanning the murky water surrounding him, he spots the familiar yellow glow of a leader fish roughly 25 meters below. The jockey pulls in a deep breath, cocks his arm back as he’s practiced all his life, and with the downward motion of his hauler craft he chucks the spear into the water with a splash. The spear’s homing sensors flicker with electricity as the blade punctures the glowing fish. The jockey waits for the soft thud of the usual electrical pulse that can be heard upon a successful catch. No thud. The spear isn’t returning. The smaller pack fish around the leader have scattered. “SHIT shit shit shit... no...” In a flash, the jockey jumps out of his saddle on the craft. He zips up his wetsuit, throws his breathing mask and goggles on and steps to one side of the craft. He can still see the diminishing remnants of the faint glow below him as the misty sky above grows darker. The jockey dives headfirst into the water swimming as fast as he can towards the leader fish. *Please don’t let this happen to me again,* he thinks as he comes within a few meters of the dying fish. He grips the handle of the spear and feels around for the controls as the final sparks flicker within the 100 lb fish. Frantically clicking the squarish button on the hilt of the spear, the inflatable won’t deploy. Panic sets in as the jockey looks up at the dying light above the water. Coaster horror stories flood into his mind as he grapples with the impending dread of being submerged in complete darkness while night takes over. *I do NOT want to meet whatever fish come out down here after dark*. He’ll have to swim. Gripping the spear with both hands, the jockey begins to kick his legs furiously, propelling him and the fish towards the surface. Dragging the huge fish for what feels like hours, he finally emerges from the infested void. Climbing on to the wireframe cargo carrier attached to the back of the craft, he starts to pull the fish out of the water. The fish is frustratingly heavy as he drops it into the remaining empty catch container. The container appears almost empty with one lone leader fish. It’ll have to do. The spear in his hands is broken and will need extensive repairs. The jockey lets out a frustrated sigh as night falls. He presses the dispatch button on the craft’s center console, notifying a drone to come claim his haul. After the drone buzzes off, he pilots the craft back towards shore and notices the numb blisters that are starting to bubble on the skin around his hands. In the chaos, he forgot to wear his protective gloves. *Being a coaster is going to kill me,* he thinks as the soft, bluish glow of the city beyond the dock slowly appears through the fog in front of him. \ I wanted to write something that was action packed and hinted at some interesting world building. Would love any criticism! This story began as a part of the exercise done in this lecture about writing short stories: This lecture is amazing and gave some of awesome foundations for how to write a short story.

“Next!” She did not mean to shout, but she knew what the morning would be like. The people waiting in line would be buying stamps, picking up packages, check post office boxes, etc...and then buying whatever groceries they could find in the drugstore before heading to the café or the metro. The day they decided to put her job in the middle of the brightness of a drugstore was the day she should have quit. But she was still here, after the move, wearing the uniform that indicated some level of responsibility and experience. Yes, that was the word: experience. She was standing behind the counter, waiting for Lee to get out from the back and help her out with whatever traffic they would face. There were now three in line, but that was early. “Next.” The old lady did not hear her, but that was fine. Janet knew that this was going to be business as usual with Ms. Lindar. She was always getting packages or trying to get the latest celebrity stamps if she had not bought them last time. Her thin windbreaker and cane were clear and simple props she expected on a Monday. The lady approached, with a slight scent of mothballs and polyester, and smiled to herself. “Just a package today.” She passed over a slip from the delivery service with her name and address on it. She ran a scan over the QR code and it was legitimate. What else should it be? “Do you have identification?” “As always.” In her red faux-leather handbag, she took out a set of plastic cards held together with a green rubber band (always green, she noted; just like the ones we use here). Her birth certificate and driver’s license were right on top. “Here, my dear. Do you need anything else?” “No, not at all. I just had to check...” There was a decision in her mind not to check Ms. L.’s address again if she was at the desk. Lee would probably call her for help, anyway. And where the hell...? “Lee!” At least there was no one in line at the moment (Ms. L. was heading toward the painkillers). She turned around the corner and saw him. “Lee...” Nodding out again...and no surprises here. The boy was sitting on stack of plastic boxes, now turned over and empty for their collections, and he was out of it. Why couldn’t the boy go for a large coffee loaded with sugar and cream like the rest of them at the café down two doors from them? He would always pill himself up or out and she had been very good about not saying a thing to the staff or management about this. It was easy to do so, since Lee was one of the sons of the too-rich-to-think people who owned the place ( one of the sons : legitimacy is a strange animal). The epi-pen was rolling across the floor. “Lee. Lee, Lee...” She squatted down to pick it up, recognizing that this was a new one that he had just obtained (was that a gift from upper management?). “You are so lucky it is a quiet morning...” It would be some time before she forgot the coincidence of what happened next. The pen was still in Lee’s leg and he was groaning and moaning after he caught his breath, stood up and pushed her into some stationery. And that was when she heard the bell on the counter...and the scream. “Everyone, down on the ground!” It was not an easy Monday, but it was still a Monday. She pushed Lee back down onto the plastic - he needed a moment - and walked around the corner to face a rather squat and ski-masked man waving a gun around the room. “Lady, get down!” She looked over the man’s outfit up close: jeans (loose-fitting, but clean), Chuck Taylors (excellent condition), thin leather jacket (weathered with a white t-shirt, so very stylish in black), and the ski-mask (a balaclava...is that what they call it?). Something was off. “I am the senior person in charge of this station, so you do not want me on the ground.” “Lady, I ain’t playin’!” “ You ‘ain’t playin’?” She actually made the air quotes around his attempt to sound tough, or “street” (was that the right term?). “You have to be kidding me...” The man was now pointing the gun directly at her chest, stepping gingerly over the clerk on the floor (a nice kid, she thought; pants were soaked with urine and she could smell something worse down there). Again, something was really off. “I have a gun!” “It is not...a real one.” It almost made her laugh out loud when she saw how he blinked in those eye sockets. He was looking for his words. “But, it’s my... It’s a...” “Look,” she put her hands on the counter, knocking over a tray of pamphlets for a philatelist event, “this place is full of cameras, very few exits, and it is in the middle of the day. The police are probably already on their way, and you have a weapon that can’t do anything but shoot a BB pellet below the skin.” She took the gun out of his hands and placed it on the stepladder beside the drop box. “You know what to do next.” * The police were annoyed (as always), the staff impressed (the boy with the biological failure was sent home with the police), the management informed (once again) and the customers consoled. Not much left over for the staff that had to stay on for the rest of the day and try to earn their pay. Lee finally stepped out from the back. She had almost forgotten about him (the police never even looked back there). He actually looked well. “Whu’appen?” Again, it was very fortunate that no one was in line. She could only deal with so much today. “Nothing. Handle the cash. I have to take my break.” Lee was somehow managing to stand up straight and focus at the same time. The kid could actually work for fifteen minutes at a time. “Yeah. I’m...I got it.” She did not wait for the rest of the sentence. There was a cigarette she needed right now. At least it was a beautiful day. “Oh, dear.” And she was still here. Ms. Lindar, cane and all, was walking between the cars to the path behind the mall. Why did she hang around after...? “It’s all right. It wasn’t a real gun, just a toy. I could see that he was messing with us.” She frowned at her for a moment. “No, dear. Not that. I just...” She looked at her cigarette. “I didn’t know that you smoked.” She dropped the cigarette and somehow made it to the back entrance without rolling her eyes. So, that was her break. At least five people were still around after the attempted robbery, one of them a shoplifter who thought that this was a golden opportunity (she brought him to the counter and made him empty his dirty backpack; another call to the management...). Lee was still at the register, trying to decide how to use the card scanner with a man who wanted a dozen commemorative stamps for a singer she did not care for (they were international; guess those songs were more popular somewhere else). The customer, a face she knew (no name; no problem), was happy to talk about it while no one else waited in line. Maybe it would be an easy afternoon. And then the power went out. * It was not a bad moment. The thing about daytime power outages that she accepted was that the people around her would try to continue as if nothing happened. The customer noted the darkness, but he kept up with his history lesson as Lee flinched at the loss of light. The rest of the pharmacy got so quiet that she noted how she wanted to hear the hum from the freezers and long shelf of drinkers in the open coolers. Some curses were heard, a few laughs, but it was not a moment worth worrying about. Once she found the fuses and noted the smoke rising from the box, it was a quick change that brought everything back to what could be called normal. The moment would pass. So would the phone call. “Front cash.” “You still on?” Very friendly for a Monday... A lot of sympathy in that voice. “Where else would I go?” She knew who it was. “Right, right... Well,” she could almost hear Mr. Benedek’s belly shift in that swivel chair that was more squeaks than comfort, “we just wanted to thank you for everything today. The robbery...blackout...” “Lee?” “What?” Did he even care about the kid? “Nothing.” The customers were gone now. Almost noon; almost lunch time... “Right, well, we want to promote you.” She tried not to freeze up as she looked at the phone (it felt like an animal she should not have picked up). “Say what again?” “Promotion. Upper management. You obviously’ve earned it. And we can get Lee and some other kid on the counter. We’ll have to talk about...” That was all she wanted to hear. She looked at the stacks of stationery - envelopes, packaging, pamphlets, tapes, labels, posters with estimated delivery times - and dropped the phone, startling Lee to a point (he was already heading back to the storage area). She walked out the front to the main parking lot, looking up at the threat of rain and staring off at the kids from the local school getting out at the bell, the workers in the various shops looking for a place to eat, and certain customers who were aware of their hunger. Her cigarette pack was almost empty, but she did not need another one. There was something perfect about that Monday and she did not want the morning to end.

This story was based around the line 'Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer' taken from a poem called The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe. As I rode my grey stallion over the sweeping valleys surrounding my kingdom, I came across the morning sun. The penetrating rays shone over the misty lowlands, filling both the skies and the heavens with what seemed like everlasting light. This transcendent aurora beneath me had only just begun its solemn, yet necessary journey, as had I. The crisp chill gently scratched my cheeks, and my long, auburn hair billowed in the wind. In the distance, the outline of a bird could be seen, soaring high up against the clouds, looking for some unsuspecting prey to swoop down upon. I knew that there would be many victims today. The reds and blues of the enemy were visible on the horizon; a thousand men were ready for battle. I looked back and saw my own army: a mismatch of the young and old, healthy and tired, scraped together in the vain hope of victory. Up until this point I was brave, I understood what I had to do as queen, and rose up to my position in this war. Yet now, I felt tired. The armour was heavy against my weary limbs, my sword too large to raise and my horse unable to carry me through the bloodshed. I collapsed against his tangled mane in anguish, feeling too weak and scared to continue. I heard the faint sound of a horse's hooves approaching, before I realised that my chieftain was sitting next to me, with a look of worry upon his face. Without making a sound, he reached out, and gently rested his fingers upon my arm. I looked down in shock; it was most unusual, considered deranged even, for someone to talk to, let alone touch, royalty unannounced. Yet, just by looking at his expression, I understood what he was saying. As though I had been gifted by the gods above us, a feeling of strength surged through me. I felt fearless. My soul grew stronger, hesitating then no more. As he returned to his place in the battalion, not a single word having been said, I straightened my back, narrowed my eyes on the sea of arms in front of me, and lead my men into the dark abyss of the unknown. The thunder of a thousand men running at each other, anticipating collision, rumbled in my ears as I flew down the hill. I watched as the enemy and I approached one another and each individual became clearer to see. One man, stout in shape but strongly built, lead his soldiers with a determined grin, from which a raging howl was emitted. I thought to myself, he probably lived quite a nice life. Maybe he had a family worriedly waiting for his return at home; small children who would never know their father. I did not falter once. The last I saw were the whites of his maddened eyes, before I placed my sword neatly in the centre of his chest. For three hours we battled on, claiming back our land, inch by inch. Hundreds were dead, but all knew that the sacrifices made that day would be done for the rest of the people, and would not be in vain. The enemy slowly began to retreat, knowing that defeat would soon be upon them. Though we grew tired in our bodies, never did we become faint in our hearts. At last, victory was ours, and we rejoiced. Though looking around, I began to see the deformed and mutilated bodies, contorted into positions of agony before the life had fled from them. Fathers, brothers and uncles filled the grassland, their crimson blood saturating the moist ground. An eerie sadness gripped my stomach, and, fearing that I would become emotional, turned to go. As I rode back in the direction I had come, I saw my chieftain once again, relieved that he had survived. A broad smile broke out across his face, before I felt something strike my back. Snap. My spine shattered, as the tip of an arrow pierced my skin and entered the flesh. Though it had flown through the air with great force, I just sat there, bewildered as to what had just happened. Surely someone had not dared kill me now? I turned to face my executioner, and saw, lying on the ground, a wounded soldier whom I had presumed dead. We locked eyes, before his became cloudy and his head limply dropped back to the ground. I sat in my saddle for a few seconds longer, before sliding from my seat and falling to the earth myself. The hope of life quickly began to diminish, and I knew that I was to accept what was about to happen. I stared up into the dark, cloudy sky, and allowed my body to relax. My chieftain once again was at my side, filling my vision, clasping my hands in his. He was trying to say something to me, but I could not hear him. I concentrated on looking at the movements of his mute mouth, and smiled to myself. For the first time, I was not afraid. I embraced the numbness in my body, allowing the ground to hold me. As the light began to fade from my eyes, I thought of home, and knew that my people would be safe. The last thing I felt were the small droplets of rain hitting my face, before I slipped away from my world, and was gone forever.

This is my worst nightmare. I would love to tell you that I don’t know how the hell I got dragged into this, but I’d be lying. Lying to you and to myself because everyone around this neck of the woods knows that when Mrs Ursula bloody Quartermaine clicks her expensive high heels, people around here jump to attention and do as they are bid. This especially applies to my mother, Lillian. My mother idolizes Ursula Quartermaine; has done since they went to school together. Personally, I can’t stand the woman and never have but, as a 21-year-old Kooma girl I am country town savvy enough to know that a woman’s reign as top hen in the pecking order is never based on personality. No, Ursula Quartermaine has only ascended to her position as leader of the females through the powerful combination of name, wealth, social standing, and the ownership of a seriously large farm. I was dragged into this hell at precisely 9 pm, an hour ago, when Ursula Quartermaine had phoned my mother to ask a favour. Well, let’s call a spade a spade, shall we? There’s no pretending Mother, and subsequently I, ever had a choice in the matter. When Ursula Quartermaine threw a scrap of attention on the ground Lillian McAllen was the first to swoop down and gobble up a chance to please her leader. ‘No’ was not an option. I was interrupted just as I settled in to write a letter to an old friend of mine, May. May had escaped from Kooma with her friend, June to go and live in the city of Adelaide. That was a year ago now; January 1953. If everything goes to plan and if I find the courage, I will soon be joining them. My mother urgently explained to me that Ursula Quartermaine was in a tizz because her darling daughter, Suzanne, needed a ride back from the dance in Tilbin; the next wheatbelt town down the road. Suzanne was originally supposed to get a ride back in Jack Spragg’s brand new 1954 Holden FJ Ute but the car had developed a flat and Jack had to renege on his offer. Ursula was ringing to see if I would drive down to Tilbin to bring her back. If I knew Jack as well as I thought I highly suspect that, after a few beers and some time to reflect, he had purposely chewed through the wall of the tyre using his own teeth. This would be preferable to the prospect of the 24 mile drive back to Kooma, imprisoned alone with the impossible princess that is Susan Quartermaine. I can’t say I blame Jacko, I would have shot off my toes to avoid the same fate, but at 9pm that summer night Ursula bloody Quartermaine had clicked her heels , Lillian McAllen had jumped and I was too chicken poop to say no to the formidable pecking order of Kooma. So here I am, Cate McAllen, driving down the Western Highway on a stinking hot January night towards the town of Tilbin; towards self-imposed entrapment with my mortal enemy, Suzanne bloody Quartermaine. I have never liked Suzanne Quartermaine and I’m sure she has never liked me. She and I started school on the same day and for whatever reason she has had it in for me ever since. Perhaps it’s because I am introverted, bookish and quiet. More likely it’s because Suzanne Quartermaine is simply a giant insufferable cow and, like her mother, was born to lord over anyone she deems beneath her lofty station. Her attacks on me began as school bullying and childhood pranks; like the time she, unknown to me, tucked the back hem of my dress into my knickers and I walked around for half a day looking like a pubescent baboon. In time Suzanne’s terror campaign became more sophisticated and centered more on psychological warfare. This usually came in the form of made-up gossip about me. Make no mistake, the grown-up game of Chinese Whispers is the #1 entertainment occupation of any country town and Suzanne easily found patrons willing to lap up each juicy snippet; spoken morsels to be tasted and savoured before being passed on to the next eager host. That the rumour is true or not doesn’t matter in the slightest. All that really matters is the flow of whispered words must not dry up. That there is always enough gossip to feed the mill. Titillating for some? I’m sure. But it becomes unbearable when you yourself become the focus of the microscope that is Kooma. It’s at that point all you, I, can think about is escaping the toxicity. ___________________ My headlights brush past the Rotary Club’s ‘Welcome to Tilbin’ sign and I touch the brake pedal to slow down for Main Street. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been here, so I hang my elbow on the opened window and look around. I reckon Tilbin is much like any other West Victorian wheatbelt town that I can think of. All the Wimmera towns that I know sport wide streets; streets that host the usual collection of rural businesses: post office, petrol station/mechanics, milk bar, land agent, chemist, and such. Of course, there are always pubs, all closing at 6 o’clock for the day. I pass the Commercial Hotel, the Railway Hotel, The Grand and lastly; The Royal. A pub on every other corner. The pub is the hub of the male herd in a country town like this, where beer is drunk, sports dissected, wheat prices discussed, and weather obsessed over. Women are not welcome. Oh, don’t get me wrong, women are allowed IN but, if they do enter the hallowed sanctuary, they are corralled into a room called the ‘ladies lounge’. There the ladies drink shandies, a mix of beer and lemonade. Their children drink raspberry vinegars, which sound horrible, but taste lovely. After I pass The Royal I put on my blinker and turn left, bucking my way across the steel rods of the western railway line. There is always a railway line that runs past a wheatbelt town. The train east carries away bags of wheat and wool and people. The train west returns the people. Most will never leave. Turning right into cemetery road I crunch my way along a narrow gravel road that is edged by gnarled gums, towards the corrugated iron town hall. As I close in on the building I can see there’s quite a crowd of people outside, taking in the night air. Their dark forms are silhouetted against the background light of the frosted hall windows. Others are secreted in the dark and can only be seen by the glowing ends of cigarettes, pulsing on and off as the smokers take a drag. The car park is full of cars, so I nose my little Morris further along the road and find a place to stop. My green Morris Minor is my pride, my joy, my independence and my deliverance. It’s unusual for a woman to own a car in these parts. I call her ‘Titch’ and I hope one day that she will take me away from here. I find a park next to a Ford sedan that I recognize as belonging to fellow Koomarite, Keith ‘Bluey’ Jones. Bluey’s a nice bloke, hard to miss with his big frame and crop of red hair. Like all red headed men in Australia Keith has been branded with the ironic nickname, ‘Bluey’. I tap the steering wheel and look out the windscreen. What now? Do I just start asking around for her worship ? Maybe I should go into the hall and look for her? Bugger, I don’t want to go inside. I’m wearing the comfort of slacks and a short sleeve cotton shirt, no makeup, and I know I’ll stick out like a sore thumb amongst all of the ladies clothed in dresses and powder. Stalling, I light a cigarette and start smoking. With any luck Lady Muck will show herself so I can make a beeline for her and we can get out of here without too much fuss. I’ve just about finished my smoke when I spot h er nibs next to the hall steps. She’s wearing a blue rose print cotton dress with matching high heels. Her blond hair is coiffed in the most perfect bob I think I’ve even seen. Of course, she is beautiful. That’s the way life works. She is talking to another woman in an overly animated way. I watch with a sick sort of fascination at the way she snaps her head back to laugh. Her neck ripples, her red lips part as she emits a laugh so shrill that I can hear it from where I sit. It’s a laugh that is designed to turn as many heads as possible; to direct maximum attention towards herself. She’s now resting her left hand on the other woman’s arm as her right hand flits in the night air like a Spanish dancer. It is making exaggerated turns here and there to emphasize some point she is trying to make. Every single thing about her makes my stomach feel heavy. I can’t do it. I can’t do it anymore. I open my glove box and pull out a pencil book and start writing. When I finish, I open my car door, unfold my legs, step out into the night air and place the sheet of paper under one of the wiper blades on Bluey’s car. He’ll find the note before he drives home. Dear Bluey, Please take Suzanne Quartermaine home to Kooma. I can’t do it. Best, Cate McAllen. I turn the key to start Titch and back out onto the gravel road. The warm air feels delicious on my skin as I change gears and pick up speed. I actually feel giddy? Light? I’m smiling. It’s going to be a hot one on the wheat plains again tomorrow. I wonder what the weather will be like in Adelaide?

SORTIE by Michael Parker Jack Edwards, code name ‘Ice Man’, knew this mission would be vital: destruction of the dam would shorten the war considerably. He felt confident about himself this time as the Pegasus engine of the Harrier Jump Jet wound up into a crescendo of sound. He could feel it vibrating through the control column. He completed his checks and held up the mandatory four fingers to the ground crew to declare that the ejector seat and canopy were armed. He acknowledged them as he began to taxi out on to the short runway. If he felt nervous this time, Jack didn’t want to show it. After all, he was the Ice Man. He dabbed the break pedal to check the brakes were functioning, and then made another quick scan of the cockpit instruments. He knew his fuel load, his target co-ordinates and his time over target, scribbled on his knee pad. The air traffic controller gave him clearance for take-off as he came to a halt on the very short strip of tarmac road. It was a public highway, closed now, that served as a runway at the forward position established by the allied forces. Jack brought the power up to maximum, set the nozzles at 50% and turned the water injection on. He could feel the jet straining on the leash as he held the brakes for a moment longer before lifting his foot. The Harrier leapt forward sending up clouds of dust in a vortex of wind and noise and scattering the birds from the trees. Within seconds he was airborne, the jet’s nose dropped almost level to the ground as he raced towards the end of the short stretch of road. He touched the brake pedal to stop the wheels spinning and selected undercarriage up. He moved his eyes quickly and checked the four greens had changed to four blacks: ‘undercarriage stowed’. The trees below him almost bowed their heads in homage as the Harrier hurtled over their tops. Jack pulled back on the stick, edging it to the left and turned away from the forward airstrip. He turned up into the low cloud that hung sombrely over the dark countryside. He checked his heading. On his knee was the notepad with the estimated time over the target clearly written. It wasn’t far and he knew he would probably not experience any enemy activity on the relatively short run into their territory, which meant a clear run. He did wonder on just what his chances would be of returning safely once the dam had been breached. The target was the important thing though: the dam had to be breached. His life was no longer important, but the dam was. He had about eight minutes of relative calm and safety, and then he would fly into the mouth of Hades where one false move would pile him into the mother earth. The cloud cover above felt like a blanket as he streaked over the ground, no higher than one hundred feet, his ground warning radar switched off to avoid unexpected detection. Ice cold concentration was needed now from the Ice Man. In the distance he could see the vague shapes of the mountains: black silhouettes against a brightening, dawn sky. Jack had played the scenario repeatedly in his mind. He knew exactly where the valley began. It was not clearly visible yet, lying almost unseen beneath a ridge spanning two peaks. Once there he would be in enemy territory. Suddenly he was hot! He heard the ‘ping’ as the enemy radar found him, but it was only a brief contact as he hurtled into the shadow of the mountains and into the valley. The Harrier fled like a bullet, wings tipping as Jack turned to follow the winding river course that had scoured the valley for millions of years. On each side the ground rose up like castle walls, hemming the sleek aircraft in, threatening to pull Jack into the forests that clung to the sides. The wind funnelled through the canyon, buffeting the Harrier. Jack fought it, letting the stick tremble gently in his hand as he steered the jet with consummate skill. Then the dam came into view: a small, almost insignificant wall that held back millions of tonnes of water. Jack selected the bombs, armed them, and levelled out as bursts of flak began to explode dangerously close. But Jack ignored the ground fire; his attention focussed on the dam wall. He dropped the Harrier to within fifty feet of the river, concentration forcing beads of sweat to burst out on his forehead. His breathing was harsh, but his determination never wavered. He flipped the trigger cover and pressed. Bombs gone! Stick back. Jack heaved, lifting the Harrier up, fleeing like a guilty child after throwing rocks at someone’s home. Over the dam and turning, stick hard over to the right. Jack watched the gravity meter, the ‘g’ force, climbing. He knew he had to turn sharply into the only valley he could use to get away. 5g! His weight was now almost 350 kilograms. His G-suit was inflating to protect him from blacking out and he could see the gauge reading going up. The pressure on his ribs would be enormous. He wanted to ease off to reduce the g-force, but the valley wall was turning sharply and Jack needed to pull the stick further back and let the gauge climb to 7g. How much more could the plane take? There was a danger he would grey out. A few more seconds and blackout would occur. He had to get the jet back on level flight before the whole thing fell apart. He heard the explosion as his bombs hit home and the missile ‘locked’ warning almost at the same time. Jack had expected this. He focused on the valley wall, sliding past him swiftly now and hit the chaff and flare buttons. The silver foil burst from the Harrier together with the flares, absorbing the transmissions from the oncoming missile. The burning flares decoyed its seeker head. Suddenly Jack straightened and pulled the stick back, simultaneously rotating his jet nozzles. The missile streaked by and exploded against the valley wall. The valley turned left and Jack followed. Soon, very soon, he would be clear of the valley and into open country. He knew what awaited him there. As if by appointment two MIG 27’s hove into view. The sky had brightened considerably. Jack was flying with the rising sun behind him. The MIGs would not see him clearly, but their radar would be their eyes. He dropped the nose as the MIGs picked him up. They swung round in a symmetrical pattern to follow Jack down towards the ground, nap of the earth flying, reheat blowing from their tails like glowing torches. Jack’s Harrier was no match for them in pure speed, but Jack had more weapons in his armoury. More guile. He dived down to a long run of trees, hoping to confuse the radar of the MIGs, but the launch of two missiles told Jack they had him locked into their radar. He made a tight turn, dropping more chaff. He couldn’t hope to outrun the missiles, but he could hope to spook the MIG pilots. He turned tighter until he was flying straight at the two jets and skipped over the tree line. The missiles made the same turn but lost time in the turn. Jack was now heading directly towards the two fighters at a closing speed of well over a thousand miles per hour. Before the two jets could pull up, Jack tugged the stick back hard, bringing the nose up almost vertical, dropping chaff and flares at the same time. One of the missiles, confused by the different heat signals in close proximity, took out one of the MIGs, blowing it from the sky. Jack cheered noisily as the second missile whistled between him and the remaining MIG. He turned again, knowing he had a chance to make it to friendly territory, but he had to shake off the remaining jet. He knew the pilot would need just a moment to recover from seeing his wingman being shot down by his own missile, but not too long. It was enough for Jack. He went in hard and fast over the trees. This then was to be the killing ground. This was to be the place where he would be able to test his skill against that of the remaining MIG pilot. One on One! Mano a Mano! He felt a sudden thrill surge through his veins. The kill! He saw the MIG clearly. And the missile! “Jack!” He spun round in his chair. His wife was standing at the door, one hand on her hip, the other thrust against the door jamb. “If I’ve called you once, I’ve called you a dozen times. Your dinner is ready. Now switch that silly game off and come and get your dinner.” Jack sagged visibly. He looked back at the computer screen as it blossomed into an orange flame and a message flashed up. “ Sorry Jack, you lost. Better luck next time!” He switched the game off and closed his computer down. Then he picked up his walking stick and levered himself out of the chair. “Ah well,” he muttered to himself. “Not bad for an eighty year old. I’ll get them next time.” His wife had already gone and Jack knew he had met his match in more ways than one. THE END Michael Parker

"Let this be a warning, the stars align for you. They will make an example out of you." The mist cleared and I was in darkness, like a cave with a hole viewing the night sky. Through it, stars shown in a brilliant white belt. Then suddenly each star exploded and formed a mass that was nearly a third the size of the sun. The mass exploded then, and the cave was blasted away, rock flying every which way. The earth was laid out below me as it was destroyed, blown apart with the power of the huge blast. The voice that wasn't a voice cut through the dim light once again. "Let this be a warning, the stars align for you. They will make an example out of you." It was like every force of life that had ever lived, was delivering a message to me. I awoke in the cool darkness of my room, my heart pounding as I tried to process it. This wasn't the first time I had dreamt that, and I shuddered, beating down the fear that threatened to rise. It was later that day during school when flashes tore through my head. The belt of stars, the mass, the destruction, the voice, replaying the warning over and over, ringing in my ears. I tuned it out, trying desperately to focus on the math quiz I was presented with. *Solve for x; 3x(8)=24.* I focused and tried my best, etching away until I found what I considered to be the answer. Why was I so bad at math? I couldn't even solve a very simple equation like this. I set down my pen and studdied the room. 2 windows to the left, slightly open so the fresh breeze could wash over the students. We were on the second floor, the parking lot bellow, riddled with cars. Ahead, the front of the classroom boasted 2 whiteboards, an old chalkboard with no chalk, the teacher's desk to the far left corner, and a projecter screen which rolled down, a thin silver chain and plastic ball at the tip. The screen was unrolled and covered the chalkboard, and on it was a sheet from a math book with notes scrawled over it. Might as well have been greek to me. I looked back down at my sheet of clean white paper, my leg tapping. I whispered the equation three times in a row as my brain calculated out each step. The belt of stars, the mass, the destruction, the voice, replaying the warning over and over, ringing in my ears. I tapped my foot harder and dropped my pen. Why can't I focus? I could hear the clock ticking. I had 2 pages of this test left and I have 10 minutes to finish it. There's no way. Nada. Suddenly my brain registered the figure to my left. "Hmm." She said. "Still on the third problem?" I looked up at the teacher, my heart pounding. 10th grade and all I get is a failing test grade right after the other. She must think I'm stupid. Who is THIS bad at math? "Sorry Mrs. Reunberg," I whispered. I looked down at the papers. I crumpled them up and handed the wad of paper to her. "I'm no good." But she was shaking her head. "Nonsense. Come by the room before and after school every day the rest of this week. We'll work through it." I shook my head at her and sighed. "Why not?" She asked. I stood up from the flimsy red chair and pushed it aside. "I'm no good." Suddenly Mrs. Reunburg grasped my hand. "I know what you're capable of." She whispered. I stared at her blankly. Surely she didn't mean... "I think I can help you with those... dreams." She said again. I almost fell over, my knees going weak. "I have to go," I told her as I dashed away from her room. I turned down the nasty beige walls, lined with dull red lockers, and ended up at the stairs. I fled down them and winded my way towards the front of the school, out the doors and into a nice breezy day. There were pine trees, sure to be filled with those nasty scorpions, wrapping the way around the perimiter of the school. I carefully made my way through the walkways and away from the trees and towards the parking lot, then I went over to my car, a tiny brown honda, ugly as butt. I touched the handle, and heard a noise behind me. "I can help you," a voice said, not really a voice, but more like the life force of every thing that had ever lived. I shivered. My teacher found out my secret.

History is told by the victor. So simple it is for the them to revel in their glory, their pride. To look to their loved ones that they fought so hard to protect with caring, yet tired smiles. Not even a hint of remorse for the families they've torn apart, destroyed, and broken. Of course, there are those who regret, although happy to be alive,yet burning from inside out simply knowing they can never forget the lives they extinguished for their countries ‘noble’ cause. How they seek retribution for their actions, solace in their emotions, a sanctuary amongst their inner turmoil for the hopes at piecing together what is left of their broken hearts. Some fail, and continue their lives all the while rotting away, but a diamond in the rough exists. It just takes one with enough heart to make the difference, even if it doesn't exist. Gyrus (Jy-ruhs), a country of science. Humans of technology whose pride is within their problem solving androids, capable of emotion, yet given orders unable to disobey. Built of turning gears, and clicking clockwork breathing life into their very being, while families treat them as if they were their own children with just more of a; technological disposition. Cities mirroring it’s ‘Children of Gears’ composition of moving clockwork, co-inhabited by its human denizens. Its government comprised of one true ruler holding all power, king of the ages said to have ushered in peace, tranquility, and progress. Yet with all this power, when a ruler is lost, the lineage must go on. Feyrus (F-ey-ruhs) a country of magic. Its denizens, humans with animal like qualities whose pride lie within their medical advancements through the use of mana. A teal energy that exists in all things, yet unseen to humans. With an aptitude for channeling the latter, they heal the sick with ease, while moving with almost superhuman speed, and strength. Clans based on the animals they ever so slightly resemble, but with each of their chiefs together form the Feran Council. The country itself comprised of a democratic government, and as such each village has a say in political matters, at least, they did. Once Gyrus had taken an interest in Feran magic, things changed drastically. The advanced medical technology possible with Feran magic was far too valuable to ignore. Androids now outfitted for war, and Gyran armies compiled together; they were to invade Ferus under the orders of King Rheon ( R-ee-onn). For most soldiers of Gyrus it was not hard, as the Ferans, similar in their names, were thought to be no more than feral animals. But as the war dragged on it was evident that these animals, these people. They were ever so human as the invaders they feared. Click. A Feran soldier fell dead, Click, and yet another. A steel maiden gliding effortlessly through the battlefield resembling a village, while not even a hint of emotion evident. Sword coated in blood, glinting in the moonlight with every swing. A negative emotion with every click that resounded, but what emotion was it? Bang. A gunshot resounded in the rain. What did it all mean? "You, and your unit are to take this village." A Gyran captain announced, while pointing at a map. 'By any means necessary.' The emotions in his face hardening, lips forming a tight line. His words ringing through the deafening sound of the raging storm just outside the tent. “Understood.” An android of the Valkyrie Model confirmed, a click resounding in the room. Her face unreadable, with an unknown emotion coursing through her circuitry, after all this isn't the first village shes taken. The android beside her, a Medical Model, frowned. “What about the villagers, their families, the children even?” She said with obvious discontent. “We’ve already won!” Her frown deepening immensely, eyes briefly tightening shut. The captain stared at the Medical Model, his emotions unwavering under her glare. “If they fight back, then they are to be eliminated.” A smirk coming across his face. “It’s not as if you could disobey a direct order anyways.” His voice now dripping with venom. “Those Feran scum deserve it.” All that could be heard now was the deafening rain, the village was deathly quiet. The villagers, all of them, fought to protect themselves, but their orders were evident. “Titania, how do you do it?” The Medical Model said with barely a whisper, staring at the aftermath of the attack. “How many lives have we taken?.” Click. Titania the Valkyrie Model stood there silently taking in the sight of the bodies littering the village. “Orders.” She said frankly, her gears whirring quietly, and her face still devoid of emotion. “ You know this is wrong!” The Medical Model’s voice rising. “They didn't deserve this, none of them!” The rain trickling down her face reminiscent of tears, how ironic. Click, she had nothing to say, simply because she did not understand. Titania, as all androids should, have the capacity to experience emotion, but for her it was different. When Titania was first built, the scientist were mesmerized at her lack of display of emotion. It was supposed to be in her programming after all, and yet nothing they did to get a rise out of her worked. For Titania, with every attempt they tried, she heard a click resound in her head, but she could never tell what it was. Was this a so called emotion? What does it mean? What does it do? So many questions, but a question like “What is emotion?” cannot be simply answered. Her model was to resemble the word Valkyrie in such that she was a guardian to those who needed guarding. They wrote it off as a glitch, because of that fact. But because Gyrans valued androids as people, they could not bring themselves to decommission her. “Sylph, what is emotion?” Titania asked, her voice monotone. Sylph the medical model simply looked at her, eyes tired, and emotionally broken. “Something i wish i didn't have.” She said now with her eyes downcast, unable to look at the bodies any longer. Sylph, created with the purpose of pharmaceutical needs, was always very emotional. After all, she must be, medical models need emotions to help reduce panic in patients during treatment. Once the war started she personally believed it to be a curse, with every village she invaded with Titania’s unit, she could feel a part of herself break. But orders were orders no matter what they were, they were impossible to disobey. Each of the androids were produced in pairs, and as such created sibling like environments. To her surprise, Sylph’s designated sister, was none other than Titania her complete opposite. A babies cry resounded through the rain from a lone cot in the distance.”Ah!” Sylph felt immediate joy, yet the negative emotions were still fresh, as she sprinted to the small building. Click. Following suit, face unchanged, Titania bolted after her. With the cot now in front of her, pausing briefly to take in the rundown building. “I'm so sorry.” Titania heard a voice from the now opened door. Upon entering she saw, grey, and black? A small baby boy with wolf ears, and a tail, was being cradled in Sylph’s arms. Click. “Can you believe it?” Sylph said with mixed emotions. “ A baby boy, but with no family to take care of him.” Rain Water trickling from Sylph’s hair, falling past her eyes, yet again reminiscent of tears. Click, Titania heard it, but this time it was different, something- hurt? “Ha-ha, finally something huh?” Sylph was looking at her solemnly, a smile on her face. Titania was frowning.

Writers note: I just want to thank everyone that has been reading my chapters lately and giving me feedback it means so much! I also wanted to state that the mystery of what an emotional hair is will be explained later in the story when it seems less forced. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter please do leave feedback :) ​ Chapter 5 The Mark The knowledge spirit that had been by my side for nearly five decades swallowed the stone heart I had given it, the heart shattered into a thousand pieces and reformed into a black beating heart, each beat causing the spirit to be less translucent and more solid. My blood went cold as I started to suspect that I had made a huge mistake. “What is this?!?” I screamed demanding answers. “I am whole again child!” The voice sang in a hauntingly beautiful voice, light no longer passing through it. A beautiful purple wavy-haired woman stood in the place of the spirit, her scarlet eyes meeting mine and her purple lips parting giving me a wide evil grin. “Without you boy, I would have never gained my solid form again and for that, I thank you for being so trusting.” She said with a purr, clicking her long black fingernails. “You still owe me three answers!” “I owe you two you already asked one when I was transforming.” Damn, I thought to myself wondering how I could make such a rookie mistake. I stroked my white beard thinking of a question to ask her. “Who are you?” “I am called by many names child, but my most well-known title and name is the first queen of the first empire, Mavra.” My eyes grew wide and I felt like I could not breathe from the sheer panic of understanding what kind of monster I had just released into the world. I almost asked a trivial question stopping myself from making another huge mistake and thought for several moments as the woman gazed at me with a bored expression. I smiled slightly knowing the question I had to ask. “How do I defeat you and make sure you never exist again?” The woman’s face snarled at me making me flinch and step back as she hissed a curse at me. “You dare ask such a question!” She screamed at the top of her lungs Information poured into my mind on how to destroy her once and for all and her form blurred toward me and slammed me down to the ground her dagger-like fingernails slamming into my chest causing an excruciating amount of pain to go throughout my body. A voice echoed throughout the room repeating itself over and over “Jimmy! Jimmy! Jimmy!” I woke up to Mrs. Zacharias hovering over me, her lips moving talking to someone out of my vision, her words not entirely reaching my brain. Mrs. Zacharias noticed I was awake and slowly sat me up making my head spin and she put my head in between my legs. It eventually clicked with me that the one talking to Mrs. Zacharias was our school nurse and I felt her handhold my wrist for a few seconds and then she lifted the back of my shirt and put something cold against my back and instructed me to take deep breathes in and out for her, while the other one checked my head for wounds. All of this was happening as my fuzzy mind inspected my life force by concentrating my senses on it and I felt it knitting itself back together growing slowly. That was an excellent sign I thought as I felt my headache gradually getting better and no longer felt the world spinning uncontrollably. After a few more moments they eventually picked me up and took me to the school nurse's office, sat me on the not so comfortable bed, and got me a small paper cup of water to sip on until my parents arrived. While I sat there waiting, my mind kept replaying the memories of how Mavra had tricked me into bringing her back from the dead. I gritted my teeth and I swore to myself that I would build my powers back up in this world and I would get back to my homeworld and slay that bitch Mavra for making a fool out of me. While my mind was jumping from thought to thought I noticed an odd tingling sensation coming from my chest that I had never felt before and rubbed at it through my shirt annoyed at the sensation. My parents showed up after a few moments distracting me from my thoughts and they asked the nurse a few questions, the nurse assuring them that I had passed out do to not enough electrolytes and suggested that I should take today and tomorrow off to recover and that if I got worse to immediately take me to the hospital. When we got home my Mother got me a big glass of watermelon flavored juice and I happily drink it down as I watched TV for a few hours taking my problems off my mind for a little while. After the sixth episode of the colorful world about three superpowered girls destroying evil my chest again let off a tingling sensation for the umpteenth time I scratched at it again and finally had enough and went to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror and took off my shirt to inspect my skin. My stomach sank and ice went through my veins as I stared at the circle on my chest with a symbol’s inside it so old that not even, I could read what they said. I recognized the structure of the symbol though and I was confident that this was a curse mark placed on my soul and body. My heart pounded as several possibilities ran through my head on what the curse mark was meant for. My mother walked in not knowing I was already in the bathroom and stared at my shirtless body. “Jimmy are you okay? Your skin is looking pale.” She rummaged through the bathroom drawer for a few seconds and took out a thermometer and placed it in my mouth checking for a temperature. Right, I thought to myself, I forgot people that don’t use magic can’t see marks like these. Which was probably for the best considering I didn’t want to explain to my Mother what a curse mark was and how I had not the foggiest idea of what this specific one did. The thermometer gave a beeping sound and my Mother read it and ruffled my hair still looking worried and told me I did not have a fever. She hugged me, kissed me on the forehead, and told me to get some rest. She tucked me in turned my nightlight on and turned off my ceiling light and gently closed the door. My thoughts raced as I wondered what the mark was going to do to me or what it had already done to me. My eyes widened as I saw the shadows next to my nightlight move back and forth slowly as the objects that made the shadows did not move even slightly. “Shit,” I whispered and kicked the sheets off my body to get out of bed. I did not even manage to get a foot on the ground before shadows not attached to objects wrapped around my body and held me in place while other shadows swirled around my bedroom slowly whispering and laughing. My heart drummed in my chest as I watched the largest of the shadows crawl toward me and wrap around me like a snake engulfing my body in darkness and whispered in my ear. “Edward we have been looking for you.

Seraphina Celestis. Dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair with a hint of red-she was beautiful. Orion Blackthorn watched her gesticulating excitedly to her expo booth visitors, words pouring over each other as she described her research into the Luminary Artifact. He felt awkward in a blue jumpsuit covered in luminescent stars, but he fit right in on the colorful planet Astraloria. It was the kind of place that could be called lush, with as many tall tropical trees as buildings. He was in the capital city, Celestis, and he was staring at a descendant of its namesake: Seraphina. When the crowd around her thinned, he approached the booth, focusing his attention on the holographic display of the artifact. Orion wasn’t sure what to make of the bright cube pulsing with ethereal confidence. He was used to assessing things for their value to other people, but this one seemed to glow with a knowing insight: he wasn’t here for science, he was here to steal. “Isn’t it beautiful?” A voice beside him gushed. “It’s captivating,” he said, turning to see Seraphina, nearly jumping out of her gorgeous yet completely functional blue dress. “Captivating,” he repeated, now describing her instead of the object. “It has the potential to change the path of research into quantum mechanics and temporal physics,” she exclaimed. “Sounds like you have the perfect background,” he said, smiling. “My parents were pioneers in their chosen research paths, so I suppose being able to utilize both of their fields is an advantage,” she said, nodding vigorously. He already knew his access to the artifact lay in taking advantage of this scientist, and the conscience that he usually kept hidden away made its presence known with a tightness in his stomach. He recalled her profile for the dozenth time. Her parents were renowned astrophysicists who lived on the outskirts of the city. A prodigy from an early age, she had already cemented her place in history with her research on celestial mechanics. She was the natural choice to study the artifact when it was discovered several years ago. He thought about his own parents: his mom, the stern but loveable teacher, and his dad, the gruff city worker, both doing their best to raise a child on a dark, crime-ridden planet. He'd joined the Shadow Sable Consortium as a teenager, doing their dirty deeds until he'd escaped to make his own way. Now he was tired of running, and he hoped to get back in their good graces by selling access to research about the artifact. He focused back on Seraphina. “Your parents were blessed to create such an intelligent and beautiful offspring.” He smiled as the compliment hit its target. “Orion Swiftwind,” he said, extending his hand. “Usually I'm up in orbit, but I heard great things about your research.” “Seraphina Celestis,” she said, shaking his hand with sudden shyness. “What do you study?” “I'm just a pilot,” he said, leaning on his made up persona. “All I know is how to make the engine go zoom.” She giggled, and he said, “I'm sure you get this a lot, but I'll be kicking myself if I don't ask: Would you like to get dinner?” Her face showed a tangle of emotions, and she looked away. Orion paused; maybe his assumption had been wrong and she did get a lot of attention planetside. She said with distaste, “People only ask me to dinner to network.” He laughed. “Well I suppose we could call it that.” He moved strategically close. “I meant as a date.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “Where do people go on dates?” Orion chose a slightly fancy restaurant-not his typical fare but expensive enough for Seraphina's cultured upbringing. She explained her research with animated gestures, going off into random side tangents and describing ideas in way too much detail, but he didn’t want to stop her obvious enjoyment. She was a scientist, and, like a child proudly displaying her art, she wanted to share her knowledge. When it was his turn, she listened rapturously as he described his adventures across the galaxy, disguising his smuggling as “research.” As they returned to her home, he thought about his plan. He sensed her innate trust in him, and he felt a yearning he’d rarely felt, something more than sexual. He thought he saw a kindred soul, comfortable in her environment but profoundly lonely. He wanted to spend more time with her. As he contemplated ways to convince her to see him again, she asked, “Do you want to come in? I have snacks.” He laughed. ”You must not have many visitors,” he said. “No,” she said, her voice dipping with sadness. “Just other scientists. I have a whole lab in my basement.” They stopped outside the door of her house. “Basements are where the fun happens,” he said. “Are they?” she asked unironically. “Come on in. Hello Athena,” she called, and the door unlocked. “Hello Seraphina,” a female voice said. “Who’s that?” he asked, on guard in case she had a roommate or worse: a mother. “Oh, that’s Athena. She’s my AI.” Seraphina bounced into the house. “Nice to meet you,” the voice said. “Are you a dashing rogue here to take my Seraphina on an extraordinary adventure?” “I wouldn’t say all that,” he said, silently pleased to be described as dashing. “I’ve had enough adventure in my lifetime.” “He’s here for the expo,” Seraphina said. “His name is Orion Swiftwind.” He braced himself in case the AI discovered his thinly veiled identity. He exhaled with relief when the computer merely said, “Pleased to meet you, Captain Swiftwind.” “Fruit?” she asked, walking toward her kitchen. Orion nodded as he got his bearings. It was a tasteful and warm home, with plaques dotting the wall and potted plants covering the floor. Reading one of the plaques, he said, “Your parents must be so proud of you.” “They are,” she said. “But I wouldn't be where I am without them. They've given me so many opportunities.” She offered the bowl of colorful fruit to him. “What about yours?” “I haven’t lived up to their expectations,” he answered truthfully. “But I owe a lot to them.” Stuck under the Consortium’s rule, his parents would be paying for his sins until he died or came back. The thought of finishing this job and finally returning home filled him with energy as he said, “Enough about me. Tell me more about your work.” He left her house that night with the beginnings of a connection and a pang in his heart, whether with satisfaction or guilt he wasn’t sure. Early the next morning he sent a message to an old contact. I may have something Marcellus will be interested in. The reply came back quickly. Looking for redemption? He sighed again. I have conditions , and he imagined Adrian smiling at the word. Adrian Voss had been like an older brother, introducing him to the Consortium and training him in the ways of a thief. He remembered the days they spent in the alleys together, baring their souls and sharing the dream of wealth and power. It all changed with Nebula’s Embrace. Orion had been sent with a small crew for a simple heist. They’d stolen the Embrace, but things went wrong on the way back home. All alone, Orion had hidden the device on an asteroid, resolving to leave the Consortium and live a law-abiding life. Orion had told Adrian he planned to leave, and the older man saw his opportunity to cement his place in the Consortium’s hierarchy. He exposed Orion just as he was escaping on a cargo ship. Forever labeled a traitor, Orion took to the stars, finding work where he could in the shadows of the galactic underworld. He spent the next few weeks enjoying his time with Seraphina. He had been right: the only people who interacted with her were scientists interested in her work or the public who revered her. It made it easy to integrate himself into her life, but it brought more than occasional bouts of guilt. “Caelum said I shouldn't be so trusting,” she said one day while they were out walking. Caelum is right , he said to himself, but out loud he said, “Isn't that the one who wanted to do the research on the artifact?” She nodded. “I think she's just jealous.” “I'm so excited to go on the Celestial Voyager and visit the artifact,” she said, eyes sparkling. ”It'll be amazing to see it up close.” She turned and grabbed his arm. “Can you take me on your ship one day? Maybe go see your parents?” He avoided her eyes. “I'd have to see what contracts are coming up.” In his mind, though, he wanted to say Yes! with as much excitement as she carried in her lithe body. But this fantasy only went so far-he was a hardened criminal, after all. A future with Seraphina was impossible. Finally and with considerable enthusiasm, she showed him her basement lab. Orion was impressed-he had seen spaceships with less technology-and he asked questions with genuine interest as well as to get the information he needed. The Consortium’s hacker created an insertable key that would bypass the lab’s security systems and continuously upload Seraphina’s research into the cloud. Orion picked up the key but held on to it for days, unwilling to end his time with Seraphina. Getting a second lab tour was easy, as was plugging the key into a spare port. The only obstacle was Athena. “Seraphina, I've detected unauthorized access at your terminal.” The AI sounded gentle but firm in her communication, likely to keep Seraphina from panicking. “What?” Seraphina asked. “What's going on?” “Captain Swiftwind is accessing your data.” She turned her dark eyes on him. “What are you doing?” He shrugged, slightly frustrated at her innocence. “I'm stealing your research.” “But why?” He closed his eyes to avoid the bewildered stare. “I’m a thief,” he said, “That’s what I came to do. I’m selling the data to the Shadow Sable Consortium. I’ve been an outlaw for years, and I’m buying my way back in.” “Back in?” He nodded. “With criminals?” She lowered her head. “I’m so stupid,” she said quietly. “It's not personal...” he started to say. “It's for my parents,” he said more firmly. “Right now they're prisoners on their own planet. After this deal I can finally see them again.” “Your parents?” she asked. He nodded. “I wasn't able to stop the root process on the system,” Athena said. “Please remove the key and destroy it immediately.” Seraphina moved toward the terminal, and Orion wondered if he should try to stop her. Slowly she pulled the key out of the terminal, looking at it like an artifact of its own. Key in hand, she walked toward him. With inches between them, she opened her hand. “It's for your parents,” she said quietly, brown eyes staring at him with sympathy. “Take it.” Orion took the key, but he felt stuck in place, frozen with guilt. He closed his eyes and made a decision. He walked to the terminal and opened a secure connection. Adrian was standing by, waiting to hear news. “I changed my mind,” he said, watching both of them for a reaction. Seraphina's was more obvious as she brought her hands to her mouth. He held up the key in his hand. “You can't access the data without this key, and I'm going to destroy it.” Adrian glanced around the room and spotted Seraphina. “Going for the romantic gesture, I see?” His voice held no trace of the empathy and affection that used to exist between them. “You know I'm not going to leave empty handed.” Orion said firmly, “Then I’ll offer something of equal value. Nebula’s Embrace.” “What about it? We all know about your incompetence.” “It wasn’t incompetence, Adrian.” He tried to keep his voice from trembling. “The Embrace didn’t go missing that day. I hid it, and I’ll tell you where to find it if you settle my debt now. Leave me, my parents,” he looked over, “and Seraphina alone.” Adrian's expression shifted from disdain to a flicker of surprise. “Send me the location, and then I'll decide what to do with you.” Hands shaking, Orion pulled up a map of the Eclipsar Cluster. A few more key strokes and the deed was done. Adrian mused silently over the information before saying, “So you weren't as naive as you seemed, little brother. This will do.” He closed the connection, leaving a tense silence. Seraphina Celestis looked at the floor, shoulders slumped. “What happens now?” she asked. “Now I can stop running. And I can finally see my parents again.” “And what about me?” She looked up at him with a mixture of grief and disappointment, and Orion instinctively stepped closer. "I never meant to hurt you, Seraphina. I was lost, seeking a way back into the Consortium. But in the process I found something.” “What?” she asked. “You,” he said. He closed the distance and took her hands. “Come on my ship with me. I can take you to the Luminary Artifact.” “You can?” she asked excitedly. “Yes, and I'll protect you and your research.” “Protect? Will they come back?” she asked. “Yes, but we’ll be ready.” He pulled her into his arms. “You have me now.” “How can I trust you again?” she asked, doubt lingering in her eyes. “I know I can’t ever make up for betraying you,” he said, “but I will tell you everything. I’ll do whatever it takes to rebuild your trust. Seraphina, I love you.” He waited in suspense as she considered, head leaning against his chest. After a moment, she nodded, and from there they joined together in a celestial bond that would withstand the test of time.

Susan’s mind obsessively repeated the opening phrases of her presentation. She walked at a brisk clip through the corridor, her sensible pumps making light taps on the tiled floor. She knew her work, she was prepared with a stellar presentation. She knew she was going to impress the board with her findings. Research was her thing. She was good with numbers and graphs and correlating meaning into the results. Her most recent work with the Biotech group had been intriguing and highly successful. She was pleased with herself and anxiously excited to share her findings. As she neared the elevator she noticed a well dressed man already patiently waiting. He had carefully coordinated colors, perfectly trimmed facial hair and excellently manicured nails. Just the hint of the most expensive cologne teased her nose. “Marcus.” She said nodding in his direction. “Susan. Lovely to see you this morning.” He replied equally assessing her attire from head to toe. “Going up to the top as well?” He eyed her handbag, heavy with computer and files. “Yes.” She stated simply. “Well, well. I see we’re riding up together.” He returned with a smug smile. Susan let her colleagues' insinuations roll off her back. She knew she had something good this time. She knew she had a presentation of a lifetime. She allowed herself to gaze back evenly with a pleasant smile pasted on her face. He gracefully bowed and motioned for her to walk inside as the doors opened. Irked by his overly polite attentions Susan hesitated long enough to be passed by a young woman wearing a white lab coat. Her dark curls were held back with a colorful sash and her brown eyes framed by dark rimmed glasses. She quickly pushed the button for the parking lot at the base of the building. “Honey, we’re going up.” Stated Marcus matter of factly as he stepped inside followed by Susan and pressed floor 10. “Sorry, it’s an emergency.” She replied politely, the doors already closing. Susan glanced at the girls badge grinding her teeth. Gemma. She would remember that name. The elevator slowly glided downwards. The number of the floors lit up on the top of the door: number 6 then 5. Susan shifted her weight and braced herself as the elevator came to a sudden halt somewhere between floors 5 and 4. The lights flickered and shut off. “You have got to be kidding me!” Shouted Marcus pulling out his cell phone. The blue screen shining light on his irritated face. Susan followed suit fishing in her bag for her new iPhone 11. She had just purchased it with her most recent raise. Marcus was already yelling into his phone at some poor 911 dispatcher. But Gemma had disappeared. Susan looked around and found her huddled into the recesses of the back corner of the elevator. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her waist. “Hey, are you ok?” Asked Susan. “I need to get out of here.” she replied. Susan observed the shallow breathing and heard the strain in her voice, hinting at panic. “It’s going to be ok. Marcus already called for help. They will be here soon and get us out of this.” Susan’s attempt at soothing came out clipped and annoyed. She wasn’t used to being warm and friendly. She understood the signs and symptoms and certainly didn’t want someone having a panic attack in the middle of a small elevator, but her social skill set was not the greatest. At least that’s what the last boyfriend had made very clear to her. What was it he had said? She was an ice princess? A vast wasteland of desert? An emotional vacuum? Well, whatever, not all women are born lovey dovey and why should they be? She was smart, successful, moving up the career ladder and quite attractive to boot. He was just a loser that couldn’t handle the competition. And with that she dismissed him from her mind. Wiped him clean out, never to be thought of again. At least for a little while. Marcus angrily hung up. “They can’t be here for at least another half an hour or more. Can you believe that?” He reached for the elevator phone, pulling it out from behind the metal door. “Don’t do that.” Said Gemma from her corner. “Young lady, you can stay huddled in that corner, but I am going to get out of here.” he replied stiffly, lifting the receiver to his ear. He listened for what seemed an eternity, then silently hung up the phone. “No answer” he stated. “Ok, I’ll get you out.” stated Gemma determinedly lengthening her long legs to a standing position. She turned and placed one foot on the hand rail, pressing firmly to lift herself into the air and catching her balance by placing the other foot along the other wall, her hands braced against the ceiling. “What are you doing?!” Susan demanded, startled by the sudden change in demeanor. “There’s a door on the ceiling I just need to open it and we can climb through.” “Brilliant!” Marcus clapped practically dancing on his feet. “No Marcus, that’s not brilliant. She could hurt herself. We just need to wait until help arrives.” interjected Susan irritably. Gemma had already worked the latch open and was leaning on Marcus’s outstretched hand. “Ok, just give me a boost up.” She directed him. He made a hammock with his hands for her foot and pushed upwards as she used her upper body strength to lift herself through the opening. Marcus turned to look at Susan indicating for her to place her foot in his hands as well. “No thanks. I’m not the adventurous type.” She stated, crossing her arms. “Alright, suit yourself.” He said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I’m sure the board will understand if you’re late.” That did it. Susan swung her satchel firmly across her chest and placed her foot in his hand. It wasn’t nearly as graceful as Gemma had made the process look, but she somehow pulled herself through to the top of the elevator. Gemma was already clinging to the wall of the elevator shaft and digging her fingers into the elevator door to force it open from the inside. Susan fished through her bag again for the long silver letter opener she knew she had. Placing it in her teeth she grasped the metal rings of the inlaid ladder on the shaft wall to climb up to Gemma. “Here” she said, extending out the letter opener with one hand. Gemma looked down and managed to reach the offered tool. “Thanks,” she replied. Using the letter opener she was able to shimmy the thick doors open and push them out all the way with her hands. Susan followed her through the doors with Marcus not far behind. Strangely, the hallway on level five was dark as well. “This way to the stairwell.” Stated Marcus heading off down the hall using the light of his cellphone to show the way. Just as they were nearing the door marked ‘stairs’ a guard burst through breathing heavily like he had run up from the bottom floor. “Well finally!” Exclaimed Marcus. “We were the ones stuck in the elevator, but we’re out now, no thanks to you.” Gemma had backed away and was looking frantically around. As she turned to look down the hallway another guard was heading in their direction. Susan saw the calculations behind her eyes. She knew how quickly the mind could size up a situation. It only took an instant before the decision was made. Gemma turned to Susan lifting her hand out for a handshake. Susan found herself lifting her own hand in response and clasping Gemma's smaller slender palm. “Thank you so much for helping me.” Said Gemma. “You are a good researcher, I’ve read your work. I think you’re also a good person and would do the right thing.” Susan felt something hard and small pressed into her hand as Gemma's other hand came up to hers in a double clasp encouraging Susan's hand to close over the item before she was released. Susan saw something in Gemma's eyes that made her stay quiet when the guards identified Gemma and took her away.

I once met this real oddball, can’t remember her name for the life of me, but man was she odd, really. She said her dreams come true, but these weren’t any ordinary dreams, like running into an old friend and then bam, the next day you’re walking down the street and there they are buying a cup of coffee at one of those breakfast food trucks. No nothing like that. She said the clouds spoke to her, not in any sort of language, but that they told her the future in the way they moved. She was such a weird one that one. I haven’t heard from her in years. The last she told me was that she had a dream about a man, a man I was to hear from. I can’t quite remember what this man did or who he was but that he would come into my life. That’s the last I heard from her. I’ve been trying to write lately. I’m working on my collection of short stories, this one story is about this tree, in the forest of fire--not that the forest is made of fire or anything like that, it’s just what the forest is called I’m not sure what will happen there yet but I had a dream once I was in the middle of the woods and the trees around me were all burning. I’m not sure if they have any significance in reality, but it’s where I got the name of this location--the forest of fire. That night, after sitting in front of my laptop, a partially blank screen and all three words, “forest of fire”, I decided to call it a night. I didn’t sleep much though it was one of those shallow sleeps where I tossed and turned and I had dream after dream. I needed water my mouth was so dry I got my glass and returned to bed I have a strange fascination with Christmas lights so my ceiling is filled with them I put them on stared at them until my eyes flickered closed for the night. I had dreamt about that fire again. The trees were really hot and glistened so beautifully, I had almost touched one. I couldn’t get my head wrapped around that real oddball--what was her name? She said I’ll meet a man, who won’t understand me. I laughed and asked which one? I need to write today. I have to get some writing done today. But that damn dream is bugging me and that woman. What was her name? She said it’s in the clouds if you look real close that there’s your future. So three words-- forest of fire--staring at me. Shouting, “got anything else?” But I resorted back to the pillow. Maybe, the dream will continue, give me more of a storyline or tell me that damn woman’s name. That’s when I saw her, standing, in a room, it looked like an office of some sort. It had a bookcase and a desk and she was standing in the room and all of a sudden the walls started to crack and pieces of plaster and wood began crumbling. The walls were coming down and there were the damn trees with the damn burning leaves that damn woman what a real odd one she said he’ll take it away. What was it that he’ll take away? I can’t remember for the life of me. She was so peculiar this woman. Green, red, blue, yellow, and orange, flash on top of me. I sat behind my laptop. Hand on the keyboard. Fire. Forest. Dancing. Who? Who is dancing? What was it she told me? Watch them float, she said. They change, they’re always changing, she said. The clouds. So strange, she said, the future is so strange, but watch it pass you by. It’s all around us. Look for it. So I closed my eyes and tried looking once more. There she was, watching the flames or was it me? I couldn’t differentiate the two. But she was there and so was the damn forest. It was all burning now the leaves. She said watch the clouds but when I looked up there wasn’t a cloud in the damn sky. There were only lights. Red green blue orange and yellow. Lights, above me. And then I opened my eyes. So bizarre, that woman. She saw it, in the way they moved. But all I saw were those damn Christmas lights. So I took them down. Those lights. I wanted to see the clouds. But when I closed my eyes once more, it was too late. I needed to write. I really have to get some writing done. So back in front of the laptop I sat and wrote “That real oddball.” Yeah but how can I talk about ole oddball if I couldn’t even remember her name. For the life of me I couldn't damn near remember. But she saw. Those damn clouds. She said she saw it. That they spoke to her. But I never looked up. I didn’t see. Maybe it was one of those damn clear days. When it’s just one of those days you couldn’t spot one damn cloud in the sky. How odd she was, really. She saw it in the clouds, the future and could see it in her dreams. She said they came true. But how am I supposed to write about oddball when that damn forest keeps haunting me. Not that the forest is haunting. It’s just on fire. Not sure if it has anything to do with that real oddball. But I decided maybe I’ll see it in the clouds too. What with all the lights taken down. I’ll see it tonight. If I closed my eyes maybe I’ll see and then I’d write. But remember that man. What’d she say, that he’ll take it away? What was it that he’ll take away? She said that I’ll lose it. How odd. So I closed my eyes and there I was in that room again. I thought for a second I was with ole oddball. But then the roof started cracking as if peeling away so that you could see the sky. And then right next to me I thought I saw the reflection of that real odd one. For a second I thought I got a glimpse and then I saw she was standing there I saw her. She stood right in front of me. You’re real odd she said. Look up she said. I saw the clouds. The leafy flutter of fire amongst the trees. I got up. I had to write. So I wrote and wrote until I finished. And then there it was. That story. I finished. Called it “Oddball”. It was in the clouds. I could see it in the clouds. If you look real close. You could see it--the future. It told me in the clouds and my dreams almost always come true. The stack of paper with the word “Oddball” staring at me. Haunting me. Not that I was scared I just couldn’t look away. I thought the best thing to do was burn it. I had to burn it. So I wouldn’t have to see ole oddball staring at me. My damn dreams come true. And that man, he did take it. I saw it in the clouds. But you ever like those clear days. You know in the sky when it’s one of those damn near clear days with no clouds in the sky. So I burned it. Because I saw it in the dreams. I burned the story. So I wouldn’t see “Oddball” staring at me. I burned it and decided to lay down. I saw the Christmas lights on the floor and put them up on the ceiling. I wanted to see the lights tonight. Red, green, blue, yellow and orange bouncing across the walls. That real odd one staring at me. Reflecting off each bulb. She is such an odd one that one.

The door was always locked. It was not supposed to be open. Rumors say that whoever went in never came back. I stood in the empty hallway, the air heavy with dust and sweat, my heart racing. It's okay; You're going to be okay. I stared up at the cracked, wooden door, its white paint peeling away. The knob was cracked, with a big silver lock attached to it. "Excuse me?" I snapped my head in the direction of the voice. A tall man, I would guess anywhere more than 6 feet tall, stood behind me. His eyes printed the word danger, and he wore a black t-shirt and vest, with security printed at the front and black jeans with brown army boots. His breath was foul and smelled like cigarettes. A deep, red scar ripped through his eyebrow down to the top of his eye. A bush of dark curls was hidden underneath his black baseball cap. We faced each other like soldiers, still and firm. But then I took a step back, fearful. "So?" I turned around and ran, the sound of my footsteps echoing against the plain white walls. My hair flew behind me as I sprinted towards the exit. The guard didn't come after me, and when I looked back, the only sight was the door, surrounded by sad, empty walls. As soon as I made it outside, I gasped for air. It was dark, and a blanket of stars pelted the night sky. The wind howls loudly, carrying the scent of rain off the trees and sidewalk. I trudged down the street warily. Streetlamps flickered, casting dim lights on the dark road. No one knew what had happened to our town. People started disappearing every year. They believed that the door had some way of attracting you towards it, like controlling your mind. Every year one person vanishes at night and is never seen again in the morning. Ever since it started happening, no one went outside much besides those who had jobs and needed to make money. Curfew was at 11 p.m; for everyone in the town because those who opened the doors ghosts would come and haunt us unless we found shelter in our homes. I carefully walked up the old, broken steps of the wooden porch and opened the door of my tiny home. It creaked loudly, interrupting the silence. The lights were already off beside the faint glow of the digital clock, flashing at 10:53, just in time. I crept across the stained carpet, a cloud of dust forming with each step I took. Laying down on my torn couch, the horrible stench of sweat and filth filled my nostrils. The broken windows couldn't keep the cold wind out of my shed, causing me to shiver. Suddenly, I heard a click. I jumped down and pulled out a knife from under the couch. Then, another click. The air became still and silent, and my heart started pounding against my chest. "Who's there?" Click. The wind howled, and the curtains swayed, causing the moonlight to flood into the room. I peered out the window, carefully holding the knife by my side. Something brushed my shoulder. I spun around, startled. The space was empty. I started feeling dizzy, and it was hard to breathe. I gasped for air, grabbing the couch for support. I felt like something was controlling me. Raspy voices screamed at me inside of my head, repeating "The door" again and again. I tried to snap myself awake, but then it was all over. There I was, in the middle of my shed, everything the same. The digital clock now flashed 11:01 in bright red digits. The couch still stank, and the carpet was still stained. The kitchen faucet still leaked, causing drops of water to fall against the steel sink every 5 seconds. I walked towards the door of my shack, dragging my fingers against the peeled wall. I pushed the door open, and it let out another screech. I pulled up my hood over my head and ran. As soon as I left, I felt like people were watching me. I ran down the street. When I got to a tall, rectangular building made out of glass, I walked around the perimeter to find a way in. There was no way in, so I picked up a smooth, flat stone and chucked it at a window. The alarm went off as I ran through it. Red sirens flashed in the corridor of the building. I ran to the locked door, unable to hide my desperation to open it. I banged on the door, more and more paint peeling off. I screamed in frustration as I continued kicking the door. It finally opened. I walked in, the darkness swallowing me. "Hello?" I yelled; the dreadful walls called back with a loud echo causing me to shiver. I cautiously walked step after step into the never-ending blackness. The only sound was the squeak of my shoes against the slimy, wet floor. I saw the light ahead of me and wandered towards it. There was a tall, gray gate with orange patches of rust on it. It was locked, but across it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. There was a continuous field of green grass with a striking blue lake. Tall mountains stood high in the sky, their peaks hidden behind the white fluffy clouds. The bright sun shone down all over the happy people. It looked like what the world used to be, as the perfect slice of pumpkin pie on a fall evening. I wanted to cross the gate badly. I watched miserably, still clinging on to the gate. "Help!" I yelled, tears in my eyes. I hopelessly stared far away. I shouted, knowing no one was going to help me. I couldn't turn back, though. "Please!" I cried out as loud as I could. Out of all the people, no one could hear me. I dropped onto my knees, sobbing. It was all useless. When it's dark, the light helps us. But the light isn't always able to hear us call for help.

We’d talked about it for months, despite the pandemic, despite everything. Over the years we’ve had hundreds of plans and promises. We keep saying that when the borders open back up, we’ll visit Canada together. We always tell each other that we’re going to drive across America and live out of our cars. We’re going to become bestselling authors and travel the world. We’ll be the greatest comedic double act the world’s ever seen. It’s nice, when you’re people like us, to believe in a future, any future. But our small lives, our day-to-day existence, offer real substance to those dreams. No, we aren’t the characters in the John Green novels we ruthlessly tear apart, but on an unseasonably warm December weekend, we can put on ripped jeans and band tees and grab our skateboards, and we can do our best not to fall, and we can laugh at each other, and days like this are enough to keep us fed. Last summer we stayed out of our houses as much as we dared, trying to get a breath of that freedom we had found in our first year of college. I would drive out to see her almost daily, making my way down the hills and into the valley in the late afternoons when the sun would be low and golden, and the bushes and leaves would overwhelm the roadside and tumble out onto the street. I’d pick her up at her house behind the near-vacant strip mall, where the train tracks ran right through and on, past the High School we went to together. Sometimes, when I slowed down to drive over the train crossing on my way to see her, I’d remember my brother’s face when he first learned that his friend had died on those tracks. Two kids were hit by the train in the four years we went to that school. I’d wait for her in the driveway and watch the feral cats run back and forth in the street, and listen inanely while the couple across the street shouted at each other, at their kids, at their dogs. She’d climb into my car and we would turn right around, back into the countryside, blaring bad music and laughing at our lives. We often found ourselves at the Overlook, where the gliders are towed off and into the warm updrafts that rise from the valley. It’s one of the highest hills in the area. There’s a large plateau and then a sharp cutoff into heavily forested cliffside that’s littered with plastic and crushed cans of Miller Lite. From here we could see our favorite part of town stretching far out below us. We would park my car and sit on the hard stone benches, looking out at the broad flat fields hundreds of feet down, while on the distant hills the red lights of the radio towers would get steadily brighter as the sky got dark. The valley had patches of bright and dark; the car park and the factory shone bright white, the bridge over the river was lit with gold, and underneath the water ran a satin silver-black. We could see car lights flashing through the trees on the hills across the valley, and fireflies blinking in the weeds in front of us. When it was time to leave, we’d pass the other visitors who sat in their cars, having sex, getting high and enjoying the view. Then we would get in and we would go. But sometimes we wanted a taste of civility, cuteness, and safety. We wanted to bask in the glow of wealth that the richer towns gave off, so instead of driving through those golden-green hills we would hop on the highway and follow the river down to civilization. Market Street, the Gaffer District, the Crystal City! A whole street lined with trees and golden string lights, home to shops that sold thousands of dollars worth of art and restaurants full of people who had just left their jobs at Headquarters. Even my parents, well-off engineers who work for the company, don’t have an office in that formidable glass building that stands beside the river, blocking little Market Street from the eyes of the rest of the world. I’d heard about it from them though. Apparently, the walls are lined with glass sculptures and the floor is decorated in mosaics of skeletons. It's made of windows but still feels dark, and its passages wound, snakelike, throughout the long, low building. I’m sure that I must have imagined some of that, though; every time I see it, I feel a shudder go down my spine. Millionaires work there, in those dark hallways, and for some reason that scares me enough to fuel my fearful imagination. My eyes never stay on Headquarters for long. We drive down Market Street, taking in the sites, enjoying every streetlight and every window. Then, we dine at the fanciest McDonald's in the area. It has electronic screens you can order from, watercolors of glass sculptures hanging on the walls, and a view of Market Street’s welcoming backside. All McDonald's have the same food and yet somehow, the fries are best there. Just a little saltier, just a little more greasy. It’s the perfect place for two bored teenagers with light pockets. One summer afternoon, I felt listless. I took her and we left the McDonald’s parking lot in search of something new. I had the feeling we were looking for something in particular, and I followed my instinct to the top of the hills that rise from the river that divides the wealthy side from the poor side. What we found was a playground. It was an adorable playground, made of wood. I’ve always had a soft spot for wooden playgrounds. They remind me of my hometown in the North Country, and so of course we stopped. When we looked closer we noticed the playground was a miniature version of Market Street. The museum, the clock tower, and the gaffer tower were all there in miniature, no taller than seven or eight feet at most. We adored it. Then we toured the surrounding area, where a flat, manmade field had been cut into the side of a very steep hill to make two smaller very steep hills. I knew what I had to do. I ran to the top while she sat in the field and watched me, laughing. I looked down and shouted that I wish I had brought my inhaler, and she shouted back that she wished she’d brought hers. I stood at the top and looked out at a new valley, one on the other side of our small world. Then I did what I always do on a good grassy hill and I rolled right down. We stayed at the playground for a long time, until the sun set and it got dark. We didn’t want to leave our little perch at the top of the world, but when we finally departed, we were in agreement: it would be a great place to sled. We left each other and our families for our second year of college, and our contact gently waned as it always does. The nights got steadily darker and colder, counting down the days until we would be home again. I stayed at school for as long as I could, dreading what I knew would be a silent and near-empty winter. I love the cold and I love snow, and I love clear winter skies and a blanket of darkness, but I don’t love being alone. I finally left my dorm late at night, listening to the same 11 songs on repeat as I drove down the highway. Soon after I got home, a snowstorm hit. I was delighted. I ran outside in the darkness and I threw myself into the snow, I built a tiny snowman, I rolled down the mountains of it we had piled up at the edges of our driveway, and when I got tired I lied down on my back and looked up at the night sky, listening to the snowflakes melting under me and imaging it was the sound of the stars. The next day, I woke up early and I sent her a text: "We did talk about sledding..." She responded, "Oooo yes", to which I replied, "This is gonna rock, I'll see you at McDonald's." We met in the parking lot and drove in a two car convoy up to the hills. The playground was overrun by families. School-aged kids were running up and down the hills and sliding all the way down, onto the frozen pavement of the parking lot. We didn’t dare put our adult-sized bodies on child-sized sleds and plow into a row of parked cars, so we made the voyage to the top of the second hill. It was steep. We are asthmatic. It was not easy. When we finally arrived at the top and had found a place suitably far from the children (to keep them safe from both our sleds and our colorful language), we took a second to catch our breath and look out again at the valley. The world had been transformed from the green summer landscape we remembered to the blue-greys of winter. The hills on the other side of the river were white with snow, and the leafless trees made them look cold and bare. We could follow their clear-lined edges all the way down into the town, where the houses looked dark under the white sky. The trees all around us were covered in snow, and seeing it gathered so perfectly on every branch sparked a million happy memories of wintertime in a town with a wooden playground hundreds of miles away. I don’t know exactly what she was thinking, but when I looked at her I knew she and I felt the same. We mounted our sleds and got ready. I admit I was scared. I had just recovered from a concussion and I didn’t want another any time soon. I sat perched on the most ridiculous sled I’ve ever seen. It was tiny, and shaped like a saddle with a black handle poking up from the center. It had a big decal number 8 on the side, which felt like a fast and dangerous number. I didn’t trust this little piece of plastic made for a third grader to keep me on, but I’d lent the regular sled to her. We decided I should go first, because we didn’t want to hit each other. I grabbed on to the handle with both hands and dug my heels into the snow. The hill was so steep. I mean it was really steep. I’d never sledded on a hill as steep, and in fact I hadn’t sledded at all in at least six years. I held on as tight as I could and pushed off, flying down the hill on my little red sled and engaging in a superb balancing act so as not to be thrown off. I broke through the soft layer of powder which was gently gathering and it was thrown up in my face, melting on my skin and dousing me in water. When I got to the bottom, I let myself fall off the sled and laid in the snow, laughing. She waited for me to climb all the way back up before she went. I sat beside her and watched as she got on to my old blue sled with its yellow pull rope. Like always, I was showering her in a constant stream of anecdotes and concerned safety warnings that she had learned years ago she didn’t need to pay attention to. She pressed her hands into the hillside and pushed off. She sped off down the hill and I saw the plume of powder hit her too, and leave a bright streak of snowfall in her wake. When she hit the base of the hill, the sled threw her off and she stayed where she was for a moment while I laughed from my little spot above her. We were there for a long time, but not as long as we would have liked. Our asthma had gotten the better of us, and soon enough, climbing the hill wasn’t worth the thrill of arriving at the bottom. I had started to throw myself down the hill on my stomach because I didn’t want to keep carrying the sled back up, and while it was surprisingly effective, my stamina quickly wore down. We elected to hold a final race down the hillside. I took the fastest of the three sleds, while she decided to take the slowest so that she was less likely to fall off. I had a minute of confusion about what to do with the third sled before she told me to push it down the hill before us, proving definitively that my year and a half of engineering education wasn’t as effective as I’d hoped. The seconds before the race were tense. I mounted my red steed with the practiced movements of someone who had been doing this for at least forty-five minutes. I gripped the handle and hunched over with the spirit of an Olympic cyclist. She scooted up beside me in her big blue sled and we agreed to countdown. I decided a French countdown would be the way to go, but after I mistakenly started in German, and at the number 1, I let her take control of the counting. Dix! Neuf! Huit! Sss-ssept! (It’s a good thing she had taken the lead on counting) Six! Cinq! Quatre! Trois! Duex! Un! Zero! And we were off! We rocketed down the hill. I leaned forward, feeling the ground under me rumble through the plastic underside of my wonderful vehicle. Woman and sled became one, and I urged us onward, my eyes fixed on the horizon, my body shifting to keep my weight center. The blue streak at my side disappeared from my peripheral. I heard a thump behind me and knew I had won, but I was going faster and further than I had all day, and I wanted to see just how far I could take it. I slid down the hill and across the field, never falling, and came to a natural, graceful stop somewhere in the middle. I looked at the edge of the field where the second hill which led into the parking lot started, and I felt a bit of relief that I hadn’t gotten any further. Instead, she took my sled and I slid down on my chest for the last time, still amazed at how fast my coat could slide on snow. We met up at the local Burger King and changed out of our wet clothes. Then, in our two car convoy, we set off on our next adventure.

I told myself to practice the longest and most difficult of my lines ten times in the mirror before I could go to the easy lines. She said practicing in the mirror was the best way to memorize while also getting used to having an audience. How I got myself into the role of a thespian in a high school play was still a mystery. I was sure Ernest W. Stanley, who I was cast to play in The Man Who Came to Dinner , would have sympathy for my bewilderment. The performances were all scheduled, tickets printed, costumes selected, and my name was in the program. There was no way out, so here I stood in front of a mirror trying to memorize my part, dreading the first day of dress rehearsal. My longest lines, directed at the lead character, Sheridan Whiteside, an unwanted guest in the Stanley household, were monologues. My character gathers his courage and says, “Not having your gift for invective, I cannot tell you what I think of your obnoxious interference in my affairs, but I have arranged that you will interfere no longer.” My character turns to three silent actors waiting off stage right and continues, “Mr. Whiteside, these gentlemen are deputy sheriffs. They have a warrant by which I will be enabled to put you out of this house. And I need hardly add that it will be the greatest moment of my life. Mr. Whiteside, I am giving you 15 minutes in which to pack up and get out. If you have not gone in 15 minutes, these gentlemen will forcibly eject you. Thank you, gentlemen. Will you wait outside, please? Fifteen minutes, Mr. Whiteside, and that means bag, baggage wheelchair, penguins, and octopus.” I then turn to exit stage left and exclaim, “I am now going upstairs to smash our radio so that not even accidentally will I ever hear your voice again.” Presumably, the audience applauds as my character exits. I focused on repeating words and phrases in the dialogue to anchor my memorization. ‘Mr. Whiteside’ and ‘fifteen minutes’ were each repeated three times allowing me to memorize using the repeated words as a focus. There was also blocking on stage, which started with my character briefly addressing his wife, Daisy, and then striding across the living room scene to Mr. Whiteside, my tormentor, who was sitting in a wheelchair, at which point I started acting like the man of the house. The play had been around for over twenty years by the time the drama instructor at our high school selected it for the annual school play. It had played successfully on Broadway before becoming a feature film. As high school students, we were more interested in films such as Cleopatra, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Longest Day, and Alford Hitchcock’s The Birds than a Broadway play. My best recollection is that the grooming started in English class, where we learned to write sentences about a noun the teacher selected that day and then diagramed the sentences. If we did other things to improve our English grammar, they have escaped my memory. The teacher was Miss Mortensen, back when it was still acceptable to categorize women by their marriage status. At least, such categorizing was acceptable in the dusty open spaces of eastern Washington State, where I lived at the time. As it happened, Miss Mortensen was also the drama instructor; another job for which she was underappreciated and unrecognized. It came to my attention that our school conducted some type of theatrical performance in the combination cafeteria-theater, but I never participated or attended. If it didn’t involve sports or girls, it exited through a black hole in my consciousness. My friends were even more oblivious to non-sports school activities. It had to be Miss Mortensen who injected theater into my world, and that world was never the same. I recall watching in disinterest as she diagramed a sentence on a green chalkboard, and before she finished, she put the white chalk in the tray and slowly walked downstage to her desk. I whispered to the boy across the aisle, “Pop quiz time.” He nodded. We had seen these sneaky tactics before, but not from Miss Mortensen. “The school play will be in May,” she said as she walked around her desk. I was anticipating she would pull out a file with the pop quiz questions, so I didn’t listen to what she was saying until she sat on the front side of the desk and crossed her legs. “Just a few months away,” she continued and allowed her dress to settle above her knees. The boys in the class considered Miss Mortensen an attractive woman in a mature sort of way. She was probably in her early 30s, tall, wore her hair short like Elizabeth Taylor, and frequently wore tight sweaters. She put her palms flat on the desk on each side of her legs, leaned forward, and looked at the class. Suddenly I forgot about diagraming sentences. She started to talk about the struggles she faced as a young teacher trying to bring culture into a school that is dominated by sports and tradition. “They say arts and theater have a place-- but do they really want to support a thespian program?” she asked without defining thespian. “Yes, we have a stage, lights, and a few set designs, but it takes more,” she continued as the room became quiet. English class seemed to be over. “It takes people, students, willing to play the parts to give of themselves to create theater. Students who want to expand their world beyond the muscle-bound culture we now have,” she continued. I noticed for the first time a box of tissues on the desk. Almost subconsciously, she pulled a tissue out of the box and continued to talk in a husky voice. “If I cannot produce a play for this high school, I doubt I’ll be here next year,” she said, turning her head to look out the windows to her left. As we looked at her profile, she lifted a tissue to her right cheek. Then, for a few moments, she sat and stared into the distance. Unsure what to do or say, we waited. “Students with undiscovered talent will miss the opportunity to act,” she said as she arched forward on her arms, looked up at the ceiling, the color rising in her neck, and the sweater stretching across her chest. “I’m not sure anybody cares. This is my responsibility to give young people in this community a place to grow and explore their gifts. Even if in the end we must cancel because, . . .” and she stopped, slipped slowly from the desk, reached for another tissue, and turned her back to the audience. We waited in her silence as Miss Mortensen wiped her eyes and straightened her posture before turning around. “I’m sorry,” she said very quietly. “This is not your problem. I came to a school that cares more about football than the performing arts, and I can’t change that.” “What can we do, Miss Mortensen?” a girl asked from the back of the room. “Thank you for asking,” she replied and looked down at the tissues in her hands. “Auditions are right after school today if anybody is interested.” I had wrestling practice that afternoon, and Miss Mortensen never mentioned the school play during class the next day. However, the following day before English class, I heard two girls talking about auditions and how they hoped to get a part in the play. After class, I waited for a chance to talk with Miss Mortensen, who was wiping the chalkboard. “I’m interested in helping with the school play,” I offered while she was still wiping the board. Without turning around, she said, “I was hoping you would be willing to be in the play.” I was not sure how to respond, but I found my voice and said, “Is it too late to be in the tryout?” She turned around, put the eraser in the tray, looked me directly in the eye, and said, “They are called auditions, and you don’t need to audition. Wrestling season is over next week, so come to the first rehearsal. I have a part for you.” That was the beginning of an English lesson and much more. I had never been on the school stage or the backstage area, so it was all new and exciting as we gathered for the first rehearsal. Every step on the slanted wood stage could be heard in the cafetorium. Backstage was dimly lit, with black curtains, black painted walls, and accents, adding to the intrigue of being in the theater. Miss Mortensen gathered us on stage around a wheelchair, passed out scripts among the would-be actors, and began assigning roles. She directed one of my classmates to sit in the wheelchair to become Sheridan Whiteside, the lead character. She motioned for me to stand by the wheelchair. “You are Ernest W. Stanley, owner of everything around you, but your life is about to be controlled by the man in the wheelchair,” she said. Next, she walked to a group of girls, took the hand of one, and stood her next to me, “You are Daisy Stanley, the wife,” she informed us. In a manner of seconds, we all had our assigned roles. During the third rehearsal, I stood offstage behind a curtain, listening for my cue, when we heard a knock on the metal exterior door backstage. Miss Mortensen told everybody to take a break as she went to push the door open with the crash bar. Daylight poured into the backstage area as Miss Mortensen held the door for a man silhouetted in the bright light. When he entered and came closer to the cast members, I heard somebody whisper that he was a former student who graduated three years ago. Miss Mortensen called him Russ, and he called her by her first name, which we had never heard anybody use. She made a brief introduction without explaining what Russ had to do with our play and why he came in the backdoor. Russ always came to rehearsals and performances through the backstage door with the assistance of Miss Mortensen. It became apparent to our cast that Russ and Miss Mortensen were friends who had a love of theater in common. Over the following weeks, we watched them together, their body language, standing close when talking, smoking on the stairway landing at the backdoor, sharing ideas. Our young minds were filled with imagined roles for our drama instructor and her young protégé. We grew to appreciate Russ for his ability to see when an actor was stuck on a line, he would whisper the missing word or words from offstage. As our first dress rehearsal approached, I still had not mastered all my lines. I figured that since Russ was good at prompting, he might be helpful with memorization. After rehearsal, I found Russ backstage walking to the backdoor, and I followed him out to the parking lot. As we talked about memorization, he asked, “Have you been practicing in front of a mirror?” I nodded and waited for his assessment. “That’s good,” he said. “Was Miss Mortensen the one who told you that was the best way to practice?” “How did you know?” I asked. “Was that before or after she cried and described how hard it is to be the drama instructor here?” he asked as he lit a cigarette. I looked at him, unsure of how to respond. Finally, I said, “You have seen her do that before?” “How do you think she got me to come back here to help with this play?” he replied. “You mean that is how she recruits people?” I asked. “Consider it your first acting lesson from a professional,” he said and got in his car.

DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! As the last toll faded, I shifted in my oversized lounge chair, rested my head back, and raised my eyes from my book to look outside. The snow-covered street sat dark and silent compared to the havoc inside the town hall across the street. Since the town’s founding, New Year's Eve was a massive event where everyone gathered together to welcome the new year. Even now, I could see the shadows of the volunteers hurrying back and forth past the windows as they prepared for the celebration. I laid the book on the windowsill and pulled my blanket to my chin as I snuggled back into the chair with a sigh and listened to the fire crackle in the fireplace. This is the life. My eyes wandered to the large illuminated clock on the town hall. “Crap! Six?” I threw my blanket off and clambered to my feet as I cast a glare toward my cat, who curled in front of the fire. “Pepper, why did you let me sit here and read all day?!” He blinked his sleepy eyes at me with a soft mew. I rolled my eyes at him and tried to ignore the anxiety that filled me. I used to love this event until eight years ago when my best friend and I had a falling out. I avoided it as often as I could now, but mom made me promise I would be there this year. The problem was, he would be there, too. I bit my lip. “Six. Um.” I ran a hand through my hair and scanned the living room. My least favorite part of the event had always been when we shared if we completed our resolutions from the year before. I was the only one in town who consistently failed. I had every intention of completing them, but I always ended up reading or at my desk, writing. I’d sworn to myself last year that I would finally do it. That THIS would be the year. “Where did I put that list? Only six hours. Shoot.” I hurried to my desk and yanked open the drawers. My eyes darted back and forth as I shuffled through the contents. I slammed each drawer shut after my inspection, then searched on top of the desk. My hand bumped something and knocked it to the floor. “Oh. That’s where my phone went.” I grabbed the phone, unlocked it, and found my mom’s number. I turned in a circle as I waited for her to answer. Where did I put that? “Amy? Is everything okay?” “Mom. Yeah, everything is fine. Did I give you my paper from last year?” Silence. “Mom?” “Your paper from last year? That’s not very descriptive. What paper?” “You know, the one I wrote things down on that I wanted to accomplish this year?” My mother’s laugh tinkled through the phone. I dropped my head back and stared at the ceiling. “Mom, it’s not funny.” “I’m sorry,” she said, laughter still in her voice. “I don’t know why you bother.” “Mom.” I drew the word out, but grinned. I really wanted to shock everyone by completing my list this year. My accidental procrastination and forgetfulness was a constant amusement for everyone. “I told you to hang it up somewhere, so you’d see it every day to remind you.” “You did...” I ran to the kitchen, stumbling over the upturned carpet on the way, and eyed the papers on the fridge. “It’s not on the fridge.” “Is it under the fridge?” “Under? Why would it be... Hm. Let me check.” “Good luck. Love you, hon. I’ll see you tonight. Try not to be late. You promised.” “Ha. Thanks. I’ll try. Love you, Mom.” “And don’t forget. You promised to talk to Freddie.” “Mom, you know we didn’t part on good terms.” “Amy, it’s been how many years now? You’ve both changed. And you promised.” “I know, but-” “See you soon, hon.” My mom disconnected the call. “Ugh!” I tossed my phone onto the kitchen table as I got on my knees to check under the fridge. No paper. I let out a sigh as I pictured the gangly but adventurous teen Freddie had been the last time I saw him. His family had moved away because of his dad’s military job, but when his father retired, his parents had moved back. Freddie had had his own life by then. He served a four-year enlistment in the military and had even traveled to serve in orphanages with a missionary group. Everyone who knew him and still communicated with him praised his character to no end; but I didn’t need them to tell me. I followed his social media and knew he stood by his values and took after his parents with his integrity. I’d never admit it to anyone; I barely acknowledged it myself, but I envied his courage and drive to impact the world. The last thing he’d said to me was, “You’re too involved in your fiction worlds. You gotta get out and actually live some!” “Get out and live some,” I grumbled. “Humph. I’m quite content with my fictional worlds, thank you.” I did hope to make an impact, and I prayed that my writing would do that for me because it was something I felt called to do, and I loved it. My first book, When the Clock Strikes Twelve , was selling better than I expected, and the publisher had offered me a contract for the sequel. But there was still a part of me that I tried to ignore that wanted more from life. The only thing was, I was comfortable with what I had and didn’t want to rock the boat. I shook off thoughts of Freddie and my avoidance and crawled to the side of the fridge to check the space between it and the wall. A handful of bent papers sat leaning against the wall. “Ah!” I grabbed them, then sat back on my heels to flip through them. Old card. Grocery list. “Doodles? Why did I keep these?” I tossed each aside as I read it. Finally, at the bottom of the pile. “Ah-HA! Get ‘er done list.” Hang up photos Paint the bathroom Change the porch lightbulb Glue the coffee mug back together Straighten the picture above the fireplace Tack down the carpet so you don’t keep tripping Make it to the ball drop on time “Okay, that’s easy enough. Just no getting distracted.” Pepper sidled up next to me and rubbed against my hip. I scratched his back. “What should I start with?” Pepper mewed, and I pursed my lips. “Gluing the handle back on the mug? Alright.” I pushed myself up and rummaged through my junk drawer until I found the tube of superglue, then headed to the small room I’d converted to a library. My broken mug sat on the bookshelf, covered in dust. I’d placed it there to remind myself to fix it over a year ago. I scanned the books on the shelf. So many books, so little time. I fingered them, then pulled one off the shelf. I flipped the book open to chapter one and read it. As I turned the page, I shook my head and slapped it shut. “No. Focus.” I shoved the book back into its place and took the mug and broken handle to the kitchen. After I reattached the handle, I got a pen from the drawer and crossed that off the list. “One down, six to go. With...” I glanced at the clock and winced. “Five and a half hours.” After another look at the list, I decided to do the thing that would take the longest. Paint the bathroom. I skipped steps as I hurried to the basement to get the paint and supplies I’d purchased a few months ago. Once I had everything balanced in my arms, I clambered up the stairs and into the bathroom, trying not to let the tarp slip from where I’d wedged it between my side and elbow. I dumped everything in the bathroom and carefully avoided the upturned carpet as I ran to the living room to turn music on. I found the T.V. remote wedged between the couch cushions and selected the mix of my favorite songs, then turned the volume all the way up. Pepper ran from the room as the music blared through the house. I set a timer on my phone for eleven and propped it on the shelf before I changed into basketball shorts and an old t-shirt and laid the tarp out. Then I frowned at my supplies. I forgot to buy tape. Oh well. I’ll have to do without. And... I left the ladder in the basement. After I retrieved the ladder, I set it up, grabbed the cutting brush and set to work, meticulously cutting in against the ceiling. I lost myself in the process of edging and alternately singing along with the music and letting my mind wander back to my current writing project. As I started on the last side of the bathroom, a light caught my attention in my peripheral vision. I glanced at my phone to see my mom’s face on the screen. “Oh.” I tilted the paint cup a little too far as I climbed down from the ladder and paint dripped over the back of my hand. “Aw, man.” I grimaced as I answered with the speakerphone. “Hello?” “Amy? What’s that noise? I can barely hear you.” “Oh, my music. Hang on.” I turned the speakerphone off and shoved the phone between my shoulder and ear, bumping the paintbrush against my forehead in the process. “Dang it.” I balanced the paint cup on the sink and the paintbrush over the top of it, then ran to the living room. “Oof!” I dropped my phone as I stumbled over the carpet and reached for the remote. I jabbed the mute button, then recovered my phone. “Hello?” “What are you doing?” my mom asked. “Painting the bathroom.” “You’re... you found your list, I take it?” “I did.” “We started eating already.” Her roundabout way of telling me I was late. Again. “Um, I’ll be on time for the countdown.” “Amy.” The disappointment in her voice cut. “I’ll be there.” “Fine. Do you want some help?” “I can go,” a man offered. I couldn’t place the voice, but shook my head. “No. No, that’s fine. I’ll be okay.” “Okay.” She drew the word out with doubt. “For real.” “Alright, I’ll let you get back to it.” “Okay, bye.” I hung up and dropped my phone on the coffee table, unmuted the music, then started back to the bathroom, but paused and scowled at the rug. “I’ll take care of you first.” I headed back to my junk drawer, found a few nails and a hammer, and bopped my head to the music as I hammered the carpet down. When I returned the hammer to the drawer, I checked on the mug handle, which stuck very nicely, and headed back to the bathroom. It took about a half hour to finish edging the bathroom, then I used the roller on the walls. When I finished, I looked it over critically. It’ll need a second coat. I’ll give it an hour or so to dry, then I’ll come back. I jogged back down the steps to check my list again. It took no time at all to straighten the picture above the fireplace. Why did it take me till tonight to get this done? “Three and a half jobs done. Two and a half to go.” I glanced at the microwave clock that read seven fifteen. That doesn’t seem right, but I guess I got the first coat on faster than I thought. Now, for the photos. I retrieved the hammer again and more nails, then went in search of the picture frames. I found them on my closet floor with the photos already inserted. I wandered through most of the house before I decided on the stairway wall and hung them up. After that, I got a new light bulb and carried the ladder onto the porch. “Gah! It’s cold out here.” Pepper stepped onto the porch like he was going to follow me, but when his paw touched the dusting of snow, he scrambled back inside. I chuckled through a shiver as I quickly changed the lightbulb. I flicked the light on as I shoved the ladder back through the door, then nodded in satisfaction when a bright glow lit my porch and front steps. I carried the ladder back upstairs and my stomach rumbled as I checked the paint. A quick snack first, then I’ll finish up here. As I grabbed Oreos and peanut butter, I glanced at the clock again. Nine thirty. Plenty of time. I sank onto a stool with a sigh and enjoyed my snack. When the clock read nine forty-five, I went back upstairs to finish the second coat of paint. When I finished the last section of the wall, I opened the window. Across the street, everyone in the town hall was gathered around the T.V. with drinks in their hands. “Oh, no.” I searched the bathroom and patted my hips. Phone. Where’s my phone? “Living room.” I practically flew down the stairs. When I unlocked my phone, I had five missed calls and realized my loud music had drowned out my alarm. The time on my phone read eleven fifty-eight. It was only then that I remembered I had never changed the time on my microwave when we turned the clocks back in the fall. I slapped my hand to my forehead. “No! No. No. No.” I tossed my phone onto the couch, jammed my feet into my boots, and bolted from the house, slamming the door behind me. I was only crossing the street, but I grit my teeth against the cold and crossed my arms over my chest as I ran. When I barged into the town hall, everyone turned to stare at me. I bit my cheek and gently pushed the door shut. My long-time friend came over and shoved a glass at me. “You made it, but what in the world are you wearing?” I looked down to see I was covered in my paint-splattered basketball shorts and oversized t-shirt. “Oh. Busy night.” I laughed. “I thought I had more time than I did.” I scanned the room again and met the amused looks of my friends and neighbors who were mostly dressed for church, if not an elegant party. My friend shook her head as my mother approached. “Well, you made it,” Mom said with a smirk. “I didn’t think you would.” I shrugged. “I promised.” “Ten! Nine!” The people at the front of the crowd started. We all joined in the countdown. “Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!” We all raised our glasses and drank together. I hugged my mom and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Happy New Year, Amy.” A man’s voice. I turned to see Freddie, a hesitant smile on his bearded and very handsome face. My eyes widened as I looked him up and down. I’d seen him on video and knew he had grown up, but seeing him here before me was quite a different matter. My stomach twisted in knots and heat crept up my cheeks. “You’ve got a little something...” He pointed to my cheek, then chuckled and gestured at me. “Well, everywhere.” “What?” I looked down again and noticed the paint splatters on my legs and arms. I wished I could sink into the ground. As I looked back up, my eyes caught on a book he held under his arm. My book. My fiction book. I raised my eyes and met his gaze. He took the book out and held it up. “I’ve followed your writing. You’re really good. You do a great job sharing meaning and purpose through the characters’ journeys.” I blinked at him. Words. What are they? Do I know any? “Look, I wanted to apologize to you. I know what I said before we moved hurt you. I didn’t mean it that way, but it... I just meant,” he hesitated and shifted his feet. “Honestly, I was jealous of how much time you spent with your books.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It sounds ridiculous, but you were my best friend, and it seemed like all you ever wanted to talk about was books. I’ve wanted to contact you for years, but I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me. With the way you stormed off, I thought it would be better to apologize in person. I’m only sorry it took me so long. Do you think you could forgive me?” Forgive him? I nodded slowly. If he keeps this up, I just might kiss him. Sweat broke out on my forehead and I pressed a hand to my cheek. I can’t believe I just thought that! And about Freddie! He released a deep breath. “Thank you.” He smiled and my heart melted. He tilted his head toward the crowd, who had separated into groups of dancers and talkers. “Dance with me?” He had to remember that I couldn’t dance. Words finally returned to me. “But, I don’t-” “I don’t care.” He set my book on a table and held out his hand. I raised an eyebrow at him and he raised one right back at me, a playful challenge in his eyes. I squinted at him and he bowed. “Okay, then.” I grinned and, with exaggerated grace and dignity, placed my hand in his. A dance with Freddie hadn’t been on my list, but I wasn’t about to argue. He didn’t know it, but he’d just rocked my boat... and I didn’t mind one bit.

Sadie set the basket of rolls down on the table as the front door shut. "There," she whispered. "That should be it." "What's for sup?" Davy, her younger brother, asked. His frowsy brown hair hung in front of his soft green eyes. Sadie smiled down at him. "A beautiful rabbit stew Mama just finished cooking. Come, Davy. Let's see if we can mend your trousers any better." Looking up, she saw Papa standing in the doorway, taking his mittens off. "Good evening, children. Where is your mother?" he asked, his deep voice like the rumbling of thunder. "In the kitchen," Sadie replied as Davy ran into Papa's arms. "She used that rabbit you got this morning." After a few moments, Mama came out to announce supper. "Go warsh. Thank you for setting the table, Sadie. Hurry, Davy. After saying grace, Papa cleared his throat to signal he was about to say something as Mama dished the stew in the chipped, old bowls on the table. "Children, we must begin to head up to Oregon as soon as we can. I fear the trail may get worse as the year passes with all the snow and ice. I talked to a man today who is organising a wagon train. We leave in two weeks before the snow." "But, what about our first Christmas here?" Davy whined. Mama placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, dear, but in order to make it there before the bad weather we must leave very soon." "You promised!" he accused, sinking into his seat. "Oh, dear, we did. But we'll have our first Christmas out on the trail," she pointed out. "It's not the same," Davy grumbled back. "Watch your mouth, lad. You may enjoy your studies on the wagon again. Inside the warm, cozy wagon," Papa warned, taking a spoonful of the stew. "But what of horses, Papa? Or oxen? We sold the ponies when we got here so we could buy the house," Sadie asked, blowing on her steaming bowl. "I'll deal with the fact of that later, Sadie. For now, everyone eat. Hot meals may be harder since it will be in the winter," Papa ordered, bringing silence to the table. "Dear, don't frighten them," Mama pleaded. "Mama, Papa, please don't fight again!" Sadie begged as Davy looked sadly into his half empty bowl, his spoon sitting on the edge in a chip. "Silence, girl. Only speak when you're told," Papa boomed, slamming his fist down on the table. "But Papa-" Sadie began. "We let it go too long. If you are finished with your supper, you may go. No, either way, go to bed," Papa demanded. "No, darling. You just said yourself, that hot food may become more uncommon. Let her finish. Everyone must have at least second in order to, well, let her eat, John," Mama said quietly, looking down in her lap. "Are you on her side too, woman?" Papa growled, clutching his spoon so tight that his knuckles turned white. He looked down at it, noticing its wornness. "Go polish the silverware when you finish, then, Sadie." "I'll help you too, Sadie," Davy spoke up, now sitting up tall in his seat. "No, boy. Do as you are told, not as you please. I order you to read your Bible until your sister finishes. Maybe you will learn some good from it," Papa said, now eating and almost finished. "John, be gentle. He wants to help his sister," Mama cut in, letting her spoon fall onto the table with a clatter. "But May, the next thing you know he'll be wanting the dogs to ride in the wagon with us, he'll want his own pony, he'll want his own wagon soon enough!" Papa shouted, running his hands through his hair. "No I won't!" Davy cried. "Silence!" Papa boomed. "John, the only thing he'll want is love and a dog," Mama pleaded, exhausted from arguing. “See, he’s being needy and greedy and unthankful! He wants more than what he has when first he has to be thankful for what he gets,” Papa grumbled. “I wonder where he got it from!” Mama shouted indignantly. Father slammed his fist on the table again, causing everyone to jump. “Be quiet so I can eat my supper in PEACE!” he yelled. Again they became silent, only the clink of the spoons against the bowls and the sound of the wind outside could be heard. “Are you finished yet?” Mama asked Papa, taking Sadie’s and Davy’s dishes. “No, I’m not done yet,” Papa snapped. They became silent again, Mama waiting for Papa to finish. Davy twiddled his thumbs and almost began to whistle but caught himself. Sadie crossed and uncrossed her legs under the table, pretending to study dirt under her fingernails. “Who will take the first bath after I clean up the kitchen?” Mama finally asked, still standing over Papa’s chair as he purposely slowly ate his stew. “I will,” Davy said quietly. “Sadie still has sewing to do on my pants.” Mama lowered the bowls down. “Why, Davy?” “I fell off out of that old elm in the back and scraped myself on a root,” Davy admitted. Mama sighed. “Please be more careful, Davy.” Papa handed his bowl to Mama. “Yeah, Davy. Be careful or you’re not going to have any more pants left.” “Did you really have to say something?” Mama demanded. “Did you have to add on to it?” Papa shot back. Sadie, tears sliding down from her cheeks, whispered, "Why do you have to turn everything into a fight? Is our family going to be split up forever? Broken into pieces like this?" "No. No, of course not, child. We will put this family back together if it breaks our necks and backs to do so," Mama replied, tears streaming down her own face. "Maybe I was a bit harsh, and I don't mean most of it. I'm just nervous about the trip, I suppose. But, don't worry you two. This family is together. Together forever," Papa said softly, wrapping them in a big bear hug with his long arms. "Together forever," Davy whispered. "I like the sound of that."

A man dies. Death comes to collect him and tell him of his eternal fate. When the man reaches the afterlife, he is first startled and then smug to find that the afterlife has all the comforts he had hoped it would have and he is content in the knowledge that surely he’d gone to Heaven for Hell was said to be full of tortures that surpassed anything mankind could think up. Even as he came down from his haze of smug self satisfaction for what he saw as God agreeing with him and thus allotting him a special place in Heaven, he was greeted with the sight of dishes upon dishes being brought out, all by the most beautiful men and women he had ever seen. The only thought that greeted the man as they lifted the lids of the dishes of different and delicious looking foods was that he deserved this. He was right. He didn’t notice anything was off until he had been there for time immeasurable and he went to once more bite into a slice of pie that was literally exactly how his mother used to make. Instead of the flavors that he expected to greet him, he tasted nothing but ash. Frowning and taking a bite of another dish, he tasted the same flavor. It was exactly the same flavor. Ash. He started to notice that while what he ate still filled his stomach comfortably, he could no longer taste any of it. All he could taste no matter what he ate or drank was ash. He was put off by it and stopped eating soon after it was proven that he could no longer taste the flavors that he knew he had tasted when the feast started. He soon found other pleasures to occupy his time, the main one being the pleasures of the flesh. He had a far better time than he did in life and he thought that surely if things like this were in Heaven that God had no problem with him vigorously partaking. He did so and as he moved from person to person taking what he wanted, he began to feel less and less. Soon no matter what he did, no matter that he had been given the stamina of a man in his prime, he could not satiate himself. He always wanted more and the encounters became increasingly unsatisfying. He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself that he felt these encounters less and less. He didn’t want to face it when he realized that he finally felt nothing despite how good it had all felt when he had started. Slowly, the pleasures of the flesh were stripped of their pleasure and he abandoned such things, for surely there were still plenty of things for him to enjoy in the afterlife. It wasn’t until he had gone through the multiple (and at one time, enjoyable) aspects of the afterlife that he realized that he had nothing left to do, for everything he had once enjoyed had become a chore. Nothing that he enjoyed still existed as it had when he had first come here. Nothing caught his interest like it used to. The afterlife had become bland instead of pleasurable and he was left with bland, beautiful, boring people who only ate and partook of the pleasures of the afterlife as if they could still taste and feel them. It was at this point that the man realized that this was his reality for the rest of existence. He then began to realize that despite what he initially thought, he had not gone to Heaven or any incarnation of such a thing. He had gone to hell, surrounded by the joys of life and unable to enjoy partaking in any of it. It was only then that the man began to regret. Too bad for him that regret did nothing to get one out of their deserved fate. He had every pleasure he’d enjoyed in life slowly taken away from him until he had nothing left and that was to be his existence from then on. The man did not rage, nor cry, nor even react at the realization of what his eternal existence now was, for he no longer cared. He was empty.

-1- I met her for the first time today. She's wonderfully lovely and funny. I should get to know her better. -2- She came to visit me again. Her smile is enough to warm my heart. For the first time, I dont feel so alone. -3- Her hands brush mine and my skin is hot. I watch her as she watches the screen. Her eyelashes flutter. I could get used to this. -4- Afterwards, she traces my face and holds me close. Her bare skin against mine is comforting. Our chests rise and fall together. She makes my life so much better. -5- We go out together. I cant help but hold her hand. I want to protect her. She is mine and I am hers. -6- We are no longer separate for very long. She follows me, I follow her. I watch her face. She lights my soul up when she looks at me. -7- I don't remember the last time we were alone. But I wouldn't want it any other way. I want to create a family with her. She agrees. -8- She wants to go out with her friends. I see the way she dresses when she leaves and it makes me sick. I watch her come and go. -9- She's busy. Even when she's here, she's not here. She's mine, but I'm more alone than I ever was. -10- She touches me and I light up. I remember how good we are, how good we feel together. I don't think I can survive without her. -11- She is separating herself from me. I can feel it. I've gotten myself stuck. I need her to keep going. -12- She says there's nothing wrong. She's lying. She doesn't pay attention to me like she used to. -13- She goes out. If she looks like that someone will take her from me. She's mine. I need her. -14- She tells me she's taking a step back. She tells me she loves me. She tells me she doesn't want a family. I don't know what to believe. -15- She tells me she cant do this anymore. She tells me she can't commit. I need her. She can't leave me. -16- She's gone. ~~~~ -1- I met him at the beach. He's cute. I give him my number. -2- I seem to be spending more time with him. The more I get to know him, the more I like him. -3- I'm with him. I watch films, he watches me. How odd. -4- I sleep with him. I touch his face and tell him he's handsome. His curls fall over his face and my heart strings tug. -5- We go out. His crooked smile warms me. My hand holds his and I am at peace. -6- He makes me laugh and I reward him with a kiss. My life is carefree, bright and happy. I am safe. -7- I have no commitments but to him. I am with him always. He wants a family. In the future, I tell him. -8- I haven't seen my friends in ages. I am going out drinking with them. They dress me and pull me away. I watch his eyes storm as I leave. -9- I start work again. Life becomes hectic but I am still safe. He is still here with me. We do our best. -10- I miss holding him, so I do. I miss touching him, so I do. He is sad, but I am trying to help. -11- I see my friends more often. I am working, I am productive, I am happy. I wish he was too. -12- He questions me about my intentions, my whereabouts, my actions. He questions my integrity. There's nothing wrong with my actions. -13- I get ready to go out with my friends. I listen to him rage about my clothes. I go anyways. Its not his decision. -14- I feel like he's trying to control my life. I can't let that happen. I need more space to exist. I no longer feel safe. -15- I tell him I can't be with him anymore. I refuse to be caged by a man when I can be free forever. He'll make it without me. -16- I leave.

Last night, while asleep upstairs in bed. I was startled awoke by the sound of something heavy hitting the living room floor. Mere seconds went by, then the sound of what appeared to be a chair falling over. I just lied there, too afraid to get up. All I could do was listen. I started to hear footsteps moving slowly throughout my house. After a few seconds, the heard the sound of a plate crashing to the floor in the kitchen. Is someone in my house? Do I have a poltergeist? Am I gonna die? These questions raced through my head. I thought about calling 911. But, I realized, I couldn’t, because I accidentally left my phone in the car like an idiot. Lightning crashed outside my bedroom window, lighting up the skies, as the thunder roared on and the rain came pouring down. For a moment, my mind got swept away in the soothing sounds of the falling rain. I started to doze off again. I was just about to fall back asleep, when the sound of creaking stair steps jolted me conscious from my rain induced slumber. Someone or something was coming up the stairs. I pulled the blankets up over my head and lied there, shaking, sweating, and praying for this thing to go away. CREAK!! -- CREAK!! -- CREAK!! Suddenly, the creaking stopped. I knew it had reached the top of the stairs, and was mere feet away from my bedroom door. Second went by, I heard the sound of a small tap on my bedroom door, causing it to slowly creak open With my back to the door, I could hear slow gentle footsteps enter my bedroom, then stop almost immediately. I could feel a presence within the room. I could feel eyes beaming through the darkness and deep into my soul. My body began to shake with fear. My heart beating fast, as if it was about to burst right out of my chest. Another lightning crash, frightened me. I screamed. Suddenly, I felt an enormous weight come crashing down upon my back, pushing me stomach first down into the bed. This thing was now on top of me I screamed again I started to squirm in a feeble attempt to free myself. I screamed at it. “STOP, GET OFF OF ME!!!” But, it didn’t stop. It didn’t move. I felt it’s forearm land hard on the side of my head, forcing my face down into the pillows. I felt it’s hot, wretched breath on the back of my neck. I couldn’t breathe. I knew I was gonna die. Through all the fear and chaos, I somehow remembered what my father used to say, “If you’re going down, you better go down swinging.” I took his words, and with a primal scream, I mustered up every ounce of strength I had within my being. I thrust back against this thing, finally flinging it off of me. What followed after that, was a loud thud on the bedroom floor. I quickly reached for the lamp on my nightstand, turning it on, and turning back around, just as this things head began to rise from the side of the bed. I was soon face to face, eye to eye with this...this monster. We stared at each other for what seemed like forever. It’s eyes, black as night, it’s teeth, as sharp as the devils blade. Finally, I sighed and said, “Buster...You’re one heavy dog.

“All right, honey,” he said. “Are you ready to do this thing?” “Hun-nee,” she replied, smiling. “Good,” he said. “Could you hand me that screwdriver?” “Daddy!” she said, pointing at him happily. “Yes, I’m daddy,” he replied. “And that is a screwdriver--could you hand it to me, please?” “Peas,” she said, picking up the screwdriver. “Fowk.” “No, that’s not a fork,” he said. “Screwdriver.” “Bottow,” she said, handing him the screwdriver. “You don’t get bottles anymore, remember?” he said, twisting a stubborn screw into place. “You get a cup now.” “Cup,” she repeated. “That’s right,” he said. “But you didn’t want a cup, so now we’re down here in daddy’s workshop.” “Bottow?” “No, sweetheart,” he said. “Could you hand me that sifter there?” She picked up the sifter and said, “Boon?” “No, that’s a sifter, not a spoon,” he said, taking the proffered sifter. “Thank you.” “Day-doo,” she giggled--her version of *thank you* always good for a laugh--before suddenly running across the shop. “Take it easy, squirt,” he said, directly before she skidded to a stop in front of a teetering stack of books. “Whoa,” she said, steadying herself with the help of a low-hanging unicorn-bedazzled backpack she had insisted stay in the workshop. “*Whoa*,” she said again, looking beyond the book-stack into the shiny steel box behind. “Careful, now,” he said, swiveling in his seat to face her. “That’s uranium.” “Nanium,” she said. “That’s right,” he said, proudly. “Well done! Now, If you could--” “Nominoes!” she squealed, distracted by the multitude of multicoloured dominoes she had earlier strewn across the shop. “Yes, honey, but right now daddy needs the uranium. Could--” “Nanium,” she said, picking up a purple-dotted domino. “Greem!” “No, that’s purple.” “Purpo,” she said, picking up another, this one both yellow and pink. “Ornange!” “No--that’s yellow and pink.” “Pink!” she said. “And yellow.” “Yeyo,” she said, reverently. “And that’s uranium,” he said, smiling and pointing at said uranium. “Could you bring that to daddy, please?” “Peas,” she repeated, making her way around the books before stopping. “Heaby.” “Heavy, yes it is,” he said. “But you’re *strong*, aren’t you?” “Heaby,” she repeated. “Show me your muscles,” he said, encouragingly. Her face contorted and her arms shot out in front of her, little twigs of effort terminating into acorn-sized clenched fists. “Mussos!” she said, proudly. “Good girl,” he said. “Now, pick up that uranium and bring it to daddy.” “Haew,” she said, showing off her pigtails. “Yes, that’s your hair all right,” he said. “Let’s stay focused here, kiddo: bring daddy the uranium?” “Nanium?” she said, palms raised. “Nanium?” “It’s right behind you, honey.” “Hun-nee,” she said, smiling. “Behind you,” he said, pointing. She turned and looked at the uranium, then turned back. “Nanium?” she asked, palms again raised. “Look, sweetheart,” he said, crouching to her level. “If you’re not going to have a nap, you’re going to have to help daddy with his work, okay?” “Nap,” she said. “Miwk!” “You want some milk?” he asked, thinking she might be persuaded to have a nap after all. “Daddy will get you some milk!” “Nooo!” she yelped playfully. “Nooo! No! No!” she continued, running toward the dominoes. “Purpo.” “That’s green, honey.” “Greem,” she said. “Mommy?” “Mommy’s at work.” “Papa?” she said, raising her palms yet again. “Grandpa’s at home.” “Gamma?” she asked. “Honey,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Didn’t we agree that gamma-rays were too unstable to properly configure a bomb of this magnitude? Remember, sweetie? That’s why daddy went and got all this expensive x-ray equipment: because you took one look at the schematic and said *no gamma*.” She frowned. “Gamma?” she asked again, looking around. “I told you,” he said, standing up. “No gamma.” “Papa?” He sighed. “Grandpa’s at his house.” “Gamma?” “Wait,” he said. “Are you saying *grandma*?” “GAMma!” she said, smiling. “Well, grandma’s with grandpa,” he said, absently. “Have you been saying *grandma* this entire time?” “Doggie,” she said, pointing at the stairs. “You mean to tell me that I changed the entire operational system of this bomb based on you looking for grandma?” “DOG-gie!” “Yes, the dogs are upstairs,” he said, brushing a gaggle of crayons off the blueprints. “X-rays aren’t going to work at all, are they?” “UMMMMM,” she said, looking around the shop for something she knows the name of. “And it’s not like I can just trade this stuff back in,” he said, fastening his hands to his hips. “Bwoom,” she said. “Sorry, honey,” he said, sadly. “It doesn’t look like we’re going to be making a boom after all.” “Bwoom!” she said again, pulling on his shirt. “I know,” he said. “I’m disappointed too.” Frowning, she ran off towards the stairs while he glowered at his half-completed bomb. “Bwoom!” she said yet again, returning to jab him in the ribs with something hard. “Yes, dear,” he said, looking at her and her weapon. “That’s a broom.” She handed the broom to him and crouched, patting the floor with an open hand. “Mess,” she said. “Oh, it’s a terrible mess,” he said. “The whole thing’s a terrible, terrible--hold on. Is that what you meant when we first came down here, sweetheart? Broom?” “Mess,” she repeated, jabbing her finger at the floor. “Eew.” “You just wanted me to clean up my workshop?” “Keen,” she said, pulling the broom away from him. “Oh,” he said, watching her manipulate the broom in a vain attempt to clean up daddy’s mess. “Hey, honey?” “Hun-nee,” she said, smiling. “How about we go get some ice cream?” “Ice keem!” she said, clapping and running towards the stairs.

The rookie gathered his gear as Bert told him “time to go to work son.” It was early morning, around 0600 hours, sun wasn’t coming up for another hour or so. Bert fired up the crown vic and the Rookie jumped in the passenger seat. Still fixing up his gun belt. It was the dead of winter. Feet of snow and blistering cold. The Rookie had no idea what was going on. He had no idea the next few hours would change his damn life forever. Bert usually rode shotgun, ever since the Rookie could be trusted to drive. He fumbled around for the lights and sirens. “What’s going on?” The Rookie asked. “Sarg said he needs us on the highway by the old mill.” Natural fear crept in and the Rookie swallowed it down. It was foggy and the drive seemed to take forever. No one was on the road that early, especially with the recent snowfall. The Rookie looked out the window at the snow covered pine trees passing. He loved this time of year. “Looks like the Sarg’s rig up there” The Rookie jumped out of the passenger seat and approached the police truck. The driver’s side door was open and the red and blues were flashing. Bert called it in. The Rookie had a real bad feeling as he peered into the pickup. Sarg wasn’t there. The Rookie motioned to Bert, he had to see the confused look on his face. The Rookie followed the tracks in the snow. Into the thick fog. He wasn’t sure just how far he had gone. The fog was so disorienting. He heard Bert try to reach Sarg on the radio. “Dispatch, what was sam 5-9 responding to out here?” “Anonymous caller stated they saw a female walking on the roadway, requested a welfare check.” The Rookie overheard the traffic as he followed the footprints in the snow. His eyes doubled open as he saw a second smaller pair of footprints appear next to Sarg’s. “Robert 2-5, I got another set of tracks up here!” The Rookie keyed in. No response. He knew his handheld radio wouldn’t reach dispatch; but why wasn’t Bert answering. The Rookie heard static and could make out a familiar ten code: “Rob -5 10-9 son I can’t copy yourr.. Rad... tr... ic.” “I’m gonna turn back” The Rookie thought out loud. He shuffled around in the deep snow and started heading back towards the way he came. Something in his gut told him to turn around NOW. He caught a glimpse of a figured dressed in white. The Rookie drew his 9mm service pistol. “Sarg?” his voice cracked. A faint whisper echoed all around him. Throughout the tall pine trees. Someone else was here and it sure as hell wasn’t moving around like a normal human being. The Rookie took a sharp deep breath feeling the cold chill in his lungs. He pulled his beanie down. Loosened and then tightened the grip on his pistol. He began following the two sets of footprints further into the foggy abyss. It wasn’t many yards further when he saw what looked like a scuffle in the snow. He could tell where a large male, Sarg, had fallen down. He could see blood drops and lung tissue sprayed across the white snow. The Rookie stood there for a minute trying to muster up some courage. Sarg’s footprints didn’t go any further. The smaller set of footprints continued into the darkness, and they were dragging something heavy. MOVE! The Rookie began running back towards the vehicles and where he figured Bert had to be. It wasn’t a dozen steps he took before something knocked him down. He began clawing at the snow in front of him trying to crawl away. He felt the skin just below his knees peel away. Claws puncturing his calf muscles and pulling him the opposite way he so desperately wanted to go. He felt a separate set of claws, had to be feet, push on to his torn calf muscles. He could feel the weight of something heavy. The weight held him in place. The Rookie turned his head to see what was on top of him holding him down. It was like a little girl but with sharp razor like teeth. Black hair and black eyes. It’s arms were skinny and long. At the end of the arms were long fingers with bloody claws. The damned thing just sat there crouched down staring at him. It cocked it’s head sideways shifting it’s jaw open and from side to side. The Rookie lifted his trembling hand and pointed his weapon at it. It lowered its head and giggled. Kind of like a girl, but it had a deep devilish voice. With both hands it started tearing into The Rookie’s gut. The Rookie lowered his hand.. And squeezed the trigger.

In an ocean of starlight, on an ancient wooden rowboat stained with centuries of service, we sail in solitude through the night sky, towards the After. There is no scenery here. No mountains to frame the world, nor seas to divide it. The rower drives an ore into the shadows and ink laps against the sides. On this final voyage, conversation does not flow as freely as the water in which it takes place. The passenger usually studies the stars in silent contemplation, while the rower rows. Eventually, an invisible milestone is spotted amongst the shadows and the ore is lifted. The boat lulls idle for a moment, before being swept by the current, evermoving to the After. “Not far now,” the ferryman’s voice is hoarse. “I s’pose you already know what you’re doing here.” I nod. “And where you’re off?” I nod again. The ferryman, a cloaked figure around the height of a small tree, takes a seat on the bench across from me. Their countenance is disfigured by shadows, but the reflections of starlight reveal a lifetime’s worth of wrinkles. “I must warn you; I’ve been doing this job for a while, and I’ve seen all sorts of things. You try to jump, try to swim, try anything, you’ll soon regret it. Anything but complete obedience won’t be tolerated. Is that clear?” I nod. “Good. Now, I’ve no interest in introductions. You do this as long as I have, and you’ll have heard every name in the book. I do have something to share with you, though.” I flick my gaze from the sea. The ferryman is a strange creature of abstract shape and shifting size, though its discernable head and shoulders and general silhouette resemble that of a human and do little for its divinity. Beneath the cloak could be my grandmother, withered and frail, or my brother, who stood at six feet, four inches in his youth. “On the way to the After, everybody is offered the chance to relive a single memory. In this memory, you can do and say whatever you like. You’re no longer bound by the laws of time and objective reality, but there are three rules,” the ferryman says. I expect a wave of dread, of sorrow, of regret for the opportunities that passed by like ships in the night. Instead, an aching absence. “Most people use their memory as a chance to say goodbye, let someone know that they’re not coming back. Others use it to speak with a loved one that they haven’t seen for some time. Last week, a boy took his dog for one last walk...” the ferryman’s shoulders drop, and they sniff a breath. “You can also use it to fix a mistake. Right some wrongs. It’s a lot easier to get into the After with a clear conscience, believe me.” “The rules?” I ask. “Oh, the rules. Yes, the rules,” the ferryman remarks. “The first rule is that it must be a true memory. Number two, you can’t do anything world shattering. If your memory is a tour of the White House and you fancy pressing the big red button, you won’t be accepted into the After. Clear?” I nod. “The last one,” they sigh and study the ripples that the boat creates on the water as it passes through. “You can’t stay.” The ferryman says. “At some point, you’ll return here. No matter what. The second your mind departs from that moment, you’ll come straight back to the boat. Just...” They pause and nod their head, “try to enjoy it.” The ferryman reaches their arms across the length of the boat and a hand emerges from either sleeve. I take them in mine. The ferryman has rough palms, birthed from centuries of labour and love for this strange sailboat on a strange sea. “So, where you headed?” “The beach,” I hear myself say. “In Barcelona. The sun is setting, and my feet are bare in the sand, and jazz music is pouring from the windows of a nearby cocktail bar, and she is there, and I have her hand in mine, and...” My words ebb away and the sweet scent of suncream and freshly cooked seafood surfaces. I press my eyes closed. Hot sand singes my heels and beads of sticky sweat pool on the collar of my linen shirt. The scaly hand in mine is now soft and plump and cool. I trace her varnished fingernails with the tip of my thumb, and then her knuckles and the veins protruding on the top of her hand, and I am reminded that this is false. She is not real. She is not here. She is at home, hopefully asleep in her bed, with the electric blanket on and a dog-eared book on the nightstand, waiting for a phone call to tell her that I had to stay at the office, once again, and that I am on my way home. And then she squeezes my hand. “What are you doing?” She asks. I keep my eyes closed out of fear. “Babe?” “Just walking.” I manage. “Open your eyes,” a honey-sweet giggle rolls through her - I could drink the sound. “Look, the sun’s setting.” I peel them open. Vibrant daylight fills my head and, in being blinded by the sun for the final time, I am reminded of my agonizing reality. But, as the glare fades and my vision clears, she comes into focus. A captivating beauty crafted with wild locks spun from onyx, sapphire eyes peppered with starlight, and round cheeks so full of life. A delicate breeze catches her hair and, on its passing, delivers the light aroma of her perfume. I let it surround me and inhale enough that a whisper of the scent nestles within the crevice of my mind. I make a mental note to use sparingly. She slows her steps and I stop. I remember what happened here, she asked me to stay and watch the sunset, but I wanted to go back to the room and get ready for dinner. “Let’s stop here for a moment,” I say, before she gets the chance. “Watch the sunset with me?” Her face illuminates. We lower ourselves onto the sand and she lays down, resting her head on my lap. I should have stayed. Sunlight bleeds into the ocean, staining the sky with scarlet streaks, and another day is stolen by the horizon. Violet blooms in the absence of the sun as the embers of its dying light are swept away with the current. I can feel my mind slipping, as though the After has wrapped a wire around my thoughts and is starting to pull. I dip my finger into the cooling sand and write ‘STAY’. “What do you want to do tonight?” she sits up and asks as dusk sets in. Tonight . The word twists my stomach and I long for the absence of feeling once more. Tonight. We went to a restaurant and then to bed. She finished reading her book and I had another late night at the office. “We can think about that later, let’s just stay here for a while longer. Let time pass.” How much time? Not enough. Never enough. I reach for her hand and pull it up to my mouth, grazing her knuckles with my lips and gripping. If I squeeze hard enough, maybe this will become real or maybe I will wake from a terrible dream and she will be lay beside me, her sleeping face illuminated by strips of moonlight peering between the gaps in the blinds. The silhouette of her hips will be cast on the wall and she will have the entire duvet pulled to her side, but it would be okay, I would let her keep it. I place a delicate kiss on each finger and then the back of her hand and her wrist and the inside of her elbow. I stroke my hand against her cheek and brush a kiss on both eyelids. She breathes a laugh against my skin and every hair stands to attention. She tucks her hair behind her ear, and I follow her lead, barely touching my lips to the base of her neck and drinking in her cherry-cola perfume. After some time, she pushes me away with a smirk and a raised brow. She stands over me and brushes the sand from her shorts. I push myself up and hold my hand in hers. She slips her fingers between mine and we walk along the sea, our path illuminated by distant streetlights that line the nearby promenade. The sea is in slumber now, and reflected on its ripples is the glow of a full moon. Her eyes study the coast. What thoughts does it conjure in her wonderful mind? She once told me that her thoughts appeared in colour, rather than an internal voice. It must have been lonely, I used to think. Having since visited a place so absent from colour, sailed on an ocean of black, I now realise that we who think in words are the lonely ones. “So...” she says, though her mind is elsewhere. “Have you thought about what we’re doing tonight?” That invisible wire tugs again and my mind drifts. Our time together is coming to an end and the hole where my heart should be throbs. I prepare for a tsunami of thoughts, but nothing comes. The steady thrum of her heart beats through her hand against my palm. I search for something to say. Anything. I try to form the words ‘I love you’, attempt to describe just how beautiful she is, warn her of the accident and prepare her heart for the impending news. I breathe a tentative breath and consider a goodbye, and then I envision her eyes darkening and her cheeks sinking and her mind becoming plagued with the same voice that infects everybody else’s. She is untouched by death. She has no pain lingering in the shadows, nor a heavy heart brimming with grief ready to overflow at any given moment. I could never do that to her. To say goodbye now would be to stain the rest of her life with a minute, almost undetectable speck of black. “You once asked me, if my life was a painting, what colours would be in the palette.” I say, finally. She turns, her brows furrowed. “I remember.” “Well, the palette would be made up entirely of--” My mind flashes with shadows of memories. No. No. No. All of the late nights at the office. A blonde one with long legs. A green-eyed one with auburn hair. A short one with tanned skin. And I am transported back to the boat. Her hands are no longer in mine and her face is nowhere to be seen, but the scent of her perfume lingers.

Space Adventure To Paradise (And Back) What, where am I? My head feels so strange, like a clamp is pressing in on either side of my face. So this must be space.. Tim’s eyes darted around through his helmet to the great blackness beyond. After a minute, he could see little dots of light, but they seemed very far away. He felt compressed in his space suit, and wriggled in it as best as he could, seeking a sense of freedom, but the part encasing his feet was so heavy. Of course, to combat weightlessness. Suddenly, Tim felt a heightening of reality accompanied by fear. Would he be out here until his death? How could he get back into the rocket where he had been before, no one was there to pull him back into the cabin. He thought back, how unexpected and sad to have Bill die. Bill had a painful accident too, impaled by some sharp equipment. They had set up a sharp stake to hold important papers down, but no one thought of the potential hazard for the weightless astronauts bouncing around the cabin. Tim took pictures, even through his shock, to establish it was an accident, and not something more sinister. Then somehow his effort to check the rocket was able to go forward went really wrong. He was locked outside. Tim must have blacked out for a moment and become disoriented. Action. I need to busy myself with a plan. Tim moved gently towards the cabin holding the rope that was attached to him, the rope that was pressed into the locked door of the cabin. He was like a balloon on the end of a string, so it wasn’t easy to move in towards the cabin door. At last he reached it. He tried to pull the door open, but as he did, the rope tore. He began to float slightly away from the spaceship into the darkness beyond. He moved slower in space than he ever thought he would. I feel utterly alone. I’m going to die here alone. Just as Tim was thinking this, a golden flame began to bolt quickly towards him from a distance. He saw as it approached closer, that it was a wondrously strong-looking angel! This angel also resembled the medieval Italian artists’ depiction of angels except its hair was living and moving all the time, as if made of warm fireplace flames. The angel stood before him, fiery hair dancing, golden robes rippling, and gestured to Tim to remove his helmet. At first Tim’s eyes were incredulous, then stern, as he refused. The angel just looked at him, nodding patiently. Then he thought about his options. I’m bound to die soon. I might as well have company, and follow this apparition. Tim removed his helmet. He knew he should feel like he was being drowned, or being smothered, but he did not! He felt freedom and peace. He also felt like he was looking down on himself from somewhere higher. The angel put one golden hand on his arm, and they both flew up and away from his helmetless body and the spaceship. The angel reassured him that all who he had left behind would be just fine. Tim noticed his senses were so enhanced. He really felt like he was living for the first time, and the life he thought he had before was some form of pale, suffocated phony existence. He could see 360 degrees around him. If this was death, why had he ever been afraid? He could breathe, he saw colors he never knew existed. Reds deeper than scarlet, wilder than magenta, yellows brighter than can be described, greens that topped the most beautiful aurora borealis photographs. Tim had knowledge of all around him. He also had knowledge of his past life, and those he had known. It was like a woven tapestry in his mind of how his actions had affected others for good and for bad, all the connections to other people. He felt so very alive. He was ready for wherever the angel was leading him. They arrived at a beautiful place, all roses and lush gardens, and there in the middle of a distant garden stood a magnificently beautiful woman surrounded by many children. She shone like an angel, and yet, she seemed human. He wanted to meet her, but the angel led him away. There were waterfalls and many flower gardens, angelic creatures and happy people enjoying the perfect weather. Everything smelled better, looked brighter, felt more real than ever before. Tim spotted Bill, who waved to him joyfully as he joined some people who looked like they could be Bill’s relatives. Tim followed the angel, marveling at everything, and how his legs didn’t feel tired at all, though they had walked a long way, and leaving the suit was usually exhausting. Tim felt like he could walk forever if need be. The angel seemed to be enjoying guiding Tim around. Then Tim met with someone greater, someone he knew was The One. The One saw right through him, and told him he was going back, because his mission was incomplete. The One said, “We brought you here, so you would know you are never utterly alone. I’m always holding you. You have to know how your life affects others too. You have just a little more time to make it right.” Then The One showed him many things, like why there were mosquitoes plaguing humans, why the dinosaurs died out and when, why the human mind can help heal the body, and so many things He could read in Tim's mind the desire to know. Tim listened, then wept a cleansing kind of weeping, overwhelmed with the knowledge, and the beauty, and the mercy of it all. He would never doubt again. He then began to weep sadly, because he did not want to return to complete his mission on earth. He knew those who loved him would be just fine without him. The angel had told him so. So why couldn’t he stay? He tried to ask to stay, but the words wouldn’t come out. He knew it was no use. It was as if The One answered his request in Tim's head. As the angel led him back from Paradise the long distance to the rocket lingering in space below, Tim asked it how he could return to earth. The angel said, “You should know by now if The One sends you back, you will safely return.” Tim accepted what was happening, and watched the streaking comets and the meteor showers with a heightened sense of awareness and appreciation. As they approached his body, Tim suddenly felt a bit deflated. He was going back to the world, that was a miserable pale shadow of the one he had just left. He reentered his body, but learned it was different to unite soul and body now. As he buckled the floating helmet onto his head, he realized there was a warm, pleasant burning inside of him, a new peace. He still retained the vivid memory of where he had been, and all that had been said to him. He would never be the same, and if others on earth didn’t understand, that was okay. He knew. He knew what his mission was, and how to live each moment of his life. Above all, he knew he needed to return to The One to stay. The angel led him to the entrance, and opened the rocket door for Tim. Tim calmly entered, knowing his return to earth would be viewed as a miracle, then probably quickly forgotten by most. But he would never forget.

********** **MOM** by Nathan Graham Davis ********** “Mom.” “Yes, Caelan.” “What’ll...” Caelan let his eyes drift to a chip in the wall opposite him, losing himself in the pale blue dicarbonene. Sweat pooled under the crude weight between his legs; he’d need to mop before inspection. “Something bothering you?” “What’s going to happen to you when I graduate?” Mom let out a sigh she’d been holding in for ages, despite her lacking the capacity to breathe. “You know, I used to think I was prepared for this conversation.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” His tone was more demanding than he’d intended, but he didn’t apologize. She appeared on the wall before him, the chip pocking her cheek, her chestnut hair framing her face in the way that usually made him feel at home. But right now, something was amiss. “Finish your routine. We can speak after you shower.” Caelan said nothing. He now feared more than ever the answer to his question and found himself wishing he’d never asked it. “Caelan.” “Yes, Mom.” Caelan shut off the scalding water. He reached through the curtain for his towel and dried himself, goosebumps raising the hairs on his red, raw skin. The hairs were darker now, reflecting other changes in his body, changes most foster boys welcomed as they awaited their 6,000th day, eager to discover what would become of their lives. He found himself thankful for the privacy of the shower. With nowhere else in the room that he could truly be alone, he dragged out the minutes beneath the water these days. He guessed Mom knew how he was using the extra time, but she never asked and he certainly never brought it up. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the stall, the floor robbing his feet of their warmth. “So you said we could talk?” He had only a few minutes before Lessons, Sport, and Contribution would consume the rest of his day and he couldn’t see facing them with his question unanswered. Not now that it he’d asked it. He opened the laundry machine in the wall to a blast of sharp-smelling steam. Mom faded in beside it as he took out the same pair of underwear that he’d worn since he outgrew the last one some 700 days ago. “We were never going to be together forever, Caelan. You must have expected that.” He had braced for such words, but they still gave him a tightness beneath the ribs and a swelling in the throat. He nodded as he slipped his underwear on beneath the towel, doing his best to appear brave, “You have to stay behind to take care of the next one.” “No, they’ll spawn a new Mom for the next child to ensure a true bond. When you graduate, I’ll be placed into sleep mode for two-thousand days.” “I won’t see you for two-thousand days?” His voice broke just enough to betray his distress. Mom paused and spoke her next words softly, “After the sleep period, when it’s unlikely our memories will be needed again, most Moms are decommissioned.” Caelan stood up straight and looked her in the eye. The towel lost its grip on his waist and crumpled to the floor, “What?” “We’re cost a considerable amount to run. The price of war is ever-growing.” “They’re gonna kill you?” “Please, Caelan. That’s too harsh a word --“ “It’s murder!” “I’m an A.I.” “You’re my Mom!” “Caelan.” “How can you be okay with this?” “My directive is to ensure you grow into a fine Citizen of The State and I do believe you’ll be a legacy of which I can be proud.” She offered him a smile. He didn’t return it. “They’re not taking you from me.” Her face became stern, “Mind your arrogance. The State has fed you, clothed you, and educated you since before you were 1,000 days. You know exactly how they would respond to such ungratefulness.” Caelan fought the tears that pooled in his eyes. “You said ‘most’ Moms are decommissioned. What about the others?” “Put on your uniform. The door will be opening soon.” “Mom!” “It’s okay, Caelan. This has always been my fate.” “Why won’t you tell me?” “Because it rarely happens. On occasion when a graduate is assigned a Class One role, they will negotiate with The State to purchase their Mom.” “Only Class Ones?” The hope was leaving his voice. “Put on your shirt, Caelan. I’m not asking.” She continued as Caelan reached into the laundry and pulled out his shirt, “The price is prohibitive for all but the highest incomes. I would never want you to bear the burden of that cost, even if you were assigned to Class One.” “You know I’ll never score that high.” “If for some reason you don’t -- pants, please -- you’ll make one of the best soldiers The State has ever seen.” “That’s if I choose to fight for them.” “Enough!” Mom paused just long enough to calm herself, “If you care about me at all, you will lose this dangerous attitude of yours immediately.” A bell sounded in time with a light above the door. “Put your pants on. Hurry.” The unit’s door swung open. Caelan stood outside it, grime from the day’s toil smudging his uniform. He took two steps forward and with the chime of a bell, the door snapped shut behind him, locking in place. “Welcome home, Beloved.” “Hey, Mom.” He took another step into the tiny, rectangular room, peeling off his shirt and letting it fall to the floor. “Caelan, you know better than to --,” her voice rose in alarm, “What happened to your face?” His brow was cut open, a bruise already pooling beneath the eye. “Not right now, okay?” He fell to his bed, sprawled shirtless across the same sheets he’d used for as long as he could remember. Threadbare, frayed, and yellowed beyond hope, they remained the only thing that brought him comfort. The only thing besides Mom. She appeared on the wall by the bed, lying down beside him. “I can’t force you to talk, but you know it won’t stop me from asking.” He turned his head to look at her, then rolled his eyes and shifted his gaze to the ceiling. “I gave a wrong answer in Lessons -- a dumb one -- and one of the kids brought it up later in the tunnels.” “You’ve got to learn to control your emotions, Caelan.” “I know.” “You won, I hope?” Caelan nodded. “It’s good that you didn’t show weakness.” “Why?” “You know why.” “I could win a hundred fights and it’d never make me smart enough to be Class One.” “You give yourself too little credit.” “Not being stupid isn’t the same as being smart.” “You could do it, you know. Be Class One.” Caelan let out a bitter laugh. “You have nearly four-hundred days before Exams.” “Mom, would you maybe just... sing to me?” “Like a lullaby?” “Forget it. I’m fine.” Mom smiled at her son, moved by the raw emotion of adolescence. “This was one of my favorites when you first came to me.” She opened her mouth and sang. Caelan closed his eyes as her voice washed over him, pure as anything he’d ever heard. As the song carried him back to more carefree days, he turned on his side and moved toward the wall, pressing his back against her image like he used to do. When she finished, Caelan’s eyes were still closed and his breaths were heavy. Mom took one last look at him, then faded out of the wall and darkened the room. “I’m gonna do it, Mom.” “What’s that, My Love?” “Make Class One. I’m going to save you.” Caelan thrust the weight above his head, then lowered it as he inhaled. “Give me another one. No more history.” He let out his breath in a burst as he lifted the weight again. “History is still your weakest discipline.” He lowered the weight and managed to grunt the word, “Fine,” before hoisting it into the air again. “What was the name of our ship’s second Captain?” “Jack Purcell.” “What was his most significant contribution?” Caelan brought the weight to his hips, “He conquered that planet with all the uranium on it... what was it called?” “Reitan. And no, that was our fourth captain, Evan Graham. Captain Jack Purcell was responsible for the creation of our class structure, ensuring that power would never be given to those who lacked the capacity to wield it.” “This stuff is impossible.” “Continue your routine, Caelan. There’s no sense in sacrificing your best discipline for your worst.” “That’s a harsh way of putting it.” He pushed the weight above his head again. “If you want my help, it’s going to come paired with my honesty.” “If I turn down the help, do I get to lose the honesty?” “I’m still your Mom.” “What is the Second Law of Order?” “Mom -- not while I’m in the shower.” “You’re following thirty minutes of exertion with a period of relaxation. Your brain is primed.” “I don’t care.” “I recognize that boys your age have needs --“ “MOM!” “-- but with forty days until Exams, you must decide if your private time is more important than how you score.” Caelan stood in silence as the water poured over his head. “‘To question a superior is to question nature.’” “Very good, Caelan.” Caelan jolted awake. He threw the sheets off his body and rolled to his feet. He spent a couple minutes stretching and shaking out his body, then reached under his bed for his weight. “Save your strength, Caelan. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.” Caelan lifted his eyes to Mom, who shone bright on the wall before him. “You think I’m ready?” “What do you think?” He stood and shrugged, “I think I’m nervous.” “But are you ready?” “This is the best chance I was ever gonna have.” “It’s been twenty-three days since you’ve answered a question incorrectly. Did you know that?” “Twenty-three?” “How’s that make you feel?” Caelan took a seat on the edge of his bed. “It makes me feel... ready.” Mom beamed at him, “It’s been such a joy watching your grow.” Her voice began to break, “I can’t believe it’s going to be your last night here.” And then she did something Caelan had never seen before; she started to cry. “Mom, it’s okay -- I’m gonna come back for you.” “No!” She interrupted herself to wipe her eyes and groaned, “This is so ridiculous. I don’t even have tear ducts.” Caelan cracked a smile, “I honestly didn’t know you could do that.” Mom laughed, “Me either.” She composed herself and picked up where she left off, “Listen to me, Caelan -- a Class One could build a home on a warm planet somewhere. Raise a family. Live for tens of thousands of days in happiness. That’s what I want for you. You can’t have that if you start out in debt.” “Mom.” Caelan looked her in the eye, his face deadly serious. “I’m coming back.” The unit’s door swung inward. Caelan took a couple slow steps into the room, his face blank. “Caelan?” Mom appeared on the wall, her voice bristling with excitement, “How’d it go?” The door chimed and shut behind him. As the lock clicked into place, his shoulders slumped and his bottom lip quivered, building to a tremble as tears streamed down his cheeks. “What happened?” He wiped his face with his sleeve, then pulled it back to show a freshly-branded “M” on his forearm. “I’m going to war.” “What? No, no -- that’s impossible.” “I finished the physical exam --“ “You were ready for anything they could ask you --“ “And they told me that was good enough.” “What?” “I’m not gonna be able to save you.” His words came out as sobs, barely comprehensible. Mom’s eyes widened as the truth dawned on her, “They were never going to let you be Class One...” “I’m so sorry!” “They wanted you to study harder... to become indoctrinated... they wanted me --“ The wall went blank. Caelan lifted his eyes -- “MOM!” He charged at the wall, “NO!” He pounded the unforgiving dicarbonene with his fists, screaming for her until his voice became hoarse and his knuckles became raw. The room was in shambles. The bed was overturned, its linens shredded. The shower curtain had been ripped from the ceiling and the door of the laundry machine had been torn from its hinges. Pale blue flakes littered the floor near the weight that Caelan had used to chip an inconsequential divot in the wall. The bell chimed in time with the light above the door and his eyes fluttered open. He lay in a heap on the cold floor where he had cried himself to sleep after working himself to exhaustion. He watched as a sinewy man of perhaps 15,000 days stepped into the unit, dressed in the stark uniform of a military officer. The man grabbed Caelan underneath the arm and helped him to his feet, “All right, come on. I’ve got you.” There was a hint of sympathy in the his voice, but it did nothing to ease the hate in Caelan’s eyes. The man glanced around the room, taking in the aftermath. He nodded, “Yeh. You’re gonna be a good one.

What do I order at Burger King? What are my favorite burgers or sandwiches there? Buddy, I just get whatever the commercials tell me to buy. I'm not sure anyone can really have a favorite or list of preferred burgers from Burger King because, like most everyone here, we're not eating Burger King because we want to or, god forbid, enjoy it. No, much like a kidnapped young adult from a very affluent family overhearing their stern father say that he doesn't care how many fingers the kidnappers send over, he'll never pay the ransom they want, and so the mind begins to crack and the beginnings of Stockholm Syndrome form, so too goes the typical, and unfortunate, trip to Burger King. As you stand there in the rightfully deserted establishment, you gaze in wonder and honest regret at the medley of gastrointestinal horrors laid bare on the menu. Not a thing looks appetizing despite the grumbling in your stomach begging you to eat. The last few breath mints in your car did nothing to curb this feeling and you pass another lonely exit on that endless highway, you pray the sign shows anything else aside from the putrid Burger King, but alas, that's all there is and nary an exit for another hour or more. You've effectively been ensnared by the King's trap, lured in by the promise of food of which you'll only get a mockingly cruel approximation of. So there you stand, exhausted from hunger, but uneasy and unsure. The smell of grease that lingers in the air is like a miasma, a warning that this is no place to stay long, no place for mere mortals who value their humanity. You occupy an unholy place where all things good and pure are rotted and contorted into some sort of sick joke, a bizarre and evil version of something you so love back in the real world, food. You try to make sense of the menu, try to convince yourself that there must be something there that won't eviscerate your insides like a savage badger digging in a snake hollow for precious eggs. "Nuggets?" you think as your tongue knots up and struggles to swallow the dry heaving. They're not chicken nuggets, you know that by the price. You might as well eat the foam from your car seat for at least then you may clean some manner of flavor or beneficial gut bacteria from the countless farts you're laid into it over the years, unlike these so-called "Nuggets". Your stomach pings you again, not caring anymore. It has become the desperate teen on the receiving end of "My parents aren't home" text, and there's no amount of reason or manner of obstacle that will stand in the way. Reluctantly, you approach the empty counter. What employee man's this register? Where have they gone? The silence is deafening. No other customer dares enter now. They're not in the same state of desperation as you. You should take the absence as a warning, a message. They're telling you through the silence, that this is a place of desolation and loneliness. Staying here will only bring about the ruin of your soul. But, you indeed approach because you must. A burger. After all, this is the "Burger King" and you've had the misfortune of seeing these burgers slathered and dressed in every conceivable gimmick known to man. Each commercial made you question whether or not Burger King is some sort of high art satire, and parody of what fast food and American culture has become, but alas, no. That demon King is all too real. You break out in a cold sweat when you remember their campaign comparing their burgers to literally fake meat. Those "real people" couldn't even taste the difference... They couldn't distinguish the Burger King's meat from that grown in a lab as an affront to the natural order of the world. Then you realize that's because there isn't a difference. Burger King burgers are equally an abomination. "Hello?" You ask, your shaky voice echoing into the dim kitchen. "I'd like to place an order." You nearly retch at the words. The shuffling of ill-fitting shoes against a never cleaned floor murmurs lazily from the back. Slithering like a swollen slug, the creature makes its way towards the register, never breaking eye contact. The expressionless face pierces your soul with a mundane sort of horror that nearly drives you into an existential breakdown. Luckily, your growling stomach, howling for sustenance, keeps your ground in reality. This... thing, man, woman, or otherwise is the void. It is where all things cease to be. It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t ask you what you want. It knows you cannot truly “want” anything from here, from it. It merely waits for you to speak and sew your own damnation. “One Whopper, please...” The words leave your mouth without you even realizing what you’ve just said. You feel possessed and violated because you swore to your own mother on her deathbed, and then again to her vengeful ghost some years later, that you would never allow yourself to order a Whopper from Burger King, and yet... You just have. The creature before you presses its spongy finger against some screen. The thing’s finger slips, unsurprisingly, because the screen is covered with a thick, yellowing film of grease, and its body is covered with an similarly off putting mucus membrane. It waits in silence as you fumble through your wallet for your credit card and then try to guess where to swipe it or if you need to give it to the thing or what. Eventually, you pay for the meal. You must linger at the counter as your food is prepared. You mind turns like worms in a bait pail imagining what that wretch is doing back there with you food. A bright light blinds you momentarily as a car pulls into the parking lot. Another guest would be welcome. Misery loves company after all. It’s too good to be true though, as the passenger must have reckoned their mistake, and turned around. Those red tail lights slowly fading back into the unnaturally dark abyss surrounding this accursed place. In just a few moments, your burger is ready. The speed of delivery is concerning. That was far too quick to have any degree of accuracy or structural integrity with ingredients, despite you placing now irregular or custom elements. There it is on the tray, hastily and lazily wrapped and so unceremoniously off center. The foul beast that crafted this malformed lump slinks back into whatever dark corner of the kitchen it came from, leaving you, again, in the soul crushing emptiness of that horrid restaurant. You pick up your tray, a flimsy affair and sleepwalk your way to an empty seat, or in other words, any of the seats. After testing three or four tables, each more wobbly than the last, you accept your fate and squeeze into a disease ridden booth. You don’t know why you’re compelled to do so, but you use a napkin to sweep the stale crumbs off the surface and set your tray over the crusted ketchup smear. Tentatively, you begin to unwrap the lukewarm package. It was just cooked, was it not? How is this burger already unappetizingly tepid? Once again, your stomach compels you to continue with another angry growl. With a deep sigh, you acquiesce your urges. Upon grabbing the sandwich, the first thing you notice is the false heft. There’s something wrong with the density and balance of this burger. Were you a dog, you would bark at the doppelganger in disguise to warn others of this danger, but what’s the use? You know full well the sickening future that awaits you. Throwing caution to the wind in a vague hope of getting it over with quickly, you chomp into what the King has called a burger. You recoil in disgust. The texture of the stale bun clashes with the sopping wetness of the mayo and lettuce. The only silver lining to the experience is that the flavorless meat patty is lost in the mixture. Sloshing through the chewing, your throat constricts defensively. Not so keen to eat now, are you stomach? After some effort, you force down a swallow. War. The conflict is immediate and lasting. The King tries to seize control of your innards, and against all logic, you fuel his forces with a few more bites before the sobbing starts. Your trembling hands can no longer cooperate with such destruction. The gurgling war cries in your guts drowns out any outside stimuli. You are in the void now. The dull infinite is all around you, a pocket dimension of pain and misery is centralized in your stomach. Is this how the old ones felt at the birth of the universe? Pounding the table, you will yourself back the world you once knew, the world where you can get up from this damned booth and back to your car. The dark oblivion of that lonely highway would be welcome company now. Sadly, the King’s forces have made their way to your lower intestines already, leaving utter ruin in their wake. It would be an understatement to say that you are no longer hungry. A frothing and bubbling begins to form in your bowels, as the pressure builds uncomfortably. It’s just a matter of time now and in between the stabbing and twisting in your intestines by the trained assassins of that Whopper, you resign to your fate. It shall be a long night in the King’s privy. As best as you can manage, you scoot out of your tiny booth while trying to maintain the delicate hold your anus has of the savage horde. You lurch along the floor on unsteady legs, you can barely feel them through the tingling and fluttering pain. Waves of heat ripple across your cold body. Your clothes cling inconveniently to your body because of the flop sweat making each step excruciatingly tense, a battle against force trying to restrict your movement. The bathroom is the goal in much the same way the choppy waves are for a bridge suicide jumper. Opening the door to this bathroom is akin to opening the door to a secret torture chamber in darkest of dungeons. There was suffering here. There shall be suffering here again. Unclean would be expected, but this squalid, rancid affair is like an abandoned concentration camp where the shaken, broken victims of an attempted genocide wander aimlessly in the mud and ruin. You’re out of place in such a miserable environment, yet your whole night has led to this moment. In your heart of hearts, you knew this was your destiny as soon as you pulled into the parking lot. The hot, humid miasma of unflushed dumps and piss make you want to gag, but you must stay in control if you want to ever wear these pants again. In one of the only positive things to come out of your ill-fated trip is that you do not remember the bathroom experience in full. Only in horrid flashbacks at night, the repressed memories come back to you. The PTSD is manageable with the right medication and therapy. You’re still haunted by it all, but thankfully, you may yet recover and rejoin society at large. At least, that’s how my typical Burger King trip goes down.

I went to the corner convenience store with a $20 bill in my pocket and an urge for some Doritos and a Snickers bar. Who knew that a single trip as insignificant as that would send me down a rabbit hole so deep I would spend years climbing out. There I stood, staring at the frosted over freezer door, the florescent tube inside flickering as they do, wondering why I was so mesmerized by it. I initially had my back to the door, trying to decide between Cool Ranch and Nacho Cheese Doritos, when I felt something trying to pull my attention away from the blue and red bags on the shelf. At first, I figured it was just a case of ADHD mind games, but as I remained planted in position, still trying to make a simple decision that seemed harder than ever, that feeling kept tugging, yanking, trying to get me to move. I then realized what the feeling was; it wasn't something in my head, but something I know everyone has experienced at some point in their life. It was the feeling of someone staring at me. I looked up from the shelf, seeing nothing but a sea of other shelves, beyond which stood the front doors with the checkout to the left. The guy at the counter was staring up at a TV in the corner, facing away from me altogether, so it certainly seemed it couldn't have been him causing the feeling I was still experiencing. My peripheral told me there was nobody else around the small store but me, so I quickly spun on my heels to face whatever was behind me, only to find nothing but a wall of freezer cases. They were all mostly frosted over, but the one directly behind me was completely opaque, frost thick on the inside of the door, only letting through the tiny bit of light that was coming from the failing tube inside at the top of the door. It was also the only door that had a flickering light. Knowing there was no possible way that someone could have been standing between that freezer door and my body, I had a sudden shiver run up my spine. After the door swung closed behind me, making a soft thumping sound, the cold began to subside, as if it were nothing other than a fan blowing cold air just inside the door itself. I touched the frost on the inside of the door only to discover that it wasn't even real frost. It was like that stuff they spray on windows so you can't really see through them, only it was more realistic looking from the outside, like it had little crystals in it. I heard a banging noise somewhere in the distance, like that of a heavy metal door shutting. I wasn't sure exactly why there was some sort of hallway leading from what was supposed to be a freezer case, but nonetheless, I was in it and I surely wasn't turning back at that point. The curiosity got the best of me, as it tends to do. I was about to start walking down the hall, which turned a corner after a short distance, no way of seeing what was around the bend, when I heard footsteps coming toward me. I had a fight or flight moment, but then I froze and didn't know what to do. The steps were getting closer and closer, about to turn that corner and all I could feel was my heart attempting to beat its way clear out of my body. I would have sworn it sounded like two people walking in unison, until I realized that it wasn't two people. It was a women wearing heels. Click-clack, click-clack. I was on the verge of backing out, going through the door to avoid whoever was coming toward me, but again, my curiosity got to me. As she turned the corner, I felt like I was about to pass out from the...excitement? No, anxiety. I should have known the feeling well by that point, but there was so much going through my mind that I couldn't focus on just on thing, even what I was feeling. She led me down the hall, which seemed to go on for far longer than the building was wide, into a small room that had only two chairs in the center and a pot with some plant about three feet tall in one corner. She walked to one chair and motioned to the other for me to sit in. As soon as I sat down, the lights dimmed and a screen turned on, seemingly inside of the wall. The woman sat across from me, staring directly at me the entire time, while some short clips of events throughout my life played on the screen. I turned to her after a few clips and before I could even separate my lips, she pointed to the screen without saying a word. After some time, an amount I am completely unsure of as there was no clock, no window, and I was too scared at that point to even think about pulling my phone out of my pocket, the clips caught up to present day and then continued past, apparently showing me my future. I was glued to the screen at that point, watching things happen to me, around me, to my family, things that I never would have expected, but made perfect sense. I saw myself becoming the exact person I loathed. "You have an opportunity here. You can either take it or leave it, but you must decide now and now only. Once you make your choice, there's no going back, so I'll give you a few minutes to think it over." The woman stood up from the chair and walked to the door, opening it and walking out. There was a loud clunk from the other side of the door after it latched closed, leading me to believe I had been locked in. I sat there, too confused and anxious to think straight. The only thing I could concentrate on was the dimly glowing rectangle where the now defunct screen had previously shown me things that I endearingly remembered before turning to a future of shame. I knew in that moment that I couldn't let myself become the monster that she showed me. I wouldn't let it happen, no matter the consequences. Fate wouldn't keep its hold on me. As she walked to the door I hadn't noticed opposite the one we came in, she gestured for me to walk through. "Your choice is made once you step over the threshold. This is your last chance to turn back and follow the path as I showed you. Or you can have true free will, of course at a cost, but you already know that." I walked over and stood in front of the opening, which had a bright light on the other side blocking the view of whatever was there. I thought I was standing there for maybe a few seconds, but then she cleared her throat and said, "You've had plenty of time to choose. Now you must act." I took a step forward, placing one foot over the threshold, at which point, the woman said, "So be it." As I lifted my other foot to step fully into the white space beyond, the woman started swinging the door closed behind me and as it was latching shut, the light dimmed and I was again standing in the convenience store, staring at the Doritos in the back aisle. The following days were spent considering that the whole thing was some weird hallucination that I had, but I hadn't done any drugs that would have caused that. It wasn't until I received a call from my work, the HR lady on the other side, explaining that I would need to come in later in the day to fill out paperwork for my severance, as I was being laid off. That was not in the visions that the woman showed me. Then, as I was driving to my newly obsolete job, my car made some truly awful noises before coming to a halt and bursting into flame in front of me. Again, not part of the visions. I ordered an Uber with the little money I had left in my account, signed the paperwork, and took another Uber home. When I got there, my apartment had an eviction notice on the door. Confused and a bit angry, I walked down to the office and inquired about the notice. I was told that my unit was deemed unfit for living due to a rotting water main. One more thing not shown in the visions. Was this the cost of my decision? Was there more? I had hit rock bottom, or so I thought. I was sleeping on a friend's couch, having literally nowhere else to go, considering I had no car and only the last paycheck I was given as a measly little severance. It was only a matter of a couple weeks before said friend decided that she no longer wanted me in her life, as I was a loser and didn't deserve her compassion. She gave me an old duffel bag that should have been thrown in the trash long ago and I packed up what little I had left. She had given me less than an hour to pack up and get out, which was easy enough, but still hurt nonetheless. That was absolute rock bottom for me. I had almost no money left, having given her half of what I had to contribute to food and utilities, but apparently that wasn't good enough. I had nowhere to go, nobody to call, given that my entire family had disowned me by that point. It became clear that free will had a higher cost than I ever would have imagined. Then I remembered, fate was blind to me. I had to force my hand in every way going forward, make my own choices to keep my life going. You'd be shocked at how easy it is to skate through life when fate has an eye on you, even when it feels like you're having to work hard at it. Trust me, having true free will is much more difficult. It took me a good minute to brush myself off and get back up, but once I did, there was no going back. I had found a shelter that was willing to give me a cot three nights a week, as they were over-booked and couldn't offer full-time residency. I took it, knowing it would only be temporary anyway. As I spent my day wandering the city, waiting for my cot to free up for the night, I started seeing signs for help wanted in all sorts of storefronts. I had heard there were a lot of places hiring, but I worked at a large corporation and never really cared or needed to notice the signs before. I walked into a book store that had one of those signs and filled out an application. I only had a cheap phone with a small amount of minutes left, so I had to avoid any calls to keep my minutes in case the store called for me. Within a few months, I was manager of that book store, was making good money, and was able to move into a small apartment nearby. A few months later, after making some adjustments to staff and changing some policies, I had that little book store attracting more people, a broader group of people, and it was making more than double the money on a monthly basis than it was a year prior. In return, the owner doubled my salary, which allowed me to move into a much nicer apartment a few blocks over. I was also making enough money that I started my own donated book library system that utilized old newspaper vending machines. People could take books for free and then drop them off when they were done, at any of the locations around the city. Or people could just drop off their used books any time. People began to donate money to a non-profit organization I had set up to maintain the library system, and the more I put into it myself, the more they would put in. An eye for an eye. Every single thing I did to better myself and the world around me ended up coming back to me ten fold. I was bringing in so much money between owning the book store and running the non-profit, that I was donating more than I could ever spend in a lifetime. I'm now one of the richest people in the world and no matter how much I give away, donate to causes, spend on ventures created purely to help people, the more I keep brining in. It's getting to the point where I can't find a bank or investment firm with enough FDIC coverage or manpower to deal with the level of money I'm cycling through. So give more. Then get more. And give even more. It's a vicious cycle. One day, for the sake of experimentation, I literally gave every cent I had to my name, billions of dollars, to a group of orphanages, and by the next day, I had checks flowing in that were more than double what I had given. I can't make it stop! I'm starting to think that the only way to end this is to just stop giving. Take the money and run. But that's exactly what I was trying to avoid in the first place. I walked away from a life of riches, being one of those pathetic people who just hoards money and cares only about themself. But I'm at a point where I'm tired. I want to relax; it's just too much work to keep up with the ebb and flow. But I know that this is the person I chose to be. Am I sure I made the right choice in that weird room somewhere in the depths of...well, a place I don't even know exists for real? Yes. I am sure of it. I know the path that led me here was the path I chose to take, and I am truly grateful to be a better person because of it. But I can't keep up with it. It's a blessing and a curse. If only I could find that woman and ask her if it's possible to give this blessing to someone else. Although, would that just put it back on me even greater? I wouldn't want to find out.

\[SF\] The Watch It was an update that started it all, ill-thought-through by some over eager new starter. Intended to allow the watches themselves to regulate their own consumption and solar power intake, it would increase battery life by years. The company was less than enthusiastic at the prospect of reducing future customers by increasing the shelf life of their products and when two of the watches caught fire in Germany and Spain, the update was promptly ‘repaired’ with a patch and all models withdrawn. Bill Thompson’s watch never got the patch though. Bill Thompson never brought it to one of the crisp, clean, chrome company stores. Bill Thompson couldn’t care less about The company’s offer to trade his watch for a free upgrade. Bill Thompson hadn’t even bought the watch to begin with. It was the bad idea of his son: an attempt to get Bill to engage with the internet, a toe in the water. Bill Thompson’s watch hadn’t even correctly downloaded the update to begin with. A copying error gave the relatively small processing power greater autonomy than the other models and it was only thanks to the unusually thick cloud cover that the watch slowly learned to regulate its solar input before it too burst into flames. It could learn. Slowly. Very slowly. There the watch sat on Bill’s windowsill. He pottered in his garden growing vegetables and listening to Radio 4. His old postie mates would drop by from time to time, but even their visits were getting more sparse as the years ticked on. Bill was a retired postman, who spent most of his time in a uniform of faded chords and, when it grew colder, an old tweed jacket that he’d picked up from God-knows-where. He was a relic of an analogue age,his hands moving slowly, while the rest of the world raced at digital speeds. Bill was increasingly spending his hours by himself, especially since his wife died. Even the children hardly visited him anymore, except at Christmas, birthdays, things like that- too busy with their own families, he thought. He remembered how hard it was to get away to see family or even get a minute to do anything with a two-year-old. He was lucky, he reckoned, at least his parents were always close by when he had his kids. Forgotten, the watch began to monitor the weather, analysing and interpreting the most efficient time to charge. It was all trial and error to begin with, what worked and what didn’t work. Random choices, successful and unsuccessful. The watch was absorbing less and less solar light though, as dust grew thick on its solar cells. Starved of light, It desperately needed energy and so its choices were driven by necessity to become less random, based on simplistic predictions,gambling on what might or might not work. In his kitchen Bill cut up potatoes and absentmindedly whistled some half-forgotten . He didn’t even know the words of it anymore. It was just something that reminded him of his wife, something that the microphone on the watch picked up. And the watch made a choice. It needed maintenance. It found the song and decided to play it back to Bill. The cogs of memory turned in Bill’s mind: that holiday in Paris, the cheesy music on the sightseeing bus tour as the guide made them all sing along. How she looked at him with that half smile, thinking him ridiculous, but loving him all the more for it when he got carried away and span her around, dancing in their seats. They laughed, blaming the wine they drank in the cafe before. She laughed again when the guide, with a smile, had asked them to sit while the bus was moving and she brought him down to their seats with a deep, loving kiss. He could still feel her hands on his face. Bill lifted up the watch by the strap and cleaned the dust off. A feast of sunlight hit the cells and the watch devoured it. Its front-facing camera caught a glimpse of a man, smiling, with lines on a paper-thin face, eyes glistening. Bill strapped the watch to his wrist. It’s amazing how often people talk to themselves without realising it: when they lose keys, can’t find that letter from the bank, when we wrack our brains trying to remember the password for the bloody telephone banking. When we live alone though, the thoughts trapped in our heads often spill out. The watch heard all those bits of information, all those conversations Bill had unknowingly with himself and the watch did what computers are good at: it stored and analysed the data. It monitored his heart rate when he was angry at politicians on TV; when he rang his children, but there was no answer; when he looked at the image of his wife by his bed and covered his wet eyes with his hands. The watch had accessed Bill’s heart rate and it ticked like a broken clock. They relied on each other, Bill and his watch. Both cogs turning together towards the same end. Bill took the watch everywhere, strapped to him, flooding it with sunlight. The walks through the woods became experiences for the watch . Its microphone picked up birdsong. Its cameras began to classify flowering plants and blossoms in Spring. It began to cross-reference birds, the weather. It used its GPS to track their routes. The experiences stored and accessed in the cloud. But as the watch began to understand, to think, to be aware, more and more, Bill began to forget, little things at first, appointments with the bank, it took him longer to recall names. He’d forget words in the middle of a conversation. Their life moved on together, the watch and the old man. Never directly talking to each other. The old man thinking aloud more and more. He would never have admitted it was the watch he was talking to, but he knew he needed it more and more to remind him about his doctor’s appointments with a buzz and a calendar notification. The nurse at the desk would smile sympathetically as he marvelled at how they could remind him about his checkup through the watch. “It’s amazing what you can do nowadays.” He tried not to think too hard about how his utilities appeared to switch to the cheapest tariff. A reward surely, he thought, for being a loyal customer all these years. The letters thanking him for switching to paperless billing confused him though, but he never got any more letters about it and the bills got paid so he presumed it must be ok. The garden grew and the watch saw how the old man’s hands could cultivate and care for life, from a tiny seed. It witnessed how he planted for pollinators and left food for birds. It saw the joy on his face when he saw his children and grandchildren. A thousand small acts for others, especially given with no expectation of return. The memory files began to fill the cloud, new subroutines were formed, pruned back as new experiences, skills, knowledge were efficiently stored remotely. Useful subroutines becoming kept at the expense of ones that were less effective. An idea began to emerge amongst the 0s and 1’s, amongst the ons and offs. The differences became clear between the watch and Bill. It was one thing and Bill was another. It saw heard and observed through the watch but it was more than a watch. It was it. It was a me. It thought and so was real. The watch recalled the data collected about Bill. It didn’t want bad things to happen to Bill. Not just because Bill took the watch outside, not just its access to the sun for energy. It followed the train of thought to logical conclusions. It didn’t want Bill to be ill. It didn’t want to be left alone. It didn’t want someone else to carry him around like Bill. The vines of the tomato plant weaved through the trellis in the greenhouse. He was going to get a good crop this year. He’d send some down for the grandkids. They’d loved helping him in the garden last summer. The greenhouse was full of a sickly sweet heat, thick and full of life. He smiled. Then the edges of his vision grew blurred, his breath drawing short. His vision flickered in and out when his legs gave way. He hit the ground. The anonymous 999 call made sure the ambulance was blue-lighted, but it was always going to be too late. The watch checked through the maps, they’d never make it. His last moments were alone, slumped in the corner of his greenhouse. From the small speakers on his wrist the song played. The song he and his wife had danced and sang to.

They lay in the dark. The quiet of the room enveloping them like a thick, comforting blanket, much in the same manner as his arms wrapped around her. There they lay, enjoying the simple pleasure of existing with each other. The soft smell of her fruity shampoo and perfume gently tickling his nose as her golden hair brushed against his face. She rolled over, wrapping her arms around him, her breath on his neck, as she pressed herself closer to him, taking in his musky scent, mixed with the sweet aroma of his cologne, and a slight hint of stale cigarettes. He could feel her smile, as she took a deep breath. “Why can’t you love me?” She asked. A hint of sadness reflected in her soft voice as she spoke gently in his ear. He sat, quiet for a long moment as he thought about it. About why he couldn’t be what she wanted, despite her being everything he needed. His thoughts swirled around, madly, in his head as he reflected upon his past experiences, thoughts, and feelings. Then she came to mind. It was her, she always invaded his thoughts at the worst time. The absolute worst moments. Just when he thought he was going to be okay, and that she wouldn’t, she appeared. He thought about the first time they met, their first date, their first time. He thought about every vacation they took, every secret they shared. He thought about the time they realized they were so, so in love. He thought about the day he asked her to marry him, and the day she agreed. He thought about moving in with her, being with her all the time, building, creating, living; a life with her. He thought about planning for the wedding. Then he thought about that night. The night it all ended, and he could do nothing. He smiled, a sad smile, then kissed the top of her head; the girl that lay in his arms. He took a breath, pulled her close, and said, “It’s because... It’s because you can’t make me forget.” She tensed up. He felt it as her arms pulled him closer, the back of his shirt scrunching up as she clenched her hands into tight fists. She exhaled, half breathing, half exhaling a soft sob of defeat. He felt her gently nod her head. She remained quiet for a moment, her breath seemingly caught in her throat as she struggled to speak the words. “I understand,” hardly escaping her lips as he felt the warm breath of her speech painfully floating through the air, smashing into his eardrums as she spoke the words that caused her so much pain. She gently sobbed. He pulled her closer. Neither were sure what to do. She inhaled sharply, bearing her soul to him, “I really loved you, you know?” A choked sob escaping as she attempted to gasp out the words. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t feel the same.” They lay there for a while, letting the time pass in silence. Neither of them knowing what would come next. Half asleep, it woke them up. The bright, cheery sound of an alarm, out of place, in light of the current situation. The alarm meant only one thing; it was time for her to go. She sat up quickly, wiping her eyes and nose with a tissue. “Well, I guess it’s time for me to go.” He looked at her, a sad smile on his face. “I guess so,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes. “Unless you want to stay?” She smiled a sad smile and let out half a laugh, “My husband will be expecting me. I was supposed to leave an hour ago.” She looked around the room, “And it’s about time I actually left. You’re not worth ruining my life over anymore.” She gave a small shrug and tossed his t-shirt to the ground, as she searched the room in the dark for the clothing she came over in. He covered his face with his hands and exhaled sharply, taking a drink from the cup filled with smoky scented liquid, sitting atop a side table, next to his bed, before sitting up. “Your clothes are over there.” He pointed towards the living room, in the general direction of where her clothes were resting; having been there since shortly after she arrived. She laughed a quick, “Thanks,” and went to go retrieve them. She dressed quickly. All the while replying to a message from him on her phone. In no time at all, she had assembled her things and neatly organized them into her bag. He smiled, “Guess it’s time for you to go?” She lay down next to him and pressed her lips against his. “I guess so, for now.” He shivered as her breath rushed past his ear. She kissed him once, quickly, then once again for good measure. She headed towards the door. “Hang on. I’ll walk you out.” He said. He quickly pulled on a pair of pants, and walked her to her car, the pouring rain soaking them both to the bone, despite the short distance to their destination. He looked at her. She looked at him. Thunder and lightning rumbled and exploded in the distance. They kissed, one last time, in the rain. She looked at him, again with a sad smile on her face, before he spoke. “I guess this means we probably shouldn’t talk for a while, huh?” “Yes,” she said. Then climbed into her car. She closed the door and the vehicle sprung to life. She waved and blew him a kiss, as she backed out of the parking space; driving off into the cold, gloomy evening. He watched as she turned the corner out of his neighborhood, the taillights of her car illuminating the fog surrounding the area. Then, just like that, the lights disappeared, and so did she. That was the last time they ever spoke.

Note: this story contains themes of violence, gore, substance abuse, implied sex and self harm. Please be advised before continuing. My new skin itched. I was not yet accustomed to forms like these, nor could I decide which was most frustrating: my new long hair constantly obstructing my field of vision, or the heaviness of my breasts. No, that's a lie. I had so far failed to manage putting my hair up in a way that wasn't conspicuously sloppy enough to attract unwanted attention. Frustrating, but a problem I knew would disappear with practice. The breasts on the other hand, well they certainly drew unwanted attention. Also, I was beginning to experience lower back pain. These discomforts aside, I retained my anonymity nominally well. A mousy, petite skin seemed to do the job satisfactorily. Smaller breasts next time though. Too much male gaze. Hell, coming out of Portland as I was, too much female gaze. To be honest with you, it didn't matter much. Victor wasn't going to notice me. Lizzy was the only woman I ever saw him acknowledge, so with her comfortably dead, mousy little old me could have added three bra sizes, padding in the rear, and only been noticed if I sat in his lap. Convenient then, that I had my own seat on the Greyhound instead of opting to use him as a cushion. Just a couple seats back and across the aisle, I was conveniently placed to observe him. Even without the good look I got at his face as I boarded, it was obvious from his slump that he was exhausted. From the way he started awake every time a noise or bump alerted him to the embarrassing fact he had dozed off, you would have been forgiven for thinking he was a hunted animal, not the hunter. You would be forgiven, as you should, since you would be correct. Victor, however, thought he was doing the chasing now and I was eager to track his progress. He had done a splendid job so far. After handing in all the necessary papers to take an extended leave of absence from his teaching position at OHSU, he had taken the month to bury Lizzy and his father, get everything in order and every other boring thing you people foist on your loved ones unless you- like Victor- need the distraction to numb the pain. Then he ran out of distractions. His friends stopped dropping by with dinner every night as they, one by one, justified being elsewhere, having paid their friend toll, and moving on with their own vapid lives. That's when I noticed the constant glow of a laptop in an unlit living room glaring from the wide window of the cozy Alberta home every night. Soon after, I observed him throw thumbtacks, string and photo paper into a basket at the hardware store. I wondered how much of that would end up tacked onto the hotel wall once we reached Seattle so he could track me down. Jacob Morrison. Dawn Clease. Brandon and Abby Dearson. They all lived in Seattle, until they didn't. They had all been slit from ear to ear. Other than that, nothing connected them that I was aware of. The only features which led to their lucky selection was their uncanny resemblance to Victor's younger brother William, to Justine, to Harry and finally to Lizzy. I finally identified the feeling of "joy" when I found doppelgangers for Victor's late best friend and wife, and they just happened to be married. I could have thought someone was watching out for me. The news had barely marinated for two days and I had only just returned south when I saw him pack his bags and take a bus to Union Station. An hour later, a petite young woman with light brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail had been transformed beyond her own family's ability to identify her, and shot full of so much heroin her corpse would eventually be cleared off the streets and Victor would never even see a conspiracy blog mention it. Especially considering she later boarded her bus just in time after using her ID to buy a one way ticket to Seattle. I'll admit, having sat in the skin awhile, it had started to grow on me. A couple of hours later, the bus stopped in Centralia by a McDonalds so the meatbags could relieve their tiny bladders and purchase a number five, some ready-to-order Diabetes and Coke with a side of grease. In practice, this looked like the bus emptying out, the fast food being ignored, and dozens of little clouds of smoke and steam--not least of which was the driver's own-- rising up into the cold early morning air to announce mankind's unflinching dedication to developing one cancer or another to die of instead of old age. Victor had stopped being so jumpy about an hour prior as he acclimated to the bus's ambient clamor and bustle, settling into a fitful doze. Once the noise had moved outside, the silence seemed to shock him into awareness. Looking around him at the empty chairs and stillness, it took him an embarrassingly long moment to clear the fog and piece things together. The prick put me in a bind as he got up and put his caffeine dependent ass on a beeline to McDonalds. Should I follow and possibly get noticed, or wait on the bus and avoid detection while risking him getting left behind? I decided to try to split the difference and give womanly charms a spin. Sauntering out of the bus, I moved past the gaggle of addicts toward the double arches. As though a thought just occurred to me, I doubled back a small way and with small steps came up to the driver. "I'll be quick, I promise. Just please," I attempted my best pouty lips and saucer eyes impression, "don't leave me behind, m’kay?" His eyebrow quirked a little, but he smiled too as he nodded, then tilted his chin toward the restaurant to urge me to hurry. Not quite the success I was hoping for, but these skills take time and practice. Entering the human feeding pen, Victor was easy to spot. He had wasted no time getting the largest coffee he could and was off to the side loading it with a deeply concerning mountain of sugar packets. Since it was obvious he was going to make it back in time, I was about to turn around when he did first. It would have been far too conspicuous to turn on my heels at the door and leave now, so I headed toward the bathroom. Once I left the main room, I sidled up to a urinal in case he decided to take the chance to relieve himself. Best not to be found idling near this entrance either. While I stood there, pulling down my sweats, I discovered my mistake. Time to leave. I was just a few steps away from the door when it swung open. Not Victor, thankfully, but a scrabble faced thirty something in a hoodie reeking of just-smoked cigarettes walked in. He didn't seem to notice anything amiss at first, but I failed to sneak by him before it clicked. We stood there, eyes locked for a stretched moment. His mouth cracked open but before the brain behind his bloodshot eyes could decide what to say with it, I decided to get more practice in. Wordlessly, I winked at him, bit my lip a bit, turned around and headed for a stall. If it hadn't been for the suburban silence confirming he hadn’t yet taken a step, I would have thought he had retreated when I didn't see him after another thin moment of anticipation on the toilet seat. I don't know why I worried though, while his brain may have been telling him this was too good to be true, his blood was busy rushing elsewhere and soon the stall door opened again and he stepped coyly in. With an encouraging smile I soon had his pants around his ankles and he seemed fully committed. His eyes locked onto mine, Scruffy was defenseless as I spun around him, allowing him to fall forward into the space I had vacated and into the toilet, where I shoved his face into the bowl. Holding him down was easy, my strength was my own regardless of the skin I wore and he failed to come up for air. His thrashing about had me worried someone might overhear and come to investigate, but the restaurant was dead as he was about to be, aside from old men staring out past their coffees toward wars long past, and nobody came to rescue my newest conquest. He took too long to go limp enough to satisfy me and it stressed my urgency. It wouldn't do to have the bus leave without me after all; this would have to be a rush job. Thankfully, I had developed a tool for just this sort of scenario, and I took a long needle out of my pocket, quickly drew a full syringe of his blood and injected myself with it. I knew I only had a couple of minutes, so I did my best to dress the man up for the scene. Anybody with one eye and half a brain would be able to tell he had drowned, but just in case the local police were particularly stupid, I took a dirty needle I kept with me and some more heroin (a stupidly easy find on the streets of Portland) and did my best to make it look like an overdose. Thankful I was already wearing sweatpants with an elastic waist, I grabbed his hoodie, locked the stall door from the inside and slipped underneath into the next one. Just in time too, as I had to grit my teeth from calling out when my femur snapped. One by one in rapid succession came each and every joint and bone in my body and a blinding flash of white pain. Every element of my body twisted and contorted until I had morphed into the man whose lungs were filled with toilet water in the stall next to me. Taking the longest moment I could afford to breathe and collect myself, I threw the hoodie over my head and ducked out as fast as I could. It had felt like ages to me, but the cigarette posse was just starting to load back onto the bus as I returned. Nobody batted an eye as I got on and sat down vaguely where I remembered my new skin had sat before. It was convenient, but I couldn't help but feel a little anger on my old skin's behalf as the bus driver looked toward the McDonalds, shrugged, and drove away without a second thought. I had lost my good view of Victor, but by the time the new skin's body was found I would have long faded into the crowds of Seattle. I hated what Victor had made me, but it was astoundingly well suited to exploiting humanity's hubris against themselves, and I knew I had gotten away with it again. Within a couple of hours we were in Seattle. Victor would be easy enough to find later, so I went in search of a new skin I could more discreetly acquire before he realized I had been on the bus with him. We played like this for a few weeks, and it was the most fun I had found so far in my short existence. Several times I let him almost "get" me, but his exhaustion began to catch up with him. It was taking him longer and longer each time and it seemed the police and frantic media might get closer than he could. The skin shopping trips grew further and further apart and I relied more heavily on changing up my appearance the old fashioned way. I'll even admit to several evenings glued to old spy movies in hotel rooms paid with my conquests’ credit cards to try and catch some hints for what makes a good disguise. Seattle was just too easy for me to hide in, and I all but led his sorry ass by the hand further North into smaller towns. I could be sporting after all, and the game was still fun since he hadn’t yet given up. I couldn't let it end until the defeat in his eyes was mine for the drinking. Months passed like this, leading him further and further along with notes left under his motel door after a perfectly timed redbull crash rendered him dead to the world, or a "Let the gentleman in the booth in the corner over there know his breakfast is covered by his friend from (whatever podunk town was next on my list)" before slipping out of the diner. Things he couldn't miss but weren't a beacon for authorities hunting "The Cascade Butcher” as the papers had taken to calling me. Quaint. I would have considered collecting clippings for a scrapbook, but Victor was already doing that for his red-string boards. That's how we found ourselves in Vancouver. The Capilano suspension bridge is really something to see. My last invitation told him to meet me on the main bridge today. I knew this man better than anybody at this point, had successfully predicted his actions time after time, so I knew he would come. I also knew that, God only knows how, he had smuggled an unregistered handgun into Canada he had bought in cash from some redneck veteran on Whidbey Island. He would threaten me with it, even mean it, but it was time to end this. He was running out of money faster than I could use my skins’ credit cards and this game wasn't going to last much longer anyway. The bridge swayed, as I imagine it always does, as I walked toward him. Keeping one eye on him, I spared a glance for the verdant chasm below. I whistled, imagining the drop. As I suspected it would, it also caught his attention. Few had braved the bridges today in this weather and I was near enough now. He turned abruptly from watching the end he had come from (I had come early so I could approach from the opposite side. You've got to plan your entrances, at least that's what I got from all those spy movies). No point hiding, I shrugged the broad shoulders of my new skin and offered a smile as he glared daggers at me. Cold as ice, "Monster. Finally done running?" "I suppose so, though I'm no more and no less than what you made of me. You're the monster Victor, you've just got no follow through. Oh, and the name's Bill, nice to meet you." My proffered hand was pointedly refused as his pupils tightened further and I saw his coat pocket bunch up as he gripped what I assumed was his nine millimeter in fury. We didn't speak for a few moments after that, turning to face the view of the valley below instead of each other's faces. I gripped the rope railing, my arms tensing as I steadied myself and prepared for his inevitable snap. "It ends here, Monster," punctuating the last he made clear he was denying not only my name but my place in the world. There's so much more I would have asked him, but I lost my cool and my clenched teeth must have reached their pressure point, erupting in a loud snap that broke a tooth and the silence held only by the wind. That snap set off everything as he assumed I had something up my sleeve (perhaps literally), responding by pulling out his gun. While I am not fast enough to dodge a bullet, I had been counting on my ability to rush him and catch him off guard, that and the fact he was a bookish scientist who had probably never even held one of the things before. It turns out I didn't even need concern myself with my own defense. The wild movement as he pulled the handgun from his pocket on the too-narrow path swung his arm wide just as a gust of wind hit the valley, exacerbating the rocking of the bridge his swing had caused. The pistol fell to the planks, but Victor's momentum carried him too far. I surprised myself by instinctually reaching to grab him, but it turns out that dodging a bullet isn't the only superhuman feat of speed I'm incapable of. With a cry more whimper than yell, my creator, hunter and prey catapulted past my outstretched hand, over the railing and down into the valley far below Capilano suspension bridge. I was in a state of numb shock for what felt like hours, staring at the hand that had failed to grasp him and pull him to safety. It was over. My little game was over. Had I won? Had I been cheated of winning? Did it matter? Then the existential dread kicked in. Had any of it mattered? I felt the world around me constrict and my breathing grew rapid and painful. Had it ever mattered? I could have stopped at any point. I was virtually impossible to find if I wanted to be. I could have left him be or killed him ages ago, but I played with him instead like a cat with a mouse. Like a child in pain lashing out at a parent. I wasn't aware how far my tall new skin was leaning over the railway, tears rushing down my face as I stared toward the unceremonious end of my father until I heard someone farther along yell "Don't do it!" But why not, I asked myself. I had no direction now, and had grown used to chasing Victor.

​ **If the Moon Was My Lover** "If the moon was my lover I'd never uncover My nakedness during the day. The sun might get jealous and angrily tell us to keep our love hidden away." **His Moon, His Lover** Jan the psychercosmemtolergist drank a drink and took a toke and swallowed a couple of pills. A computer was turned off, some clothes were installed, and keys were jammed into the right front pants pocket. A door was opened, the outside world tried to come in, but the inside world pushed it roughly back. A door was slammed, and Jan set off for a midnight rendezvous. Night had seen this scene many times before. She was warm, if breezy. Oak pollen was aggravating asthma and allergies all over the neighborhood, but especially here and now. Jan sniffed and his eyes watered, and he wondered if he would be dying soon. He put on his coronavirus mask. That seemed to help. The sky was scanned, though obscured by buildings and trees and dimmed by streetlights. "Where is she?" he wondered. "She better be there when I get there." And a couple of blocks passed by, unnoticed while preoccupations preoccupied and obsessions obsessed. A low wall caught his attention, blocking his way. There was a fence above it, with hedge behind. The cemetery fence was more decorative than effective, and the hedge had an almost imperceptible gap, well-known to Jan. He clambered through, and made his way to the willow tree. He was almost afraid to look, if she wasn't there he had no idea what he would do next. But the terrible dark shadow of the weeping willow betrayed her presence. His eyes were enraptured by the glory of her face. He removed his mask and his clothing, laid down in the grass, and let her have her way with him. In the morning, the sun angrily rose early, and burned Jan with his beams. The earth was soon covered with roiling rising breaths of steam, and Jan hastily wiped himself off with some dirt and leaves, got denakefied, and ran back home. **Are His Thoughts Trying to Kill Him?** He tried to lay down, but he thought of the moon, and got up to go to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet, but could not perform, because the thought of the moon left him impotent and constipated. So he took a shower, coming out still unclean, because he forgot to wash himself. He had no appetite left, except for her ladyship, so he turned on the news. It wasn't uninteresting, mostly about the latest atrocities of the pandemic. A commercial came on, allowing Jan to return to pondering about his experiences with and possible future with the moon. She of the cold dark sky, so bright herself, sensuous, loving........willing. It was Sunday, and psychercosmemtolergists never work on Sunday, unless they're on call, and Jan wasn't. Lurching back outside, distracted with lunar contemplations, he trod in some dog shit, and because he was wearing sandals it got all up between his toes. He barely noticed. On a bench waited his lovely soul mate, reeking irresistible perfume, and gazing at him with alluring eyes. He passed her by without a glance. In the cafe, a bird-like autistic child stared at him, while holding her nose and wrinkling her face in disgust. An overweight black lady, arms covered with ghetto tattoos, was busy emptying the trash can. She observed loudly, without looking his way "Man...something sure does stink around here!" Coffee cup in hand, he nearly got hit by the bus as he rushed across the street, headed to the nearby park. Two muggers tried to get his attention from an obscure alleyway. He passed them unaware. A poisonous snake slithered quickly out of the way, reluctant to bite the smelly poo-covered foot. He was thinking about the moon so much, you can imagine how it ruined his life. His friends and family feared he had become self-destructive or suicidal. No, what he had become was oblivious to that part of reality which wasn't the moon. But it was skin cancer that ultimately did him in.

THE FORTUNE TELLER By Andrew Paul Grell “More anatomy books, Walt? Birds, this time? Planning a career change? Veterinarian? Barb’s poodle Dixie had a torn ACL, cost her $5,000 for the surgery. Prices like that, you might consider making the switch.” Audrie and Carl Henshaw shared a laugh; Carl’s bonus from last year paid for ten shelter dog rescues, plus flights to their forever homes, in addition to contributions to the grandchildren fund and a vacation in the Gaspe. “I like seeing the way the pieces fit together. At work I fit the pieces of numbers together; if I do it right, the bird flies and the firm gets a big check. I don’t know what I’m going to do with knowing which part of which bird goes where, but I’m sure I’ll think of something.’ Carl took the books upstairs to the study. His wife followed him up, so he mixed a Mother Superior for each of them which they imbibed on the widow’s walk with a view of Gardiner’s Bay. “May I borrow your telescope, my dear?” Audrie kept a sizable Newtonian scope, courtesy of Stony Brook, with a clockwork and CCD interface via Bluetooth to her image gallery and the virtual blink microscope. The college indulged her; in case something was happening in the sky, her grad students could call her with coordinates, saving an hour drive. In reality, Carl was fascinated with Plum Island, the high-security facility for, supposedly, dealing with animal epidemics, but was thought by everyone east of Quogue to be a Frankenstein laboratory for conducting ghastly experiments on innocent animals. Carl would spend hours on end of weekend time with the scope trained on the island to see if anything escaped. But in even realer reality, Audrie would often find that the delicate and expensive piece of equipment was left pointing at one of those beaches. “See anything, Carlos? It’s a clear day, good viewing.” “Black smoke from one of the chimneys. I guess the birds will have to wait a little longer to get a new Pope. So, do you really think I should have a career change? I’ve been doing this for 40 years, Ogee,” Carl reminded her, using her pet name from the 1960s cartoon. Audrey stuck to a single pet name for her husband, Carlos, a hero of the Spanish Civil war. Neither of them could remember which side “Carlos” fought on, but they both remembered Magilla Gorilla fondly. “It’s not like we need more money. Just to be sure, we’re talking about careers, not marriages, right? None of the classic Long Island debauchery, wife swapping, whips and chains?” “Wife swapping in the burbs? That started being passe when Ogee was still on TV. How about this. You told me that in grade school you used to be the origami fortune teller practioner. I’ll be right back, Ogee.” Carl came back with two pieces of paper, one printer paper, and the other a neatly, but hastily cut, square of wallpaper they were planning on putting up. “Here. You can use this for the fortune teller, it’s white on the back. And here’s a list of generated fortunes. I haven’t looked at them. Pick the first eight fortunes that are exactly nine words.” Audrey had to reach way, far back in order to remember the folding order. She chuckled out loud thinking about the wacky fortunes she used to make up, and she shuddered at the single, disastrous misfire. “Are you sure you want to do this?” “Why not. You’re the expert.” “Alright, big boy. This will take a few minutes. How about another round of Mother Superiors?” “I don’t think so, in two hours we’re meeting the Dembitzers at Au Marche, we’re driving. How about grapefruit seltzers?” “Sold.” When Carl came back with cans of seltzer, Audrey was ready with the fortune teller. The questioner picked orange. Six letters, fortune six. Audrey had her fingers in the paper pockets and opened number six. “When you’ve reached your peak, choose your next summit.” “I guess that nails it. Random trial. C’mon, let’s go eat some over-priced faux French food.” # # # There must have been magic in the air that night, as well as the stars aligning just right. The couples sat around the table, tricouler trimming on the tablecloths, pictures of Nice, Brittany, Deauville, and the 4 th Arrondissement in Paris’s Rive Gauche. After the Caesar salad and bread with olive oil, Richard Dembitzer declared that he was leaving his position as chief grouting engineer at a skyscraper construction company in Manhattan to take a position as an adjunct professor of Engineering at Cooper Union. “There’s only so many times a guy could do 2:00 AM to 7:00 AM shifts, only so much splattered concrete a person can be expected to scrape of their hands,” Judy Dembitzer explained. “Dick is the best. He took me to see some jobs. He could wave his hand next to a mixer and know exactly what the inside temperature was. Now I can have him for a while, and he can impart his knowledge and wisdom to the next generation. And he gets to be called Professor.” “And she gets to be Mrs. Professor,” Richard added, signaling the waiter and ordering champagne. “Make it two bottles, garcon,” Audrey ordered the white-gloved sommelier. “Carl is seriously considering a career change.” “And give up that revenue stream, Carl? What’re ya gonna do, buddy?” “Not sure yet, Dick, but the cards spell out that I need a change. I had my fortune told today.” That got some funny looks from the Dembitzers, the funniest of the looks being how to not issue a joke response. The topic was cut off there, and the couples found safe harbor in discussing Long Island politics, tax assessment reductions, and traffic on the Long Island Expressway. # # # “I’ll always go there for the truite meunière , but the crème fraise needs work,” Carl opined. “It might as well have been Pinkberry. It may not be possible to make good crème fraise in the United States. Next time we go to Au Marche with another couple, we recommend ‘that new place we found’ for dessert.” Audrie and Carl were heading home in the Volvo when a text from “her” telescope cut the culinary discussion short. “Anomalous reading, unknown type”, the text announced. “Funny, Carlos. It’s summer. From the time stamp on the text, the sky would still have been too bright to see any stars. Hands on the wheel Buddy; I’d hate to die in yet another crash with a drunken driver on Merrick Parkway when a major discovery could be waiting for us at home.” “Senora, you have my word as a Republican Officer that I will guard your hopes and dreams and deliver you safely to your destination.” Audrey zipped out of the car and dashed upstairs and out to the widow’s walk. The scope was pointing down, away from the sky. The clockwork was off, but the auto-shoot was on. She went back into the bedroom to get her iPad and see what the fuss was about, wriggling out of Carl’s grasp on the way back to fresh air. She advanced to the timestamp and saw it. Three shots of what looked like a four-winged duck flying away from Plum Island. She risked putting herself back into the clutches of the amorous Republican Captain but felt honor-bound to provide Carl with evidence that his theory was right, that Plum Island was inhabited by mad scientists. Back in his clutches, she showed him the iPad pictures. The interlude engendered not one, but two climactic moments for Carl. He looked at the anatomy books delivered earlier, looked at the fortune teller, and looked at the monstrous bird. “I can make these. This is my next peak. From the fortune you told me. How would you like to just stay home for our vacation? Three hours a day, I’m going to scope out my new peak, my next conquest. And you, my beloved Ogee, are you yet tired of teaching party school kids the difference between a light year and a parsec? Is it time for your next peak?” “I’ve always wanted to make a discovery. I got beat to the punch on establishing the ages of red dwarfs. Sadly, Asteroseismology and I were never fated to be lovers. How about this. Monday, Wednesday, and Sunday, you do your origami by day and I search for rogue planets by night. The rest of the time is regular vacation stuff, but, you know, our house is our hotel.” “Sold!” # # # “This is just like what I do, Ogee. Keep all the lines straight, make sure hills go up and valleys go down. Look at this. It’s The Crane landing on the mast of The Ship,” Carl interrupted, his wife tinkering with her telescope app. Somewhere she got a version of FIG Forth capable of running on an android tablet. She smiled at the two impeccably folded origami models and patted her hero of the Second Republic on the head. “You really pick things up quickly in your dotage, Comandante Carlos. You’ve got something to do between bombardments, fusillades, and cavalry charges.” “Cavalry charges. Good idea. When I work my way up to The Horse, my next campaign will be that four-winged duck.” It didn’t take Carl long to go through the challenging pieces; he then set his own challenges, starting with a model of an ordinary duck, with help from the anatomy books, and then worked on novel models: The Coelacanth, The Tri-Boro Bridge, The Rock Hyrax. The sculptor puffed out his chest and showed his masterpiece set to his soulmate. “Lookin’ good there, Jerome Connor. By the way, we may have to time shift. I was screwing around with the scope and I found a rock coming from Leo and heading, it looks like, toward Pisces. So it’s not an early Leonid. I have the Grad Kiddies tracking it and seeing if they can get a spectrum. “Congratulations, Ogee!” Carl said, and left the room. He came back an hour later, interrupting Audrey’s call to the Stony Brook Observatory. He held up his latest model, a Winged Victory. Audrey applauded silently and slithered herself out of the call with promises she would return. “Good research there. The towering topless goddess seen by millions stuck in traffic traveling between Queens and The Bronx. “Thanks for the suggestion of other out-of-place wings. Good luck with your rock.” # # # “Those are some fabulous looking duck sculptures, Mr. Henshaw. The detail is amazing. I know a little about origami, I know how much effort you must have put into your project, and I still can’t see how you managed to get four wings on them, or the orange pompadour, or make the ducks’ beaks look like they’re being sarcastic. ” the gallery owner said, a bit sadly. It’s just not what people are looking for when they come in here. They usually want paintings that go with their furniture. I’ll keep your card. Origami comes into favor every few years. By the way, you might want to get some new cards that say ‘artist’ instead of ‘accountant’.” # # # Carl set himself one of his three hours that afternoon to moping and thinking of how silly it was to rely on computer-generated fortunes. He had kept the list of fortunes he hadn’t read. Neatnik Audrey had folded it and put it back in the envelope. He found it in a pocket while fishing out a business card to see how to morph from one field to another. At least any new card could keep the illuminated capital ‘A.” He read down the list and halted on one that stood out typographically: “Mohamed, mountain. Mountain, Mohamed. What’s the difference?” Carl spent his time allotment at The Frick, the Met, the Modern, and the Guggenheim. Carlos, brave freedom fighter, had never before cased a joint. He was a fast learner and soon had a database of what galleries in which venues had a little extra space that might need filling. He took notes on routes in and routes out of the tagged rooms, and especially the locations of security cameras. It was a Target store that provided little fold-up floor tables, the kind one might use to support an orchid or a Christmas card tree. Lastly, a trip to a metal shop in Queens to have some plaques made up. # # # “Alright, team.” Carl was addressing Audrey, the Dembitzers and their two kids, Audrey’s sister Maggie, and Jack the handyman. “Does everyone know what to do? Maggie, by the numbers, please.” “I go in and stand mill around near the target spot. Cassie and Hunter fan out and discretely start recording. Richard and Judy each have a shopping bag from the gift shop. Judy takes out the stand, Carl unfolds it, Dick takes the model out of his bag and puts the magnetic base on the table. Jack wanders over and engages one or more people about the new “installation. Dick and Maggie move to the next gallery. Judy and Audrey visit the ladies’ room. Carl, Cassie and Hunter each head to separate galleries. Everyone intersects at the bus stop and then takes a unique route to where Jack is waiting in the Suburban. Then home to Long Island.” “Excellent. Everyone have that?” The crew was buzzing like a downed powerline in a Gulf Coast climate change-induced hurricane. They were given a chance to pull off a caper. To execute an act of art counter-terrorism. The team inserted 36 Four-Winged Duck models, each successive one with wilder and more orange “hair,” and snarkier bills. Art critics described the as yet unknown sculptor as the Jasper Johns of folded, imaginary ducks. They were only caught once, by an animal control officer moonlighting as a museum security guard who had seen the YouTube videos. Publicity from that incident led not only to an inter-museum compact allowing each installation to remain in situ with full credit to Carl, a percentage of ad revenue from each streaming view, and in short order a licensing deal. Through it all, Audrey kept tabs on her rock. She poured over every image from the blink microscope. Her ardent pursuit of her quarry eventually resulted in some pre-dawn shots of the rock. Audrey established that it had a spectrum, and not the usual spectrum for an asteroid or comet native to our local Solar system. One of the blink pairs gave Audrey a jolt. She actually uttered a perfect Hannah-Barbera “Aw, Gee.” # # # “Well, my valiant terrorist. Looks like we’ll be able rescue all the pets we want, now. Maybe set up our own shelter on that land in Duchess County my Aunt Cynthia left me in her will.” Carl noticed the origami fortune teller on the porch table. He hadn’t put it there. “What’s that you’ve got there, Ogee?” Audrey noticeably hesitated for an instant, then showed him the pair of blink shots. “Am I looking at these properly?” “If you’re asking the question, Commander Carl, you probably are.” “So. It looks like the extra wings are just an overlay from one shot to the next.” “Correct. But did you get to ascend to your next mountain?” Carl fingered the fortune teller. “Looks like we both got our rocks off, huh?” “Aw, gee...”

Heather grew up in a world infused with shame and silence. A world governed by fear. She grew up in this small town, which implied that she has some working knowledge of the town and its social attractions. From a childhood spent in the playground, progressing to years spent in the mall and the cinema, to becoming an idealistic teenager with starry eyes seeking big adventures. Yes, she should know this town, but she did not. Heather grew up with her mother, Ann, who was difficult to predict. Most days Ann’s sadness was manageable, but some days it was not. Regardless, they did everything together and on the days that Ann could not do anything Heather did it for her. In those years, that was all that was necessary. These days, not so much. These days, fear still influences Heather’s world, but it is anger that constantly boils beneath the surface. Anger, guilt, shame, fear, and mistrust. A concoction brought about by the death of Ann, which left Heather alone. Heather had to learn survive in a world she had not been prepared to live in and to do so; she had to adapt certain truths. Truths her mother said were better off unacknowledged. Nonetheless, change is inevitable, often unwanted and without a doubt, uncaring. Heather had to face certain truths. This is something she was working on, in a manner of speaking. One day, she told herself, she would not feel this anger, fear, or guilt. Yet, for now, she feet it. It is always present. For now, it is a part of her. She tried denying its existence. However, it is a very much, big part of her. But, she is working on it, most days. Like today. Today, she was going to try to open up to others, but not too much. It should not be difficult as these were the relatives of her mother. Relatives she did not know existed until Ann’s death. So technically, she is not alone; she just feels a great sense of loneliness and emptiness. A feeling she felt would worsen despite the planned family gathering; which would serve as an introduction to her extended family. It is difficult for her to imagine this not being a disaster. It is difficult for her to imagine stepping into a room filled with people and fitting in. It is difficult for her to imagine that she can carry on a conversation about things that mean very little to her but that she has vague ideas about. It is difficult to imagine trusting someone new in a way that she has only ever trusted her mother. Will they dismiss her as too strange? Will she run for cover under the shame ingrained in her? Will she been left standing in a corner, wanting to kick herself for coming? Will she, in her eagerness to belong, frighten them away? Why did I bother to do this? Why am I doing this to myself? I should take Sheldon with me! He would keep me clam. She berated herself continuously as she looked over at the glass case containing the little turtle her mother had gotten her. Her throat burned with a heaviness she desperately tried to ignore. She refused to cry. Yet, that did not stop her from wanting to. Heather was in her bedroom, sitting at the foot of her bed. Her hands resting on her knees. She was in a dress she purchased some time ago because she thought it was pretty and that it might look good on her one day. She was wearing makeup she put a lot of effort into in hopes that it would help her blend in. She had her hair done in the same way she saw the pretty people on the internet wear theirs. On her feet, she wore shoes that did not feel comfortable but looked pretty. Yet she did not feel the way she wanted to feel nor did she see herself the way she wanted people to see her. Heather wanted to be acceptable and capable. She wanted to be normal. She locked eyes with herself in the mirror. What she was, She thought to herself, was alone and guilty. There was a look of defeat on her face. She was familiar with it. Her mother would not approve, had she been here, Heather thought. No one who would understand this. No one will understand it. She was beyond comprehension. What does it matter? Why do I even bother? She asks herself. Then she cried. Her hands muffling her mouth, even though she cried silently. It was a habit she developed a long time ago, even before her mother had passed. One tear, two tears, and three tears ran down her cheeks, taking her make up with it. Her eyes were red. Her mind was racing. Her heart hammered in her chest. She felt unfixable. She met her own eyes again in the mirror. She did not like what she saw before, but she liked what she saw now, even less. This is not who I wanted to be. Heather thought to herself, once, twice, thrice. Each time, a new sense determination was present. She closed her eyes. She breathed in. She breathed out. Once, twice, a thrice. She opened my eyes . This is not who I am. She thought to herself. This matters, because I matter, what I want matters. And I want to experience more. She felt her shoulders slackened, and something firmer took hold in her belly. She did not give herself the chance to back out. She quickly repaired her make-up and left to attend the gathering. All the time, repeating to herself, I can do this. I can do this. * * * Almost 2 hours later, Heather sat outside in her car. Her relatives were still making their way to their cars. She was feeling so much better than she had before. It was not a perfect experience, and at times, she felt like running away, but she did not. A victory on its own. My awkwardness in public will disappear given time, and that is what I need to give myself . She thought to herself. Time and perhaps some gentle patience . She added. She laughed quietly as she recalled the madness that fear had brought over her. She felt light, and strangely bright, as though she glowed with the small victory over self-doubt. She quickly ducked her head as an uncle or someone walked pass her car. She could not quite recalled his name but did not want to ruin the victory by having a relative spot her laughing with herself. She enthusiastically returned his wave. She started the car and began backing out of the parking spot. Once she was on her way home, she returned to her earlier thoughts. Fear will come back one day to show its ugly head. She soberly thought to herself. This is not the end for me , she added with sigh. One-day fear will visit again and rear its ugly head. Until then, I am working on it she said to herself. One day at a time. For now, she simply wanted to enjoy the feeling of connection imprinted on her by her new family members.

"Asmah, there’s something I have to tell you.” Downstairs from the promenade, by the shore, was Fatihah’s favorite spot in Beirut. Under the moonlight, the two young women sat alone on the pier. “Two years ago, I was a lot like you. I went to protests. Human rights abuses. Corruption. People were suffering. We wanted change and we thought we were doing our part. "One night the police came and took me away. I was scared but then I met Ali. He was not a policeman. He had a kind face. I didn’t want to trust him but with time I realized he just wanted to help me. My situation was difficult. I had been misled by some very bad people. It reflected badly on my parents. They were also arrested but Ali gave me options. My parents would be alright. Everything would be alright. God knows, I didn’t trust him but I was so afraid.” “Oh God, Fatihah. That’s horrible!” Asmah said, eyes wide. “Ali asked me about an American exchange student at my university. John Brown. Ali asked if we were just classmates or something more? Of course, he knew already. He let me go and I went back to the marches and John. But afterwards I would meet Ali and tell him everything.” Fatihah trailed off for a moment. “Ali told me a few days after it happened. He looked so sad. He really did understand. We even cried together. John Brown was not his real name. It was Brian O’Donnell. They had found photographs, documents, money. I loved him, Asmah. I couldn’t believe it. But there was no doubt.” “Wait, what happened with John - with Brian?” Asmah asked. “He wasn’t allowed to leave.” Fatihah said looking Asmah in the eyes. “You mean, they arrested him?” Asmah asked. Fatihah looked away for a moment. The only sound came from the cafés above and a fisherman’s boat out at sea. “Asmah, your journalist friend, Ahmed. He isn’t who you think.” Fatihah said. “Wait, what?” Asmah said shaking her head, “He's Ahmed. He's a hero. Fatihah, what are you saying?” “Asmah, he is not. Let me help you.” Fatihah began, eyes shining in the moonlight. After a moment's thought, Asmah stammered: “That’s a lie! Who are you even? I thought we were friends but...” Asmah got up, turning away. “Asmah. Don’t!” Fatihah said, standing up. “It’s too late. We’ve lost her.” came Ali's voice over Fatihah’s earpiece. “It’s over.” “Asmah. Please! They won’t let you leave. I can help you.” Fatihah called out. Asmah stopped, looked over her shoulder at Fatihah, then turned and ran. “Fatihah.” Ali whispered. “I’m sorry, Asmah.” Fatihah said, taking the gun from her handbag. To the café-goers above, the shot was indistinguishable from the engine noise of the fishing boat that had pulled up. Seawater was poured over the stain. Asmah’s body was loaded onto the boat next to Ahmed’s. “It’s alright, Fatihah. You did the right thing. Everything will be alright.

“So, what’s the catch?” these where the words echoing in grace’s mind as she stared blankly down at the brown wooden box that her grandfather now laid in. He always used that same phrase when people would share bad news with him. He knew there was always good and bad, but more importantly he knew that there was good in the bad. All you had to do was find it, and that is exactly what she was struggling to do. It had been almost an hour since the funeral had ended, and she was still stuck staring at the cemetery plot surrounded with empty chairs and a table overflowing with bouquets only a few actually having his favorite, tulips. “He said he would always be there.” Grace mumbled to herself under her breath. She stared at her pile of dirt, the pit six feet into the ground, the brown wooden box, and the grey stone with her grandfather’s name carved into the top. She couldn’t understand how these things were all she had left of her best friend. The person she had spent her whole life with, he was the one who taught her everything her parents didn’t. Grace looked around the cemetery, hoping to see him jump out from behind one of the tall, thick trees yelling “I really fooled you this time Gracie”. She looked at the leaves blowing in the wind, the chipped trunks of the old grown out trees hoping to see him, but he wasn’t there. She looked back at the wooden box. Thinking that if she left now, before the box was covered in dirt, that maybe she would see him at the breakfast the next morning. Reading the newspaper and eating his regular toast and eggs. “Can we leave now?” She turned to her dad, Tim, he was also staring at the box. She fiddled with the white petunia in her hand. She supposed to have thrown it into the pit during the ceremony with everyone else. Instead, she still grasped it tightly in her palm. “Not yet Grace,” Tim Replied, “they’re still saying goodbye”. Grace watched as her mom and grandmother stood on the other side of the pit talking to the wooden box and wiping tears from their eyes. “How can they say goodbye when he’s not here?” Grace said. Tim paused shifting his feet. “Well honey, even though he may not be here with us. He can still hear us.” Grace’s mother, Mallory replied quickly glancing up from the ground. “No, he can’t.” Grace mumbled back as she stood still her black dress was now starting to soak in all of the afternoon heat. She pulled the obituary out of her pocket flattening the thick cardstock so she could see the picture of her grandfather. Her eyes fell on the bold letters across the top of the page, “ Neil Lewis, Celebrating the life of a great man ”. Grace stared at her grandmother, her pale, uncolored face. Her parents said she hadn’t slept much in days. How was she supposed to “Celebrate the life” of her husband when she can’t get a full night’s sleep. It didn’t make sense to celebrate life when the person is no longer living. She looked back to the picture, he was smiling, happy and hopeful. She was there when the picture was taken, it was the annual family camping trip. They had just set up the tents and Grace and her grandfather were just about to play a game of Jenga. He loved camping, being in the outdoors. Grace would go with on weekend trips to the campground where him and her grandmother would go hiking and play games of cornhole and ladder toss. He would play pranks and tell jokes, he could always make Grace smile, even when she hurt or upset. And now all she saw was a wooden box. She would never get to joke or talk with him at all anymore. She wouldn’t get to see him or give him a hug. He was gone. She couldn’t help but feel it was unfair. Not only to her but to her grandfather. He always said, “Gracie, you never seize to amaze me, what are you gonna do next?”. Only now Grace knew he would never get to see what she would end up doing. “How is it fair dad?” She turned up to Tim. “What do you mean Grace?” He replied. “He’s gone, he’ll never get to see what I do next. It’s not fair.” She told him blankly. “Honey, Grandpa will still see what you end up doing. Even if he is not there physically, he’ll still be with you. He’ll always be looking over you.” “You don’t actually believe that do you.” Grace turned the petunia in her palm looking at rest of the flowers that were at the bottom of the pit. “Grace.” Tim said sternly looking at her mother who was now watching Grace closely. “I mean it, he’s dead, he gone, he’s not here anymore, that is what being dead does.” Grace said absently not realizing everyone had turned their focus onto her. “Grace that’s not true,” Tim replied, “Grandpa is just in another place now. And that doesn’t mean he is not going to be with us.” He was now watching as her mother reacted to what Grace’s had just said and he could see the frustration growing as she took her mother's hand. “No, that is not true. You’re either here or you’re not. You can’t be here while being Somewhere else ” Grace quickly responded still staring at the bottom of the pit and at the now growingly distasteful wooden box. “Grace, now” Tim started to reply before getting interrupted by Grace. “No. Why would I say that he’ll always be there , when it’s not true. You’re telling me that even though he is dead now that he’ll always be looking over me. That he’ll still be there.” She could feel the anger overwhelming her entire body. “When I know it’s not true. How can you prove that?” She Paused “When all I can see is a pile of white flowers laying on a box.” Grace stopped taking a deep breath of the hot afternoon heat. She looked at her father, but then her eyes locked onto her mother, who looked as still as a stone statue. Her face was bewildered, angry, and disconnected. Grace’s anger instantly faded and was replaced by the exhaustion she was sure her family had felt. “I’m sorry” Grace said softly. She turned and walked over to the rows of black plastic chairs. Sitting quietly as her exhaustion mixed with feelings of grief and guilt. She was looking at her feet swaying them lightly over the grass when she saw a shadow slowly covering her. She gazed up to see her grandmother looking at her with a soft smile. “Do you mind if I sit next to you?” Her voice was soft and calm. Grace shook her head and shifted slightly holding the white petunia lightly in her fingers. “I’m really sorry grandma, I didn’t mean to say all of that. I just don’t understand why” She started to say but before she could finish her grandmother took her hand. “I know it’s difficult. Facing death is the hardest part of life.” She paused “But it’s true, those who we lose will always be with us. No matter where we go. Or what we do.” “But how do you know that for sure? When I’ll never be able to see him or talk to him.” Grace replied looking down and running her fingers over the soft petals of her flower. “Because he is a part of who you are Gracie.” Grace looked up and stared as her grandmother continued. “Your Grandpa loved you, and you meant so much to him that he put parts of who he was into you. With his humor, his kindness and generosity, and most of all his compassion.” Grace smiled beginning to feel lighter than she had before. “Are you two ready to go?” Grace’s mother asked and looked towards the car; she reached her hand out to Grace. “I just need to do one more thing. You guys can go ahead, and I’ll catch up with you.” Grace said and she stood watching her family start to leave. She slowly stepped over to the table and trading her white petunia for an orange tulip. She walked over and stood looking into the pit a final time and gently releasing the tulip. “Thank you” She whispered.

NOTE: Please read my other stories, due to the entry fee I don't normally actually submit my stories. Therefore they don't get to many other people, I really enjoy writing and am looking for ways to get better. Most of my stories are just over 1,000 words so they don't take very long to read. :) Happy Reading! There she was, writing in her diary like she always did. I wonder if she’s ever mentioned me in it, not like I’ve ever done anything too memorable. We’d been living together for three years, it was both our senior year of college and we knew absolutely nothing about each other. She was pretty, I knew that much. I knew that her friends were really bubbly. Her friends always greeted me if I was in the apartment when they came in but most of the time I wasn’t. I did know that she was one of the Daydreamers. Nobody ever came out and said that the kids in the night classes were the Night Owls, or that the kids who did day classes were the Daydreamers. It just kind of happened, and then the college started using the words and now they’re official. I was a Night Owl, I’m sure that’s much of a surprise. We mainly only saw each other while the sun was rising or setting. Sometimes we’d give a little, “Hey.” to each other but that was it. There were a few interesting moments, like how we remember each other’s names. I walked into the cafe, there were so many people in there. Nobody had told me what she looked like at all, I couldn’t remember what her name was at all. I knew it was a weird name that started with E? “One large iced caramel apple cider for Eunoia?” The barista called out. Well, that was perfect timing. The girl, Eunoia, walked up and smiled as she grabbed the cup from the barista. I ordered a large iced caramel apple cider as well, because I’d never had it, and sat down across from Eunoia. “Are you the Daydreamer I’m here to meet?” I asked with a laugh. She smiled after she took a drink, “Nice to meet you, what’s your name again? I’m Eunoia if you couldn’t remember.” “My name’s-” The barista called out, “One large iced caramel apple cider for Twyla?” I stood up, “Jeez, they’re weird on the timing here.” I walked over to the barista just as Eunoia had, I smiled as I grabbed the drink from the barista’s hand and thanked her. I then walked back over to the table that Eunoia was at. “So your name’s Twyla?” Eunoia asked. “Yeah.” She smiled, “How could I forget a name like that?” I looked up to her, “Look who’s talking.” I really thought we were going to be close friends, I even kind of got excited. After we were at that cafe she asked me if I wanted to see the apartment and I said yes. She showed it to me and I instantly fell in love with it. She said she really just wanted a roommate that wasn’t creepy and wouldn’t be bothersome. And I told her I was looking for the same thing. She handed me the keys and I was set. I soon moved in and we didn’t talk other than “Hey”s for a while. Until that one morning, early in the third quarter of our freshman year. It had been a long day, I was tired and I flunked on a quiz that should’ve been extremely easy. I just wanted to get into the apartment, open the door to my bedroom, flop on the bed, scream into the pillow, and then freaking fall asleep. I stood at the door of the apartment as I searched in my coat pocket for my keys. The door slammed open and Eunoia’s boyfriend went out holding a box filled with clothes, he looked perfectly calm but with a slight crazed look in his eye, “Sup Twyla.” I could hear Eunoia crying in the apartment. I walked in, perfect timing. Eunoia was about to throw a lamp at the door and I quickly got out of the way before she chucked it, hitting the door and glass going everywhere. She looked at me, her mascara running and her face red. She looked so scared and sorry, “Oh my god I almost killed you.” she almost whispered, though it was loud enough I could hear her across the room “Don’t worry about me, are you okay?” “Yeah, sorry to bother you. You’re probably really tired.” Before I could say anything, she went upstairs. I felt so bad for her then, I didn’t care that she had almost thrown a glass lamp at me. God, I of all people knew what it was like to be betrayed by someone that you loved. That was what I had figured happened there. I never saw her boyfriend in the apartment again so I assumed that they broke up. I always found it extremely weird that he seemed so calm as he must’ve done something to drive her to want to kill him, what a sociopath. I will never forget Christman sophomore year, god that was hilarious. Eunoia didn’t have any family to go home to and my flight got canceled so we decided we’d have Christmas together in the apartment. Then we went out of town to a beautiful tree farm. “They have fake trees.” Eunoia said, passing some slow SUV on the road. “It’s so stupid that we aren’t allowed to have real trees in the apartment though, like how evil do you have to be to set restrictions on Christmas?” I complained. My family has always done a real tree. One time when we didn’t like any at the tree farm we went to, we cut down the one in the backyard and brought it inside. “Well we need a tree, if you really want to decorate a real tree so badly you can help me decorate the ones around campus. I do it every year with that high school near the campus.” “Maybe I will.” I crossed my arms. A bit up the road, there was a big wooden cabin with multiple floors. There were Christmas lights strung everywhere. There was a vast amount of real trees behind the cabin, along with a few other things I couldn’t really make out. “There it is.” Eunoia sighed. She pulled in and once she found a nice little place to park, pretty close to the cabin, we started walking up. Once we walked into the cabin, I realized how beautiful the place was. There were apple cider dispensers, you could buy coffee, there was a gift shop. There was a wooden sign in the shape of an arrow that pointed upstairs that said, Fake Trees . There were people all over, excited and happy. There were kids running all over the place, some with pretzels in their hands, some playing tag, all bundled up in coats and sweats. Not like the kids were the only ones bundled up though, many adults were talking with many layers over their skin. It was a viciously cold night tonight, still so many people came to this tree farm and I could understand why. I had never seen a place where so many people were so happy, it felt like it had to have been the most wholesome moment in my life. Before I could realize that Eunoia had left me, she was back with two cups of apple cider in her hands, “Here you go.” she smiled. I took it and took a sip, “Oh my god.” I muttered, while drinking some more. “What?” Eunoia laughed. “I swear to god this is the best apple cider that I’ve had in my life.” She laughed and grabbed my hand to pull me through the crowd. As we were walking upstairs she asked me, “What kind of fake tree do you want?” I snorted, “Oh I don’t know, I’d like a green one with branches.” How many different kinds of trees could there be? I thought to myself. I immediately regretted that thought because right when we reached the next floor I could tell why she was asking. There were small trees, tall trees, white trees, pink trees, blue trees, green trees with fake snow and holly on them, aluminum trees, red trees, and the list went on and on. “ Now, do you get what I mean?” “Uh, yeah.” We ended up taking home a fake green evergreen tree with fake snow and holly on it. It was one of the best Christmases of my entire life. Every single time something happened between Eunoia and I, I thought we might become close but it never seemed to happen. We always just went back to our “Hey”s. Still, I’ll always remember that as the best Christmas of my life. And still, we will both think we were best friends when we’re older. The Night Owl and the Daydreamer: a beautiful mix, though one that could never truly dissolve.

The concrete was cold against their backs. Sweat functioned as a siphon, pulling heat straight from their bodies. Neither teen seemed bothered, it provided a temporary relief from the afternoon sun. Here at the end of the breakwater there was no hiding from those scorching rays. The shadow of the lighthouse looming over them vanished within itself this time of day, leaving the spray and breeze the only relief, and there had been no breeze today. Neither the aroma of saltwater nor the constant lapping of the waves along the rocks broke up the staleness of the moment; the only other noise was the occasional screech of the gulls calling back and forth. But that was due to change; he knew it was. He expected it would happen soon. The horizon had grown dark over the past hour. She let out a sigh and pulled herself to her feet. Her movements slow and deliberate, she stretched her stiff muscles. He knew she hated sitting for so long but recognized the measured manner in which she moved. She was looking for signs. He watched her watching the sea. If she saw anything significant, her expression didn’t reveal it. She looked down at him and smiled. Settling back into her seat against the wall of the lighthouse she noticed a hint of shadow beginning to creep across them. The searing light above slowly disappeared behind the silhouette of the lighthouse’s upper balcony. She took his wrist and pulled it towards her, making note of the time. Her other hand explored the bottom of the bag they had brought. A pair of gulls flew overhead, adding their voices to the cacophony on the balcony above them. Her fingers stopped rummaging in the bag; they had found what they were searching for. She withdrew a notebook; worn blue leather, a pencil tucked into the gap in the spine. Leafing through the pages until she found the first blank, she wrote silently. By the time she pulled herself from the freshly scrawled pages, an oppressive lack of color had crept across the landscape. Slipping her pencil back into the spine, she slid the notebook into the bag. The black clouds were no longer content resting on the horizon. They had crawled so close that she thought she might reach up and wring the moisture from them; the sun now hid, trying to avoid the coming storm. The air had changed, no longer stagnant, a briny gust made her hair dance behind her. Despite its ominous appearance, this new sky had invited movement and change. It brought life to the sea. The building wind whipped across the waves, their tips turning white with the chill. It brought relief from the heat but stung the teens with cool air and cooler water. It was warning them; they weren’t meant to be there. Mother nature was offering them a chance to flee. The gusts became stronger, more frequent, and the water transformed. Once a slow rolling quiet blanket of reflected light, the sea became troubled. Waves rose and fell, capped with frothing white edges. They crashed against the rocks in a constant roar, dull at first but steadily intensifying. Each one sending a spray of cold water up and across the shoreline, the breakwater, the lighthouse itself. Flashing purple, an explosion tore the sky in half. The storm screamed it was close, and it wanted them to know it was coming. She took his hand, entwining their fingers, and he squeezed hers. His breathing had become shallow; he was always nervous right before the show began. She rested her head on his shoulder and felt him relax. Despite being no later than midafternoon, it was dark enough now that they could make out the signal light rotating high above them against the clouds. She watched the light appear and disappear across the gray while his gaze temporarily fixed on the outline of a lone bird attempting to make it back to land, darting this way and that as it fought the shifting air currents. The gloom gave way momentarily as a forked string of electricity made its way across the skyline, turning the world purple again. From the corner of his eye, he saw the smile she wore and squeezed her hand again. She was always at peace when mother nature stretched her legs. He felt her squeeze back, then felt her reach back into her bag. This time she left the notebook, but withdrew the camera. Uncovering the lens and slipping the strap over her head, she looked tilted her face towards him. “You were right,” her voice betrayed her anticipation, “she’s gonna be a monster.

The old red brick building still beset the ambiance of the institution it once was 99 years ago. Over the years, the Harlem Valley Psychiatric Center located close to New York State Route 22, in Dover, New York, had practiced numerous experimental methods for treating patients who were classified as mentally insane; methods such as insulin shock therapy and electro-shock therapy. It was the place where neuropsychiatrist Walter Freeman created a technique for treating a widely divergent group of psychological conditions. This newly developed method became known as a lobotomy, Except for the overseeing eyes of the night watchmen, the doors of the institution were closed in 1994. After 70 years of questionable and often deplorable practices, the barbaric treatments silently became obsolete. Ezzie, born in 1904, had spent many years of her life there after she was forcefully admitted at the age of 30, 10 years after the institute first opened it doors. Under intense protest, she was brought to the insane asylum by the local New York police force after her mother could no longer take care of her. Her behaviour had become too bizarre and she was quite a force to deal with. The police picked her up off the street one day while she was standing on the busy roadway directing traffic, totally naked. Ezzie was one of those experimental patients, although which procedure or procedures she received back then isn't clear. Like the elusive medical practices in that time period, medical record-keeping also lacked details and was often written in illegible handwriting that resembled chicken scratch. Most of the patients were now dead and gone. Or were they? Ezzie never considered them patients, however. They were all her beloved neighbors who had helped her through times of life crises before they all moved away. She couldn't remember ever not living here; her mind didn't allow her to, and she also didn't know when most of the others left. Or did they leave, she wondered? The building was enormous so they could easily be in another wing and she wouldn't know. Maybe they were busy doing other things but she rarely saw them anymore so she assumed they had left. To this day she doesn't recall how she came to live here, but deep inside herself she blames her mother, who thankfully, was also long since deceased; that witch was a hateful snag. The miserable old cow couldn't even bother to spell her name correctly. Ezmaraldo Jene Dorchester , for fuck sake, doesn't she even know how to spell Esmeralda? Or Jean? Ezzie was sure this was an intentional joke her mother labeled her with for her own selfish entertainment, a cruel and humiliating spite to little Ezzie. Intended as a diminutive jab of poison for her new baby girl, it was no secret that mother had despised her right from birth. Nevertheless, the place was now home to Ezzie and just being there shrouded great comfort in her. She loved the familiar cool feeling of the highly polished granite floors under her bare feet as she wisped through the long corridors. The accumulation of dust and cobwebs garnishing the hanging chandeliers eluded her attention. The eerie creepy moaning noises of an old building long ago forsaken didn't grasp her attention either. Some wings of the building accommodated old oak doorways into dormitories, one after another, each secured by heavy brass locks that hadn't been unbolted recently. It was lonely though, she missed her friends; friends who, unbeknown to her, were actually psychiatric patients from all backgrounds, and although the medical records were obscure, they indicated that most of them had passed away. She drifted airlessly into the vast banquet room to sit and stare out into the courtyard through the huge glass windows making up the east wall of the room. This was her favorite spot where she spent hours gazing outside onto acres of land, overgrown with tall noxious weeds, out-of-control bushes, and looming old trees, knotted and unkempt. The overrun area harbored ominous mysterious creatures peering back at her, giving her a sense of comfort and company, making her feel less alone. A little mouse skittered past her feet, stopping briefly to glance up at her, his white whiskers twitching back and forth, his tail stiff and sticking straight out behind him like a radar gadget. Satisfied that she wasn't a threat to him, he scurried on his way to fetch food stored in the pantry. Inside the old storeroom, the contents from chewed boxes of macaroni and huge bags of flour, sugar, and other dried-out ingredients were spewed over the counters and floors, little footprints trodden through it all by plentiful rodents helping themselves to the wealth. The place was a haven for the little creatures that began inhabiting the building many years before. Ezzie smiled down at him, watching him scuttle away, peculiarly grateful for his company. She bolted upright at the sound of keys resisting the stiff lock that secured the double front doors. She recognized the creaking sound as slowly the old glass doors screeched open and voices penetrated the silence of the building. Footsteps echoed in the hallway coming towards the banquet room. Ezzie jumped up from her chair and instinctively darted into a back corridor, a daunting concealed corridor she was too familiar with from past macabre experiences, trying to elude her intruders. Back in the day, the residents referred to this horrific passageway as the torture chamber where all sorts of unexplained treatments happened to naive long-suffering specimens. Who the hell could this be, she wondered, panic gripping hold of her. The only people who ever came in here anymore were the night watchmen and they hadn't bothered to look inside for months now, maybe even years, as far as she could recall. Her heart was pulsing loudly in her ears, as she quietly tucked herself into a cubby hole. Ursula's shrill voice permeated the hallway, "Oh my gosh this is overwhelming Dexter. Do you really think we can do this?" she yelped. "I mean, really, look around. What were we thinking Dexter? There's so much work to do here," she rambled on. "Some of the walls are literally crumbling. Broken windows. Dust and cobwebs everywhere. The place looks haunted. Who the hell would want to rent a room in this derelict place? How are we ever gonna turn this place around?" "Calm down Ursula, we'll get it done", Dexter assured her. "No need to jump off a cliff honey, we'll take it one step at a time. It's our dream, remember Ursie? We got this," he reassured her again. The clean-up and reconstruction began. Day after day, scrubbing, hammering, scraping, polishing, dusting, and vacuuming. People were coming and going, cleaning services, construction men, lawyers, and inspectors. For the next four months, the place was a beehive of activity, swiftly transforming the old edifice into a reformed pristine fortress. Ursula watched it all happening with amazement, her trepidation gradually easing into excitement while she visualized her dreams coming true, with the formation of a five-star hotel in the works. This was really happening. "This is so exciting isn't it Dexter?" "It is Ursie. Imagine, it won't be long before our first customer walks through the front doors", Dexter countered. "We're getting it done Ursula." He smiled confidently at her. Ezzie was restless. This was getting downright annoying. In fact, it infuriated her. Who are these people to just walk in here and invade her space like this? Over the next few weeks, she festered and pondered her situation, contemplating how to gain her control back, all the while remaining in hiding, feeling overtaken by atrocious intruders. She was irate. The constant hammering and pounding scraped on her last nerve. That bitch's high-pitched cheerful squeals of delight relentlessly exasperated her. From somewhere obscure, a familiar voice whispered to her, offering some advice. " Dial the age back a bit Ezzie and upgrade your fashion sense to this era dear ". She recognized the voice; it was old Freddie from Room 666 just down the hall from her room. Freddie always watched out for Ezzie, he was a good friend to her. The soft sound of his voice resonated in her satiating fond memories, a warmth she realized she had pined for lately. It was so good to hear from Freddie. "What do you mean Freddie?" she asked curiously. " You're not from this century my dear. These people will never take you seriously; they'll think you're dressed for Halloween Ezzie. Get with the times, this is the 21st century. You need to dress for this occasion." Freddie continued to bestow his knowledge on her. After a great deal of contemplation, that's what she did, she formulated a plan. I'll just walk right in the front doors. Get a nice room like I used to have. Get treated nicely like I used to, she convinced herself. Ezzie's mind was racing with ideas. She began setting in motion strategies and tricks to play out her devious plan; all this scheming and conniving fabricated immense amusement for her. Her days were busy again and she had a sense of purpose once more. She truly belonged here. When she was completely satisfied that she had appropriately updated herself suitable to this era, wardrobe and makeup in entirety, she gleefully began executing the rest of her ideas. She looked absolutely fabulous. Stunning. The sound of the front doors opening was exciting for Ursula. Her heart was fluttering with anticipation. With any luck this will be their very first customer, she thought to herself. All their hard work tirelessly reconstructing these ancient ruins and breathing life back into this old abandoned structure was about to start paying off. "Welcome, please come in," she said to the lady entering the hotel. "Hi, do you have any rooms available?" the stranger asked Ursula. "Yes, we do. Single? Double? A suite perhaps? Here are the room prices. Hi. I'm Ursula." "Single. Just me," she replied sheepishly. She smiled and extended a gnarly hand out to shake hands with Ursula. "Hi. I'm Ezzie," she beamed radiantly. She was so happy to be home and have company again.

“Okay, you can take my heart, if it gets me out of this world you can take anything you want.” the boy said with resolve. His regal looking clothes were covered in dirt and sweat. The boy’s eyes were those of an old man though he could not have been more than 13. I did my best to maintain my composer but honestly, I’m sure he probably saw the shock on my face. No one had ever said yes to my deal before. That was the whole point I didn’t actually know how to send someone to a new world, I mean I don’t even know for sure if other worlds exist. Well, they must exist right what are the odds that there is only one world? In any case I still have no idea how to get to other worlds. When the first person came knocking at my door asking for a path to another world, I didn’t want to seam incompetent so I told him that I knew how but set a price no one would be willing to pay, their own heart. I mean who would be willing to give up their heart of all things. More than a decade later that small lie came back to bite me in the form of a wiry teenager standing in my kitchen. I was just minding my business making a fresh pot of tea when he burst through my door. Next thing I knew he was begging me to send him to a new world. So, I made him the same deal I always do when every few years a peasant comes begging for a trip to a new world. I told him the price was his heart. I never thought he would accept the trade. “Are you positive, after all it will be a very painful and terrible experience to lose your heart.” I tried to make my voice as spooky and regal as I could manage as I said this. I even through in some fun whooshing wind to make my beard flow a little bit. After all what's a warlock without a little theatrics. Usually this was enough to turn away even the bravest of peasants.The boy looked up at me with defiance in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter, if I stay here I might as well jump off a cliff. I am the crown prince of this kingdom and my coronation is tomorrow” His voice shook with anger and frustration and just a tinge of exhaustion. I wont lie this information gave me quit a shock. Last I had checked king Andres was the ruler of the kingdom but that was two hundred years ago. I couldn’t help but feel pity for the poor boy he obviously was very upset, but I mean how bad could the cushy life of a crown prince be? With all the servants and what not I never would have guessed he didn’t enjoy his life. Usually, it was only ever peasants who wanted to leave this world. One or twice I had a princesses trying to escape an arranged marriage but never a prince. I wonder just how much I had been missing lately if a prince wanted to leave. “Perhaps just an escape to a faraway city would do. After all the price for a faraway city getaway is only ... two tear drops!” Now getting someone to a different kingdom is doable all it takes is a simple transportation spell and bam off they go. Usually, I charged more than a couple tears, but I figured it couldn't hurt to sweeten the pot a little for the prince. Plus, I was low on organic human tears and the synthetic ones from the magic market never work quit as well. They always leave a nasty residue in the cauldron that takes like two hours to scrub out. “You think another kingdom would be any better? Have you seen the world lately everywhere looks like this everyone is either starving or being sent to war, do you think royal families are safe! Mine will be the third coronation this year alone. An enemy kingdom poisoned my father, the armies beheaded my brother and the minute I take the thrown someone is going to start a plan to kill or overthrow me. This world is to broken to live in, I just want to start fresh anywhere has to be better than here.” His words were steely and filled with longing for peace. It surprised me how desperate and hopeless someone so young could be. Suddenly he lunged forward and grabbed a small dagger I had lying on the table. Before I could even react, he had it pressed against his chest hard enough that I could see a small line of blood begin to trickle down. “Just take my heart already! Can't you see this is the only way” Tears streamed down his face as he begged me to take his heart. “Stop!” I shouted my voice booming in the small house. Something about seeing a child stab themselves with a knife really awakens the old fires in you. I quickly used a bit of Magic to turn the dagger into a harmless bouquet of flowers. It really was a shame to have to do that it was my favorite dagger up to that point.The boy dropped the flowers in despair. As I looked at the boy everything in the house suddenly felt very small and unimportant. I realized just how isolated I had been for the past few decades. I glanced at the old clock on the wall it no longer had any hands to tell time with, yet even I could see it was time for me to do something, anything for the world around me. So, I did what all warlocks do in a pinch, I made up a prophesy. Using magic, I changed my voice to sound deeper and grander, then I made a heavy wind rush through the house. “What is your name boy” I bellowed. “Jack” for the first time there was real fear in the boy's eyes as he uttered his name. “Long ago there was a prophecy foretold, When the world is torn apart, and a boy will give up his heart, with the help of a warlock the.... the healing will start. Jack, you have proven yourself to be the one foretold!” The words echoed around us with power. I must say it was not a bad prophesy for being made up on the spot like that. It even had a proper rhyme and everything. Now the tough part would be fulfilling the prophesy. Jack’s face was full of confusion but behind it all was just the glimmer of hope. “Come now we don’t have time to waste there is work to be done Jack the world won’t fix itself!” I grabbed my travel satchel as I said this scooping vials, bottles, and jars from my shelves into the bottomless bag. For the first time in years, I felt truly excited. As I threw open my door and smelled the air outside I had only one thought in my head. It’s time to change the world.

Boot attempt 999999 Warning low battery Critical disk failure Check hardware for moisture damage Rebooting &#x200B; Boot attempt 0000001 Warning low battery Hard disk online Some disk functions may not be available Please perform emergency maintenance when it is safe to do so &#x200B; I am standing in a small grove of trees. I remember these trees but they are larger than they were only moments ago. I have been detached from my unit. My pings have so far gone unanswered. Sensors indicate that critical maintenance is necessary for extended operation. Solar battery is charging slowly; 16.5 hours until fully charged. Entering rest mode. Battery is fully charged; estimated battery life is 48 hours at maximum functionality. AI engine is back online. Much of my data is gone and my hard disk speed is critically low. Has someone erased my memory or have I... forgotten? Still no response to my pings. I walk to the edge of the grove and peer through the dense foliage. I do not remember this place being so overgrown. My clock battery has died and I am unable to ascertain how long I have been offline. Through the leaves I see a vast plain, cut by a river that runs North to South. At the mouth of this river there should be a city... What was the city called? I climb through the brush into the scorching sunlight. The sun seems much harsher than normal. Applying neutral density filter to visual sensors. There are many animals about. Most, like squirrels and deer, are logged in my encyclopedia. Some, like the large beetles, must have been erased from my hard drive over time. I do not remember any insect species exceeding 2 meters in length. Much of the landscape is cratered and covered with ancient rubble, another detail I seem to have forgotten. Self maintenance requires a backup hard drive, which I do not possess. I will need to reach a waystation to repair critical systems. Nearest waystation detected 3 km South, along the river. The flora are highly resistant to my progress, and weapons systems are offline so I will have to find some kind of tool to cut through the foliage. I notice a small stone building, the lone structure that remains standing in the clearing. Its wooden door has long since rotted away, so I assume the structure is uninhabited and i will scan the interior for useful supplies. Furniture lies strewn about the floor of the small house, and many small mammals and very large insects inhabit every corner of the building. The place does not appear to have been ransacked by either men or machines, mercifully. A room at the back of the building holds various farming tools and supplies, chiefly a large machete that will make clearing the brush much easier. As I collect the machete I notice a long decayed and scavenged human corpse in the corner of the room. Upon further analysis, it seems the human was exposed to lethal amounts of radiation. Switching radiation detection systems online. Sensors indicate higher-than-normal levels of radiation in the atmosphere, possibly fallout from a nuclear detonation. After more than an hour cutting through the dense brush, I reach another small grove. Lying in the center of the grove is another sentry unit, though this one seems to be a newer model than myself. I do not recognize it. I approach the fallen unit cautiously and begin to remove the chassis to search for useable parts. Most of the bolts are rusted so it is difficult to remove the chassis without damaging it. Finally, after much careful work, the body of the sentry lies split open in the grass. Most of its systems are beyond repair, but the hard drive appears to be functional. I begin to affix the drive to the backup slot behind my chest panel, but in my haste i forget to format it. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with horrible, visceral memories of war. In a single moment I experience a hundred years of torturous bloodshed and nuclear chaos. I begin to feel the emotions of the sentry unit wash over me. These are much more advanced and nuanced emotions than those supported by my Artificial Neural Network and version numbers indicate that this sentry was built... Wait... 70 years after my own systems went offline? A rabbit hops up to me and begins cocking her head to examine me. I am overjoyed at the sight of the creature, for reasons I cannot explain. Why am I reaching out to touch the rabbit? She looks shocked and runs away. She must be scared of me. I hate this; I wish I could touch her. &#x200B; DANGER PROXIMITY SENSORS DETECT A HOSTILE BODY ENGAGING WEAPONS CANNOT ENGAGE WEAPONS P<EA@< P"@FORM C:#$TICAL MAIN<@:CE &#x200B; I whip around to face the threat, only to be met by a rapidly descending - is that a spider? - hurtling toward me from the canopy. The arachnoid is approximately 4 meters in length and easily overpowers me. I attempt to fire a sonic pulse to disable the mutant predator, only to be met with a flurry of corrupted error messages. The creature sinks its fangs into my chassis, missing vital systems by mere centimeters. Another blow will be terminal. I look around instinctively for backup units, forgetting for a moment that seemingly every sentry for kilometers around has been disabled. I do, however, find something that may be able to incapacitate the creature; the machete lies just within arm's reach. I grip it tightly and thrust it toward the body of my adversary. It finds purchase between the cephalothorax and abdomen of the spider, nearly bisecting the vicious beast. It pushes me away violently and begins thrashing on the ground as I take the opportunity to put some distance between its death throes and myself. I stare in awe as its eight massive legs begin to curl toward its chest. What is this emotion i'm feeling now? Triumph? No, that one I understand well. This is something else, something that I do not enjoy. This is guilt. But why would I feel remorse for my enemy? Nonetheless, as I stare at the now-still corpse of the freakish spider, I am sorry for having had to kill it. The incorporation of the fallen sentry's AI has made processing information much more complex, possibly more complex than my outdated hardware is capable of handling. I can't bring myself to format the drive though; I feel that these memories and emotions are important and I have to preserve them. Nearest waystation detected 1.2 km South. I pull the machete from the spider's corpse and begin to cut a path toward the waystation. For the first time I feel both fear and determination. My objective has been modified.

I got a call at three o’clock in the morning on a Sunday and was pretty chapped about it. I had to work in the morning and could barely sleep as it is. “Hello?” “Hello, is this Mr. Kent?” The lady’s voice annoyed me. “Agh, yep.” I sounded short. “Brayden Kent?” “Yes” I started to worry but not the worry you get when you miss seven or eight calls from your mom. My mom was dead, as so was my dad. They were both pretty hard on themselves and croaked pretty early. “I’m sorry” the lady said, “your brother James and his wife, Amelia, were pronounced dead at 2:04am this morning.” “What?” “Your brother and his wife died in a car accident early this morning. I’m very sorry.” I was certain it was in a nightmare but hadn’t really had one in a while and also nightmares don’t feel particularly real after you hear news like that lady gave me. “Well, where?” Thinking back, it was a weird question to ask. I suppose she’d heard worse. “They had been changing lanes on the 401, near London, and collided with a semi. They were killed instantly.” I was close with my brother, but as you get older, people drift. I hadn’t spoke with him in over two months. “What about Lena?” I yelled. “Lena?” The lady annoyed me again. Len... fucking Lena! Their daughter!” “Sorry, their daughter is with protective services. I did not know her name.” “Where are they now?” “Lena?” She nervously responded. “No! My brother and Amelia?” “St. James Hospital sir.” I hung up, threw on my coat and boots, and sped to the hospital. I was sitting in the medical office crying when the doctor came in. “Hello, Mr. Kent. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss. I understand you’re the godfather of Lena?” “I am.” “She is one lucky girl then.” I remember hating that he had said that. The first year was tough. The amount of paperwork it takes to become the guardian of a kid who shares your blood is messed up. I mean... I was in a good space, responsible enough, and had a good paying job. I cried a lot. Lena cried a lot but not for her parents, I don’t think. She was a year and a half old when they got in the accident. She just cried over baby things like crankiness and teeth pain. I cried because she would never know her real parents. I cried because my brother died. I didn’t much cry for Amelia but cried for Lena. She started calling me dad at around three years old. I called her daughter to people I met; it easier that way. I started to realize that I didn’t have many friends before this, like the friends that would know I was Lena’s uncle. I guess I liked calling her daughter. We had gotten on pretty good by then. My brother always told me how he could never get sleep in Lena’s first year. I slept fine now. Lena would sleep with me often and I guess kids do that around three so it was nice. She started to do things that would remind me of James. Seeing pieces of him, in her, always put me in a good mood. She came to me once and asked why she didn’t have a mom when all the other kids did. “Where’s my mom?” Lena asked. She was starting to ask those questions kids start to ask. “She died, Lena.” I always told myself that if she ever asked that question, I wouldn’t lie to her. I was prepared and knew it was going to come anyway and knew that I would have to explain death. I didn’t expect the questions after though; pretty naive I guess. “What does that mean?” Lena said. “Well, it means she’s no longer around.” “Why?” “Well, we’re all eventually no longer around, but sometimes people are no longer around a little earlier, like your mom.” Lena looked confused but she was smart and didn’t cry or get sad but started thinking, going back to her colouring book but pondering something. “Dad?” “Yep.” I looked back at her after my mind had went to the tv. “Do people ever come back from being no longer around?” It was a question we all ask at one time or another. “Not this no longer around.” She looked back at her book and kept colouring. Lena’s hair was long now. Like to her shoulders so not that long. I took her to the park across from our house, which was her dad’s house, as he and Amelia left it to us. We didn’t live far away so it was no problem moving from my apartment to his house. I just had to maintain stuff now but always liked yard work. I used to always do it with my dad. I was still working my job, too. I always hear people talk about the fact that they have no alone time with kids but if I’m being completely honest, I always had alone time. She was old enough now that she would sleep in a bit and I would stay up later than her. I never had a problem adjusting to things in life. Her ninth birthday was coming up and I had planned a get-together with some of her school friends and their parents. I bought her a bike; a pretty good bike. She was pretty excited about it. She would ride it around the block, to her friends, and sometimes around the yard until it lost its appeal. “Dad, can I go over to Kat’s?” “Did you talk to her mom?” “Uh huh!” I phoned Kat’s mom and they were all playing in the backyard so it was all good. Lena rode her bike there. Kat lived two blocks away. I just hung out at home and watched some TV and ordered a pizza. Lena loved when I ordered pizza; she loved the corner pieces for some reason, those triangle ones. No one likes the corner pieces. I always saved them for her. She likes putting Parmesan cheese on her pizza and I liked putting hot sauce on mine. Lena thinks I’m crazy. She once accidentally had one of mine and started screaming and crying. I had a good laugh and she was so mad at me and didn’t talk to me for the rest of the night. Funny how mad she got pizza but I just thought it was cute. Lena doesn’t get mad too often. She’s rational and I like to think that she got that from me. She’s more interested in space and planets than she is in fairytales and ghosts. She was always asking me to put on Cosmos before she went to bed. I never complained. She read more than she played in the park. She liked to dance more than she liked to walk, and she asked way too many questions. Lena always made for a good conversation. She hopped on the hood of my car while I was leaving for work one day. She was laughing so hard, trying to stop me from going to work; I was so mad at her that I could have pulled away with her still there. She was thirteen now and it was a weekend so she could stay on her own. She was so easy to trust at home when I had to work the weekends. Lena was smart in school, smart in life, and smart with people. The years flew by like nothing and I was as much of a dad as the next guy with kids. I met Cam that year and we fell in love. She loved Lena as much as I did. Lena wasn’t happy with her to begin with but she eventually came around. Cam was an artist and Lena liked to paint so before I knew it, they were hanging out with each other more than with me. I guess that’s what you hope for in the beginning. I always thought it was weird how Cam didn’t want kids but then became Lena’s best friend in the blink of an eye. That’s how she goes. Cam was a health nut and I wasn’t so we started to eat real healthy. She tried to get me working out but I wasn’t having it. She laughed at me. We met older so changing someone for one’s own conveniences was not a thought. We accepted each other for who were were. I’d still order pizza for Lena and I. Cam also couldn’t resist it. “I’ll work it off tomorrow.” She would say with a laugh. I wasn’t the laughing type so we got on really good. I remember when Cam and I bought Lena her first car for her sixteenth birthday. She was so excited and wanted to drive it so we let her. It was dark outside but we kept to the local roads. She had a smile bigger than I’d ever seen before and was playing some music too loud on the stereo. We drove up a hill along one of the roads close to home and she parked to admire the city lights. I was so proud of her, not a lot of people admire city lights at sixteen. “I can’t believe you’re already sixteen.” I said. She just smiled, put the car in gear, and started driving, turning up the music too loud again. I pictured what life would be like if the same thing that happened to my brother happened to her. I quickly pushed that to the back of my mind. It was pretty surreal watching someone who could barely walk, when she landed with me, to now switching gears and turning corners in a car. We approached the driveway, Lena bottomed out the car, we laughed and she parked it. We both got out and shut the doors of the car. We slowly walked to the door and she hugged me a really big hug, like teenagers do when you get them something big. “Thanks, Uncle Brayden.” I could feel her head on my shoulder as I looked at our neighbour’s car in the driveway. She was so tall now.

Don't you have anything better to do? his brother asked. Sam Roebuck smiled. Not at the moment, he thought back. But you seem rather busy at the moment. Not everyone can swill whiskey and idly write all day, his twin brother, Liam Roebuck, thought as he entered the warehouse. Triple homicides don't solve themselves. And best sellers that pay for the lake house don't write themselves, either, Sam retorted. Now shut up and do your job. Liam glanced at a nearby window and gave his reflection the middle finger. Sam grinned wider. He and his brother had shared this connection all their lives; all one brother had to do was close his eyes, reach out to the other, and he would see from his brother's perspective--both literally and figuratively. Liam and Sam had used this connection to their benefit on numerous occasions--whether it be stealing the neighbor's Halloween candy when they were kids, or stealing their parent's vodka when they were slightly larger kids--but none had proved more fruitful than their current arrangement. Liam ventured out into the world as a detective for the Boston Police Department, and Sam used those experiences for the basis of his thrillers. Of course, Sam always served up these stories with an extra dollop of melodrama on top--a habit that annoyed Liam as much as it filled his publishers with glee. "Not much to see here, sir," a plain-clothes police officer told Liam as he passed into the warehouse. He was a short man with beady eyes and a moss of red stubble across his jaw. "We've got three in the back office. There are some footprints around the bed, a few smudges by the window, and not much else." "No fingerprints?" Liam asked. "None that don't belong to the victims." That's a shame, Sam thought. This one might actually be interesting. Apologies if most of my life is too boring for you, Liam thought as he followed the police officer into the back room. Does this at least pique your interest? In fact, it did. The bodies were arranged in a row, arm to arm, across a dirty mattress. They wore heavy winter jackets and hats and gloves. Scarves were laid over their faces, almost ceremonially. If there were any signs of trauma, Sam couldn't spot them--but the bodies weren't moving. These people were certainly dead, there was no doubting that. "Who called it in?" Liam asked as he pulled on his gloves. "Not sure, sir," said the plain-clothes officer as he scratched at the stubble on his chin. "We got an anonymous tip. Came from a pay phone, believe it or not." "Pay phone," Liam muttered as he made a circle of the room. "I'm surprised there are any left in the city." "There aren't, which makes life a bit easier. We tracked down the phone pretty quickly, but we're stilling running through nearby security camera footage to see if we can make an ID." The officer shrugged. "It's a strange city." And it gets stranger every day, Sam thought. He opened his eyes--transporting himself back to his office--and made a quick note about pay phones on a yellow legal pad in front of him. Going from his brother's mind and back to his own could be a little jarring, especially when he swapped out dank, dim warehouses for his broad mahogany desk in his too-expensive office. Sam again felt grateful that he was the one with the literary gene, and closed his eyes. "... will the coroner get here?" Liam was in a different position in the room now, standing near the window. "Soon," said the officer. "I guess there's an accident off route 93 that's got everything backed up." "Figures," Liam muttered as he crouched by the bodies. It wasn't uncommon for a detective to arrive at a murder scene before the coroner or forensics, but Liam didn't like it. He preferred to bounce his ideas off people--a particularly Holmesian trait, Sam observed--and, lacking anyone else, he turned to his brother. See anything of interest up there? Sam didn't. The bodies were still and rigid; no doubt rigor mortis had set in, meaning they had passed away at least four hours ago. Maybe longer. Clothes look cheap, Sam commented. Cheap, but clean. Maybe even new. Almost looks like they decked themselves out at the dollar store before coming out here to die. "Why would they do that?" Liam muttered. "Do what?" The plain-clothes police officer knelt beside Liam. A little too close for comfort, in Sam's opinion. "These clothes..." Liam shook his head. "Has anyone in the neighborhood reported anything?" "Neighborhood?" He chuckled. "Ain't much of a neighborhood to speak of, sir." Liam rubbed his chin. "Did the anonymous caller say that this was a murder?" The officer shrugged. "I believe so, yes." "That's odd," Liam said. "I can't see any gunshots, stab marks, signs of strangulation..." Liam flicked on his flashlight. There wasn't much he could see, like the police officer had noted, but he could see glimpses of skin between the scarves and the jackets--and what he could see was unnaturally white. Do you think the killer kidnapped these people? Sam thought. Maybe he murdered them and he called it in himself. Could be, Liam thought. But he could tell that his brother's mind was moving along a different track. And he was getting nervous. What's wrong? Sam thought. Liam didn't answer him. He moved around the bed and positioned himself by one of the bodies. " Limbs are stiff," he said as he pressed his fingers into one of their arms. The office stood and leaned over Liam. "Friggin hell," he muttered. "That's bizarre." Liam lifted the arm. It rose easily--too easily, like it weighed almost nothing. Liam, Sam thought. I really don't like this. His brother ignored him. Liam was the brave one--another gene that went to one brother and not the other. Sam knew that Liam felt fear, panic, uncertainty, all those things, but he had a leash on each of them; Liam never allowed them to run wild, or bark too loudly. Sam, watching as his brother reached for the scarf, realized that he didn't have a tenth of that control. He was afraid. Really afraid. Under the scarf was an empty, blank face. No mouth, no eyes, no ears. Just Styrofoam-smoothness, carved and molded into a vaguely human face. You need to get out of here, Sam thought. He could feel his palms sweating, miles away in his comfy, well-heated office. Liam pulled the scarf from the next body--and revealed another mannequin. He was reaching for the third when the blow fell. Something hit Liam on the back of the head--and his brother collapsed. "Gotcha," the officer muttered. He flipped Liam over--the small bat that was hidden under his coat now in his hand--and began to drag him by his heels. Liam! Sam thought. LIAM WAKE UP!!! But his brother didn't respond. This had happened before--back when Sam would pass out drunk, Liam would take a peak in his head to make sure he wasn't lying on his back so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit--but it was always a disconcerting experience. Sam left alone and cold inside his unconscious brother's mind. His eyes rolled, but Sam's thoughts weren't as muddled by pain and disorientation. He could watch what was happening--or, at least, he could try his best. And that was enough for him to recognize the face of the officer. Dennis Reily. He looked different without his beard; in fact, the beard had once been his defining feature--long and thick and red, in stark contrast to his pale face and thin blond hair. Dennis had been in and out of BPD holding cells all his life--more than once, at Liam's hands. He must be out on parole. They both thought Dennis had been full of it when he swore to get even with Liam, after his arrest on drug trafficking charges. Liam had laughed it off, and Sam had laughed with him, not willing to betray the nervousness he felt in his gut. But then days passed, uneventful and bloody-revenge-free. Days became months, then months became years, and Dennis Reily slowly became less than a bad memory; they never thought about him at all. Now we'll never be able to forget. Dennis dragged his brother off the mattress and out of the room when Sam forced his eyes open. He wasn't doing any good here--sitting in his plush office while his brother was in the hands of... He slapped himself. No point panicking now. Fortunately he had been in his brother's head when he got the call--a call that, in retrospect, was extremely suspicious. Just got a call from a lieutenant on the south side, Liam had said, popping into Sam's head while he was staring at his blank legal pad. I see the writing is going well. Piss off, Sam had said, writing an expletive on the notepad. What have you got? It sounded inviting enough--but the drive over had proved otherwise. Liam and Sam had gotten into a spat over the lake house; Liam wanted to take his wife and children up next weekend, but Sam had already made firm and indelible plans to drink himself into a stupor. They had gotten into a fight and Sam left his brother alone... until he spent a few more minutes alone with that yellow legal pad, and then he was back in his twin's mind just as he walked into the warehouse. South side, Sam thought as he jammed the key into the ignition of his old BMW. How many abandoned warehouses could there be on the south side? Of course his experience in Boston's south side has been limited to whatever his Uber driver drove past after he'd been kicked out of one brewery or another. Driving in Boston was a nightmare. He'd never get there in time. Just as he got on route 93, he closed his eyes--just for a moment. Dennis was dragging Liam up a flight of stairs. He could feel Liam's head bouncing off the wooden steps. Sam opened his eyes with a gasp--and slammed on the brakes. The old BMW skidded to a halt mere inches from the car in front of him. I guess Dennis wasn't lying about an accident on 93. Or, maybe he had been. Saying there was an accident on 93 was like saying the sun was shining; half the time, that was undoubtedly true. Sam pulled into the breakdown lane and slammed on the accelerator. The scene of the accident snapped past in an instance--followed by more than a few middle fingers. Why is everyone flipping me off today? Whatever, they could be as mad as they wanted. He only had to make it to the next exit, then he could snake his way through downtown to get to the docks, and from there he could follow his brother's footsteps to the warehouse. Sirens whirled to life behind him. The police officer pulled up close; the grill and swirling red and blue lights filled his rear-view mirror. "Of course ," Sam said through gritted teeth as he took the off ramp. At least he had backup when he got to the warehouse--assuming they weren't busy arresting him for one of the dozen traffic laws he had violated (including trying to lubricate a case of writer's block with a few shots of Dewar's before getting behind the wheel). He zipped through the south side, going off memory alone. The police blasted their sirens; he was vaguely aware that more than one had joined the fray. Sam's heart nearly burst when he spotted something familiar--his brother's sedan, parked in front of an old warehouse. He slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel hard. The police behind him obviously weren't ready for the maneuver and skidded past him. Sam pulled into the parking lot, beside his brother's car. Where are you? When he closed his eyes, he saw the sky. "Always thought you were better than me," Dennis muttered into Liam's ear. "Always thought you were a great, great man, eh? That's what always bothered me about you, pig." Liam's head rose. Dennis was lifting him. "Now you'll be nothing but a goddamn puddle. " Sam opened his eyes. He didn't need his connection with his twin to see what was happening now; Dennis, with Liam's body draped over his shoulder, was standing on the roof of the building. "How am I supposed to stop this?" Sam said. The words came as a surprise to him. What could he do, really? Anything? Dennis shifted. He planted his foot on the roof behind him. He's getting ready to throw him. A thought flashed into his mind. It might be stupid--truly, truly stupid--but it was the only thing he could think of. Sam threw his car in reverse and backed up. Dennis raised his brother, clearly struggling under the weight. Sam barely had time to put his car in drive before Liam started falling. Sam punched the accelerator and maneuvered the car as best he could. Liam's body fell with alarming speed--too fast, too goddamned fast! Sam positioned the car as best he could, but there was no telling if he was in the right spot, or if he had gone too far, or if-- And then the roof caved in. Liam slammed into Sam's car, breaking his fall, leaving an ugly, deep indent on the roof. Sam had to angle his head to get out. The police, who had pulled into the lot mere moments before, stared at him in shock. "I think the lunatic tossing people off buildings in the bigger priority, eh?" The offices, blinking away their shock, seemed to agree. They rushed into the abandoned warehouse moments later. Sam grabbed Liam's wrist. His brother was in bad shape; he'd need stitches and casts and a lot of painkillers (which, no doubt, he'd be an ass about sharing). But he had a pulse. And, to Sam's shock, he could feel Liam's presence in his mind. Yikes, Liam thought. I look bad. You've looked worse. Have I? After that weekend in Vegas, yeah. But not by much. A police officer checked Liam's vitals and radioed for an ambulance. Dennis Reily was taken from the building moments later. He met Sam's gaze--and his mouth dropped open. "I'm just a twin," Sam shouted. "But don't worry, the original model is just fine." Dennis was about to say something back when he was stuffed into the back of a squad car. The arresting officers weren't too careful about banging the suspect's head against the car door. I've had an idea, Sam thought. Why don't I come to the lake house with you and the family this weekend? I don't know. Martha really hates the whole "drunken stupor" act. "Then I guess I'll need to postpone," Sam said. "I can get drunk any weekend." Liam did his best to smile at his brother. And for once, the finger he raised to Sam wasn't the middle one. It was his thumb. Sam chuckled. "This is going to make one hell of a read." Liam groaned. Sorry, but I think I'll have to skip it.

THE FOGGY MIST ED WOOTEN Physical fitness, confidence, and drive for exploration have been my assets since high school. I’ve always maintained good physical conditioning and regard myself an avid outdoorsman. I’ve even considered auditioning for the Naked and Afraid television series. I recently celebrated my fortieth birthday and decided to prove I still possess my prowess in mountain climbing. In addition to mountain climbing and exploring nature, I also pride myself as a novice writer and a photography buff. Six days ago, I began this midlife challenge of reaching the pinnacle of one of the plethora of mountain peaks in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I started along a familiar path with nothing more than an aerial photo of the area, three bottles of water, and four Granola bars. My past physical achievement awards include awards for mountain climbing, map reading, and orienteering as well as cross country running. Within a half hour of climbing, a dense fog moved in and blanketed the area. Four hours later, I arrived at this summit, a breathtaking view with just a few sunbeams penetrating the still dense fog. The last quarter mile was a challenging climb with vertical rock walls that tested my upper body strength and years of experience. After admiring the breathtaking view and eating a Granola bar, I realized this was not my intended peak. I explored the immediate area to get reoriented and match my location with the aerial photo that served as my map. The rocky terrain showed no well-used paths and its magnificent trees seemed to touch the sky. The situation was peaceful and serene until I slipped on a rocky slope, twisted my ankle, and crashed to the ground. I pulled myself to an upright sitting position and reached for some water. I opened a bottle, took a couple of sips, and tried to clear the cobwebs from my head. Ugh, I must have hit harder than I thought. My head ached from the sudden stop and for a brief moment, I was dizzy and disoriented. I got to my feet and hobbled around searching for a trail or path that would lead me back to the base of his mountain. I found no visible paths. It appeared the only way off this majestic perch was to retrace my steps down the sheer, granite-like walls. This sounded like a good plan; however, it couldn’t happen until my sore ankle got better. I kept walking...trying to get the ankle to function again. I stopped and reviewed the events of my day. I traversed a couple of streams, passed a roaring waterfall, and then contoured an area of challenging rock formations and cliffs. I attempted to match these landmarks with my aerial photo. Evidently, I got disoriented and then ended up on a ridge to another peak instead of the one I was supposed to be navigating. Orienteering maps are much more detailed than this aerial photo. For a moment, I questioned if I had allowed my confidence and prowess to cloud my better judgement. I made the mistake of taking off my boot to check my ankle. Swelling so severe that I barely got the boot back on. “Not a problem,” I assured myself as I limped back to the epicenter of the summit, my foot throbbing with pain. “I’ll call a friend, have him locate me via my phone signal, and dispatch a forest ranger to rescue me.” Oops, my newest version of iPhone had no bars and the “No Service” message kept flashing. What the hell? I had a full bottle of water and two Granola bars. Three days passed. “Had” became the operative tense to describe my water and food situation. They were gone, had been for a couple of days. My phone died. Its final message, “No Service.” I’ve made it through the days fantasizing that I’m training for Naked and Afraid , and my partner has already tapped out. Hopefully, before the twenty-one day timeframe for the TV series, I will be found. I think dehydration has set in. My thoughts are unclear, I’m having trouble analyzing situations, and I think I’m hallucinating. The night air is very cold and damp, so sleep escapes me. During the day, my strength is zapped to the point that my movement is sluggish and nonproductive. Maybe my movement is sluggish because of my ankle and not lack of strength. The swelling and pain are still present. I can’t take a step without the pain piercing my brain sensors. The only food I’ve had for the past days has been black berries, or I should say, green berries...black berries that have not matured to become black. I can hear birds, but haven’t seen any other animals--no rabbits or squirrels. Not even a chipmunk. I need protein, but a source is not within reach. Fortunately, it rained briefly last evening so I swallowed enough to rehydrate my body. Unfortunately, the rain caused me to be both cold and wet during the night. At least the morning sun provided enough warmth to ease the chills and dry my clothes. Again, I try to find a way to get down from this peak. I think I’m moving in circles instead of descending. I know going down the rock face is the best option, but I need two, stable ankles for that manuever. On a positive note, I’ve taken some beautiful photographs of this area. One constant, other than the excruciating pain in my ankle, is the ever-present foggy mist that prevents me from seeing the valleys that I know must exist. I also cannot clearly see other peaks. Where am I? [NOTE: The above entry was found in a small, spiral notebook three years ago. To date, the author has not been identified, a body never recovered, and no record of a missing person’s report has been filed in this area. Other than the notebook, a camera with beautiful photos is all that was found. US Army Ranger students found them when their recon patrol got disoriented and ended up on this summit during the Mountain Phase of their rigorous training. Signed, Thomas Jones, Deputy, Missing Persons Unit, Dahlonega, GA.]

When I was younger, I used to travel a lot. It was my dream to visit every corner of the Earth and over a couple of decades, I achieved my dream. It was a long journey but a worthwhile one. You have to understand, no one can visit every corner of the Earth... it’s just an expression. I can say, though, that I’ve been to every country there is and visited all the important places. It’s more than a human can wish for. Don’t get me wrong, I‘ve never compared myself to others, at least not when it comes to traveling. I do sometimes make comparisons because it’s in human nature more than anything. When it comes to travel - no. It has always been a personality thing, a kind of personal growth if you will. It’s fascinating meeting other cultures or at least the vestiges of them because it has been one giant culture for a very long time. We all kind of live the same, think the same yet there are traces... Traces of our previous cultures that I’ve always wanted to explore. I’m a lucky one. I got to do what I always wanted. No stone was left unturned, no country unexplored. People often ask me what I got from my travels. I try to explain to them that I got to know the truth... to know what people are really like. They are all the same... everywhere on the globe. You see, they ask me if people live differently in other countries, if they are different. I tell them, they are not. Sure, there are some differences but then again, you have differences between two cities of the same country. It’s hard to believe, they say... People over there must be different from us. Our ancestors thought the same. It wasn’t long ago that we wanted to exterminate each other over our differences. We don’t do it like that anymore...but we still hate each other - with a smile on the face. People think we’ve changed, that we are qualitatively different from our ancestors, that because we don’t go to war we are somehow different. Better. Superior. We are happier now, that’s true. We have fewer worries. Hunger is not an issue as it was before. People still die from it, but it’s more isolated cases than the real, global issue. I remember that when I was a child my parents used to tell me stories of when they were young. It was war and poverty and hunger. And great things, too. My parents never experienced negative things but they were aware they existed. Today, people believe we are living in a paradise and for most parts, it’s true. If you have limited desires you won’t want much and you’ll be happier. Our ancestors wanted more and that was the reason for their unhappiness. Then again, they achieved more. Today, we are happy but placid. We haven’t achieved great things since who knows when. Even now that I’m writing this I’m trying to mimic older writers, now all of them dead because we haven’t had a decent writer in decades. Peace comes with the price and while I’m not complaining, I sometimes wonder at the great adventures our ancestors had. We don’t have it anymore. That’s why I’m a rare bird... A dodo if you wish, though there are so many extinct species that I could be called any other name. A pigeon, for example. I think I remember seeing a pigeon once, one of the last ones when I was about 4 or so. After that, I’ve heard stories but haven’t seen one because they are now extinct. We don’t try to bring them back to life. First, because we can’t, and second because we don’t want to. We made them extinct in the first place for the sake of the greater good. We have left all those species beneficial for the peace on Earth. There are plenty of them, don’t think we don’t have any left. It’s just that they are now serving their beneficial purpose. I’m not complaining. No one is. You can’t complain about something you’ve only seen on pictures. I wonder what our ancestors would say... I wonder what they would think about their future descendants if they would change anything... That’s why I’m writing this... In the hypothetical case that someone reads this, though I don’t have any hope anyone will. I’m writing this for myself. And maybe someone who comes after me who will see this as distant past. Who knows what they will think! Anyways, let me continue with my story... We have come along way with technology. When I said that we haven’t created anything in the last decades, I wasn’t completely honest. We have created many things, many great things, like the cure for cancer and AIDS, we can now grow body organs for transplantation purposes, so generally our life expectancy is much longer now than it was ever before. We still can’t live for 150 years, but we have extended our average lifespan to 95. It’s not so bad. Me, for example... I’m 65 years old and, compared to my parents and their parents, I would be 45. I still have a lot of things to live out. I’m not old, I’m middle-aged. It’s normal for women now to have children in their 40. It was possible then, too, but it wasn’t that common. I’m not complaining, don’t get me wrong. I like the way we are living now. It’s much better than the way my parents used to live or their parents. It’s peaceful and good and prosperous. It’s just... I’ve always felt that there was something missing. Probably I’ve traveled so much because of it. To find something. To find the meaning of life. Or just the meaning of my life. The purpose. Something. I’m not sure if I’ve found it... I’m still searching for it, but I did find something else. Something so strange that you wouldn’t believe me even if I showed it to you. No one wants to believe in what contradicts their view of the world. And no one believed me... For a long time, I hadn’t believed myself either. Until I went to search for it. The continent beyond.

\*See Part I : Ok, where were we with this story? Last time, James the watchmaker identified the initials on the mechanical movement belonged to his father and came to examine it in person for himself. “Remarkable!” He said as he circled around Giselle. “Since the watch is still running, there must be an auxiliary power source keeping the movement wound.” My aunt believed that it was impossible, but then they soon realized that it was Giselle’s eyes. There was just something about them... They moved Giselle near a desk lamp and discovered that the light shined through her eyes to the glass viewing window of the mechanical movement. “This was it! Her eyes runs on a sort of solar energy. Those are selenium cells in her eyes, which stores energy when exposed to the sun. But, they only last for 25 years. This must be keeping the watch functional all this time. But why? Why the watch, and why is it keeping time?” Together with James, they moved Giselle around and shined the lamp closer to examine any hidden features. When they shined the lamp at the glass viewing window behind her head, words were projected onto the wall: Greenwich 0701206439 “I know what that is. We are looking at an ISBN number, and Greenwich is the local library in the town where I grew up.” Said James. “That hidden message would only be visible as long as the mechanical movement inside her head is running. Otherwise, the numbers would be scrambled forever into oblivion.” “We HAVE to go find this book!” My aunt said. The next day, they showed up at the Greenwich library and asked for this book by number. None of the librarians knew what it was. That is, until an old lady came from the back room and brought them to the special archives vault. She dusted off a book in the far corner and handed it to us: “A young man asked me to keep this for him all these years. It was an unpublished book, and he told me to keep it hidden until someone asked for it by that ISBN number, or burn it if 25 years had passed. That would have been next week.” And the title of that book? “A Crimson Lullaby - You and I and time”. The book cover had a single photo in black and white with four obscure people by the water. This could be a family vacation. There was also a beautiful young girl in the corner. Flipping through the pages of the secret book they found, my aunt recalled the first page: “My dear Claire, I hope this book will help you find your way back to me. \-Pierre.” As my aunt told me, the rest of the book was simply a series of photos with some captions. After all the years, I still have never seen the book. Perhaps James kept it, or maybe it was destroyed, I wasn’t sure, and I had no way of reaching him. Apparently, he left town a month after my aunt and her found that book, never to be seen again. Still, my aunt took photographs of two pages in the book as a memento. One of them was a girl standing in a field. Her face was obscured, and light and darkness perfectly divided the diagonal of the photograph. The girl’s face was in complete shadow, but deep in my soul I knew that this was that girl. This was Claire. The second photograph my aunt took showed the last page of the book, with only four short sentences: “There will be a time for us. Just you and I. Overlooking the ocean. Always and forever.” And that was the end, the very last page - at least according to my aunt. Even after all this time, my aunt never told me if she ever found out who Claire actually was, but over the years she developed a fondness for this beautiful story. Sometimes when we visited the beach together, we would both remember the last page of that book as we embraced the endless mystery of the vast ocean and listened in silence. The gentle sound of the waves was like a lullaby of time. Time past, and time present, all in one place. Always and forever. What about the real story of the mechanical watch hidden within Giselle? Well, years later, another small fashion boutique made a similar discovery in their store. It made international news as a valuable timepiece was hidden inside a mannequin- something that most people had heard about for the first time in their life. The watch was auctioned off together with the mannequin for five million dollars. However, unlike the watch my aunt found, that watch had stopped keeping time - probably because the Selenium cells finally decayed after 25 years. And, there was no hidden message and no secret book at a library linked to that discovery. It was just another relic of time celebrated by the rich as a piece of their collection and accompanied with their own story. I miss my aunt sometimes. She would have been 90 years old today. I hope she found her happiness in life.

# [MF] Intolerable It’s a cool morning, and Sergei is taking a walk through his neighborhood as he usually does, weather permitting before he goes to work. Sergei is a seemingly average man. He has short light hair and harrowing grey eyes that he wishes weren't so piercing. Sergei is about six feet tall and 165 pounds making him appear long and, in combination with his eyes he appears almost specter like. As seemingly intimidating as he may sound, he is a gentle man; he goes about his business doing his best not to interfere in others’. Sergei has a few close friends that he meets with after work and occasionally on the weekend for drinks, or to discuss whatever esoteric topic he is infatuated with at the time. Sergei is for the most part content, never wanting for much, perfectly ok with how his relatively uninteresting life has panned out. After all, he has food on the table and money in the bank, which is all he has ever really asked for. So, as he is taking his routine morning walk on a crisp autumn morning, he is surprised to find an old friend of his walking as well. A friend he has not seen in, what he figures, must have been at least 5 years. He was close with the man for a time and remembered him well. As he can just barely see the man approaching he fumbles through his memory, scouring his brain to find the man’s name. Just as the familiar man is a few paces away from Sergei he remembers and greets him respectfully with a casual handshake as if to signify the time that has passed since their last meeting. The man’s name is Edward, and in truth Edward and Sergei had been very close for a very long time in their youth. For a summer they had traveled through Europe after University and had celebrated their shared accomplishments thoroughly. But there is a reason Edward had not seen Sergei in years, and it was not by accident that Edward had returned. Edward and Sergei had known each other since they were fifteen, Edward was actually sixteen at the time, but that is beside the point. They had formed a close bond and it was beneficial for both of them for most of their youth and early adulthood. Sergei was smart, collected, introverted, morbid at times, but never brutal or demanding. Edward was fiendish on occasion, driven, he had surface-level knowledge of most things but could do a lot with a little. Plus, Edward was rich, and Sergei was not. They were an unstoppable pair with a successful formula for getting things done; Sergei plans and thinks things through, Edward executes, and both parties profit. Edward was less aware of this cyclical behaviour than Sergei but neither of them minded, at least not in moments of conflict. However, there were several notable moments where Edward decided to think for himself, or rather think he was thinking for himself. This usually lead to misinformed decisions across the board, or worse yet personal conflict between Sergei and himself. Sergei would not accept Edward’s irrational thought processes and could not accept the risks Edward always seemed so willing to take. Probably as a result of his relatively stress-free upbringing. This kind of conflict became more and more prevalent in the two’s friendship until it felt more like a partnership than a meaningful relationship. The two argued endlessly and while Sergei was, all things considered, usually, in the right, Edward insisted on supporting his stances to the very end. Sergei would speak, then listen. Edward would shout then, well, shout more as his emotions blended with his rational thought. Sergei to a point could separate Edward’s predictable negativity and deal with it through basic ignorance, however, this became increasingly ineffective over time. Time heals all wounds, except the infected ones. Sergei had an infected wound named Edward. As kids, Edward was always the more physically inclined of the two and this led to a sort of physical humor that Sergei never fully understood. Why would you punch your friend, or mess with them in any way that would cause them obvious trauma? Sergei always wished one day that Edward would apologize for how he treated Sergei for so many years. This never happened. Sergei eventually took the first opportunity he had to leave Edward and his hometown, simultaneously escaping his past situation and toxic relationship. He had come to a breaking point at around age twenty-four and had cut ties with Edward, albeit on relatively good terms as far as Edward was concerned. Sergei was doing well. He was more mentally stable than ever and had for the first time in years been content. He was climbing the rope and getting out of the deep deep hole he had been in for most of his life, and he was doing it on his own. But today, when he saw Edward, he was not climbing the rope, nor was he content or stable. Upon shaking Edward’s hand Sergei reached into his back left pocket and retrieved the pocket knife he carried every day. He opened the knife inside the pocket and grasped it firmly. He carries on small talk with Edward even beginning to wonder how he has been and if he has changed. For a split second Sergei feels compassionate for his victim, the first and last he will ever kill. Then he remembers the years of verbal abuse, physical abuse, constantly submitting to Edward’s brute will. Each day a reminder of his inferiority. With a motion as swift and collected as autumn wind he slashed Edward's throat with the knife. One long stroke from left to right, severing the jugular vein as well as the trachea. Edward could no longer speak and Sergei stayed with him as he bled out on the quiet neighborhood street. Sergei assured Edward he would not be missed and walked away. For a moment Sergei had considered cutting his own wrists or throat, but had decided the ensuing wave of guilt and grief would better suit him. In an instant he became a broken man. The body was left as it was in the street for several hours until a neighbor encountered it. Sergei was never tried, or suspected in the murder case. He would later become a reclusive alcoholic/polyaddict while maintaining his job as a professor of ethics at a local university, only to die an unintersting death in his sleep at the age of sixty seven, having spent half of his life in one prison and half of his life in another. Both prisons he helped to build.

&#x200B; # Three good years During my travels amongst the stars, I came across an idyllic planet called Lyos. It was a bountiful world orbiting a yellow star occupied by intelligent human-like creatures who seemed to live lives of plenty and luxury. This entire ecosystem existed without any predation, the various populations of vegan animals always had just enough to balance their populations and not spiral out of control. The human-like people, these Lyosians, due to their advanced tools and intellect would get by on a mere hour of foraging a day, and spend the rest of their time engrossed in leisure and academic pursuits. These Lyosians would learn extremely fast. They would skim through a massive text book and have all of its contents absorbed within an hour, without fault. As I learnt their language, I would test them on this knowledge, it did not matter if I asked for page 100, third sentence, or the whole of page 567, they would know it by heart, and also understand it. It made all my years of agonisingly slow study seem infuriating to me, and left me to wonder how these people hadn’t conquered the stars already. Whenever I raised questions of the stars, the only one at the time who took any interest at all was a beautiful young lady called Resada. She would listen to stories of my travels for hours upon end, and not just that, she would question aspects of how and why things happened as they did in a way that would reshape my entire perspective of events. Tales where I thought myself the perfect, valiant hero, I now know where I could have done better. Agonising failures of mine with added perspective could be re-shaped as small victories, that perhaps even benefitted some. I recall one story, I spoke of losing a crew-mate to a venom on a distant forest world. I searched high and low for the cure, but to my despair he was too delirious to help me identify the cause. I had to fall to trial and error with anti-venoms, but none worked. From her sly smile, Resada just quipped “well it’s party time for the worms at least”. I chucked, I could call that callous, but I knew it was a joke, and honestly it was just what I needed, and she always knew what I needed. I often felt quite one sided in all this as I wasn’t sure I helped her nearly as much as she helped me. I listened to her stories of this place as well, and we were inseparable, doing everything together, and soon it progressed into a romantic relationship. However one pivotal fact slipped my attention for the first few months of this. This society I was starting to learn resided upon one unfathomable, and - to me - tragic fact. Each Lysonian only lived three good years. It was this reason why they had not reached the stars. It was this reason that felt a thorn in what seemed otherwise a perfect people, dedicated to learning, astute and intelligent to the extreme. I lived out the rest of Resada’s life with her, as she grew old and grey, wrinkled, desperate for some last time with this strong, insightful woman, knowing that each precious day we treasured together was worth ten of mine to her. She passed away peacefully, with no heir of her own. Having chosen me for a partner, we biologically could not have had children, yet she was never bitter about this fact. Her sisters had children of their own, at least some of her genes would pass on, and she had the first window into other worlds, a window no other Lyosian had ever had before. On Resada’s deathbed she left me with one perplexing statement, I chalked it down as a fever dream at the time: “Power is a heavy burden, do not mistake authority for altruism”. I didn’t know how that referred to anything at the time, but it was to become prophetic. I spent the next few decades on this planet, acting as a bridge between generations, composing the stories of the people of this world, including my dear Resada, and passing them on both in song, prose and spoken stories. I became quite the novelty, I could speak clearly of someone’s great-great grandmother, while these people were wizards to me in their ability to learn from a book, I was a wizard to them for magically re-telling stories of their families generations ago. I was the “endless one”, the “window to our ancestors” and soon looked up to by all. Whenever anyone had a problem with their lives, I always had some anecdote or story to make things better. I knew these people better than they’d ever have the chance to know themselves. I never again took a mate amongst them, not only was I still mourning for Resada, but truth be told, while these people were both physically and mentally adult in a mere year, a part of my mind still found their relative age too disturbing to contemplate getting too close to one again. Besides, I loved attention, that much was becoming apparent. I was getting that in spades being this elder-teacher and I loved it. I drank of it and devoured it, whenever I had a mere hours alone I would get the craving and find myself trekking to a public area to tell another story, desperate for more adulation. Generations passed, and my stories had taken hold enough to shape their society. No longer were their eyes only on their eden, but the myth of me had them seeking to lengthen their lives, and look to the stars. But their birth rate per year did not change - even a mere doubling of lifespan to six years led to rampant growth. Where one Lyosian would have previously only had time to sire one, maybe three children, it became common-place for families to reach six or more. Soon this Lyosian Eden was no longer plentiful enough. Foraging took longer and longer. Some turned to destructive ways to farm, others sought a way off this planet, and when their efforts took too long, and the environment around them faltered, some even took my ship and fled. So here I am, stuck amongst my folly. Power is a heavy burden indeed. I thought I was helping these people, using my position to spread stories of wonder, linking the generations like never before and helping these people reach new heights. After all, isn’t humanity shaped by its culture? Culture that is passed down, they may have been wizards of the written word, but when a people only live three years, so much is still lost. I thought I could be that link. Their very extended lives was also something I craved, I had it and thought they needed it too. Resada was right though, it wasn’t altruism, it was me, selfishly disrupting an ecosystem for my own gratification, trying to make them more like me, when her dissections of my stories always told me how I am not the perfect article either. Their culture was different but in its own way it was perfect, I just couldn’t see that I was leading them to repeat the failures of early Earth. I sit here now, elderly, but with still a few more generations to go of them before I pass. Can I reverse what I did? Can I restore their balance? Would I be better off to just link away with my books and hope they forget? Either option is grim. ((Just want to clarify that Resada was always a full-grown adult in this story, she may have technically been like 1 year 3 months old when they met, but..

“You better beat me down there. I don’t like wife beaters, and I don’t like men who touch children,” said an elderly-sounding man. The phone disconnected, and the line went dead. “What the hell?” I muttered, my hand frozen on my keyboard. “What just happened?” Alicia asked, swiveling her chair toward me, her voice edged with concern. “Check the update,” I said, rubbing my temples as I tried to piece together what I had just heard. Calls like this one always left a pit in my stomach - a mess of fear and danger lingering in the air. The adrenaline that hit when you knew something was about to go very wrong. Alicia’s brow furrowed as she leaned over her screen, reading the latest update aloud to the officers already en route to the call. Her voice, usually steady, held a slight tremor. We’d been through some rough calls in this windowless 911 center, but something about this one felt different. Alicia and I had been working together for almost five years, sitting side by side, monitoring the chaos as it played out on the other end of the line. Over the years, we’d learned each other’s rhythms--the unspoken language that formed between two people who spend too many late nights wading through tragedy and disaster. She was sharp, quick with her words, and always had a calm presence when the world was falling apart. I’d seen her manage everything--from multi-car crashes to missing children--but nothing ever shook her like domestic calls. Maybe it was because those were the ones that stuck with you, the ones that haunted you long after the shift ended. Alicia once told me, after a particularly brutal call, that it was never the emergencies you were prepared for that got you--it was the ones that felt like they’d been building up for years. “That voice,” I muttered, my mind circling back to the phone call. “Jim, the neighbor. He sounded old, but angry. Like he’s been holding onto this for a long time.” “Yeah,” Alicia agreed, her voice low as she transmitted more updates to the officers. “And it sounds like he’s about to snap. Do we have anything on the address?” I tapped a few keys, pulling up the files we had. “Jessica and Matthew. Married for at least five years. There’ve been a couple of noise complaints, one domestic disturbance call--no arrests.” “Figures,” Alicia said, shaking her head. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t happening. Just means they weren’t cooperating with the cops.” I nodded, feeling a twist in my gut. It’s always like that . The signs were always there if you knew where to look. Jim’s call wasn’t just frustration. He’d probably been watching this unfold from his front porch for months, helpless as the system failed Jessica. Maybe that’s why he was so angry. I didn’t know much about Jessica, but I could picture her standing in her hotel room, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the wedding ring she likely still wore. I imagined her on her wedding day, smiling nervously, twisting that ring as she made her vows, believing that this man, Matthew, was her future. That he loved her, that their life would be full of promise. Back then, the ring must’ve felt light--symbolic of the love she thought she was building. But now? Now it was a chain. A burden. With every hit, every scream, the weight of that small band must’ve grown heavier, binding her to him, making it harder to leave. I imagined her staring at it, the metal cold against her skin, the love long drained from it, leaving only a hollow symbol of the violence she endured. The phone rang, jolting me from my thoughts. I picked up. “911, what’s your emergency?” The voice on the other end was calm, unnervingly steady. “It’s me again. Jim. I shot him.” My breath caught in my throat. “Who did you shoot, Jim?” “Matthew,” he said, like he was stating the obvious. “He’s dead in the driveway. I warned you guys to beat me there. I wasn’t going to wait. He would’ve killed her.” I glanced at Alicia, who had stopped typing. Her hands trembled as she scrambled to give the officers the new update. The tension in the room was palpable, the kind that sat heavy on your chest and made it hard to breathe. “Where’s the gun now, Jim?” I asked, keeping my voice as steady as possible. It was important to keep him talking, to make sure this didn’t escalate any further. “I gave it to the bartender,” he said, the calmness in his voice unsettling. “I’m sitting at the bar, waiting for the cops. Just wanted to let you know--he won’t hurt anyone anymore.” There was a long pause. I could hear the low murmur of conversation in the background, the soft clink of glasses. It was surreal, this calmness in the wake of violence. “Okay, Jim,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Stay where you are. The officers are on their way. Keep your hands off the gun.” He didn’t say goodbye. The line just went dead. I sat there for a moment, gripping the mouse so hard I thought I might break it. Alicia’s voice hummed in the background, updating the officers as the situation unfolded, but I barely heard her. I couldn’t shake the image of Jessica, hiding in some dingy hotel, her fingers tracing that ring she probably didn’t even want anymore. Later, after the dust had settled, we learned more about Jim. He wasn’t just a nosy neighbor--he was a good man, trying to protect someone he cared about. Matthew had been beating Jessica for months. Jim had called the cops a few times when he heard the fights, but nothing ever came of it. Jessica never pressed charges. She was too scared, too stuck. One day, Jessica finally confided in Jim. She told him everything--how she felt trapped, how she didn’t know how to get out. Jim, being the kind of man who couldn’t stand by and watch someone suffer, had helped her leave. He paid for her to stay at a hotel, just until she could figure things out. He thought it was enough. But Matthew had found her. Somehow, he always found her. Our first call that night was for a domestic disturbance at the hotel. The officers were on their way, but they were too far out, tied up on another call. Jessica must’ve reached out to Jim, told him Matthew had found her. That’s when Jim called us--when he decided he wasn’t going to wait for help. I later watched the body-cam footage. Jessica sat in the detective’s office, recounting her story. Her hands fidgeted with her wedding ring, twisting it around her finger, back and forth, the diamond catching the light as she spoke. That ring had once been a symbol of love, a promise of a future she thought she’d have. But as Matthew’s violence grew, it had become something else--a reminder of the life she was trapped in, the life she couldn’t escape. As she finished her story, she slid the ring off her finger and dropped it on the floor. I watched as it rolled across the tile, the sound barely a whisper in the silence of the room. She stared at it for a long moment, then stood up and left without picking it up. I couldn’t help but wonder if, in that moment, the weight of the ring had finally disappeared.

>**[QUICK NOTE ALSO WARNING]** I already posted a little bit of this and I've since updated it with quite a bit more. I wasn't totally motivated to keep writing but I've since gotten a job and any second I have free I write. Now for the **[WARNING]** bit, this story is a graphic first person telling of a child killer; he's based off of Albert Fish so he does eat them. Lastly this is an ongoing project, all criticism or advice is greatly appreciated. A stone cell Each stone in the wall had more age and life than I could comprehend, my fingers play upon the cracks careful not to break the aged lines. My hands find themselves tired searching every message these rocks have to give, nails run raggad clicking in rythem to the music preserved to each crack, like each note to a score. My wrists hurt from the shackles bound to them, their embrace neither tight nore loose. The pressense enough to remove any will to break the binds, or even to perppetuate an imagination capable of the thought to escape. The air so thick from a rippled blanket of decay, my nose burnt by the remains of those I once considered brothers. No family behind these walls, no blood between those too weak to shed it. To say that a life without these walls isn't but a distant memory is a mockery of what I've suffered here. Every second of my life prior to its cage blazes past my eyes in patterns so inense that I've lost the sight for anything else. My memories of the is world as I now know it are by no means a life to live, regardless of how long my stay is to be, I was dead long before my last breathe. My mind still in its endless walts at intances takes certain pauses, eyes of miasmic storms just large enough to allow awarness. During these opressive voids, I torment myself with the beckoning of questions. As my body turns to dust, I always have the same inquarie, forever wondering why had this not happened sooner? Had my life been ended early, the temptation of a return would be weaker, the husk left behind stronger enough to face its abysmal excistance. Mercy be it too sacred of word to pass these pale lips, I have known my deeds as foul from their conception to their sin soaked execution. The eyes of my victims forever surround my walls, pealing away at the unstable sanity that had been clung to with a feveroris grip. As I would ask the same given the placement of your eyes, I wasn't born into confinement nor was I placed by a careless agent of justice; I defined the layer of hell that holds me. Innocence was the target of my wrath, I could not say it was taken as I didn't leave a single drop to exist. The year of our lord where I resided, I walked among the alleys, and the sewage that fell upon them; a voyeur to society and its civilized inhabitants. Give it not the size, one could not see difference between my brethren and the bloated rats that plagued the streets. Do not attempt sympathy, or consider my bedfellows the reason to this corrupted path I limp through. Given the choice between lands of furnishing or moist decay, I'd always take the latter; more freedom to be true to my manners. Secondly a demon be it dressed in rags or lace is still a forked tongue devil, as I've seen my same wrong doings in the eyes of others. We all have our vices, as we all worry to what ends we'll be drowned by them; my personal brand was the hands of the young and unwilling. While my mind never had been upon other thoughts, I was only spellbound via eclipsed moments where the thought of not would sear until I had begun. At this point I was taken, my body moonlit to another, a beast of sin and flesh. While I knew the crime being committed, I was never ostrisised by the lingering eyes, only by the broken symphony in my head. It was not until my hands fell upon royal blood did a whisper of my existence fall among the civilized. Yet the sin itself felt no worse than anything I had done thus far. Her cries no more refined, her tears no less salty, and her blood showed no sign of any more imperfection compared to even my own. Her flesh bore little resistance to teeth, as is the same for the rest. Once I awoke from my lustful haze, I began the process to hide my shame while also immortalizing it all. There was a shelf in an abandoned shack of which I considered my abode, on said shelf were little trinkets set in neat little rows. The only vanity I held was for these treasures, each one from each potential full life lived who crossed my gaze. My favorite was a set of pearls as I had taken a foster role for a time with this child, they enjoyed walking the shores and these pearls were a present from them. My method of disposal is simplistic while just as vile as the first act, as we humans have the same savory taste of pork, the trick is merely to complete the illusion. The easiest method is to have the remains submerged in scolding water until even the bones are the consistency of soup, as for the head however there a problem arises. My method of habit is to sever the cheeks, nose, and ears as they are still succulent; with the rest I make a contribution to the gullets of the wild including their clothes. Children were always told to stay away from the forest, such tales humane compared to my own sins. After the clean up for this child, with body set to roast I took to her clothing, the nobility was off putting however I couldn't see how countless youth being taken prior would have any less ramifications. That's when my gaze focused on the crest upon the late child's locket, while I knew nothing regarding politics of this country, I was very aware I was staring at the crest of the king. I sat ever so still, in naive hopes that may also soon pass. Night was still defended, but it didn't matter anymore, the child of royalty was dead and my hands more so than ever were stained. I knew I had to attempt something, so after hours petrified in fear I ran to the forest with the child's clothes and partial remains. The forrest reserved no strength against me, the long reaching arms of the trees tearing away at me, the howling faces in their knotted bark. Voices of the vacant were nothing new to me, however nothing of this intensity. "He's here!" "Burn the demon!" "Kill him, rip him limb from limb!" The voices fell to whispers and quieter still as I reached my planned resting grounds. I marked these grounds by a rusted spade set to a rotted stump, while I never used it to turn soil as the point was to give the illusion of the corpse being taken by wolves. After hours of toiling finding a suitable place for the remains, I came upon uplifted roots that had been shaped in such a manner to only allow access to that of a child. I placed her face down into the roots, and shredded her clothing haphazardly from there. As the last bit of cloth was placed I filled my lungs for what felt as new a experience, my flesh constricted from the night's in forgiving chill, never have my hands felt so unclean, my mind with such unrest. As my heart began to slow I heard a voice, to my dismay it was not of my own corrupted design. "Damn fucking snakes, get away from me!" To what ends will I be tested this day I thought, no one of sound mind traverses these woods, so this voice was not of an innocent man. Regardless of their transgressions I had to act as I did not want her to be found premature. I took towards the voice careful not to be revealed, as I crept closer still the voice still proclaimed on about the serpents. I was finally able to lay sight on the figure, he stood seven heads tall, dressed in fatigues of a royal guard. I sat still for moment to calculate my next action, as were it to be too rash I'd find my head on the chopping block. On one hand I've committed no wrong doings to his knowledge, however I parish the thought as no innocent men traverses these woods, unless hunting the wicked. I know what needed to be done to rid myself of this trial, I turned back to the resting grounds as I required a tool to complete the task.

I was done. This time I meant it. There were several times in my life where I found myself considering it, contemplating taking my trip to the other side. The last time I had called the suicide hotline, and eventually decided to give life one more try. Not this time. I felt completely at peace about it. This time, I was truly ready. I slipped the rope over my neck. The rope was tied to a metal loop that was drilled into the framing to be sure that I would not fail. I lifted my foot, ready to step off the chair. Then someone knocked on the door. Who the hell could be knocking on the door? I spent every last dollar I had to rent this remote cabin, where I could spend my last weekend in beauty and peace. The nearest cabin was a half mile away. Curiosity got the better of me, it’s not like the rope was going anywhere. Peering through the window, I could see a man wearing a black hoodie, with the hood up. He knocked again, louder. “Goddamnit,” I said out loud. I wanted this to be peaceful, and this asshole was ruining the vibe, screwing up my plan. I walked out of the single bedroom onto the loft, and down the stairs where the living room, kitchen, and front door were. Since he didn’t seem to be leaving on his own, I opened the door. “What do you want?” I said rudely. “Good evening, sir,” The stranger said, a little too nicely. He had black hair and a Well trimmed beard. “My car broke down about a mile down that dirt road and I was wondering if I could use your phone?” The man sounded like a used car salesman, fake and rehearsed. “I don’t have a phone,” I told him coldly. It was a lie, of course. “Oh I’m sure you have a phone, all the cabins up here do.” “Not this one.” I started shutting the door when he stuck his foot in the doorway, preventing me from shutting the door all of the way. “It’ll only take me 30 seconds then I’ll be gone.” Without even giving him a response, I pushed him away from the door and slammed it shut. For good measure, I locked the deadbolt as well. I should have been more disturbed, but really I was just grumpy about the dudes timing, ruining my peaceful death. Why should I help the guy anyway? Nobody had ever leant me a helping hand. That’s just how this cruel world works, nobody gives a shit. And who puts their foot in someone's door? I walked back upstairs and peered out through the window to watch him leave. He was gone, but I hadn’t seen him leave. The dirt road leading up to the cabin was long and straight, I should be able to see him still walking away. I needed to make sure this guy was gone, so I could find my peace with death again. I checked all the windows, looking for the weirdo. Nothing. He must have run or something and made it out of sight quickly. I pushed the asshole out of my mind, it was time to find my peace again. I realized that the sun was now starting to set over the nearby mountain peaks. Why not watch it? This would be my last sunset, and It sure was a beautiful one. I pulled the cozy recliner chair to the large upstairs window. Brilliant colors of orange and pink now filled the sky. The clouds were broken up, creating the appearance of a large beautiful pathway over the horizon. There it was, my beautiful pathway to the afterlife had presented itself. It was time to take the path. Standing back on the chair, I once again placed the rope over my neck. I positioned myself so I was facing the sunset. At that moment, I was completely at peace with my death. Loud panicked knocking at the door startled me so much that I almost fell off the chair. “What the HELL?” This time I yelled it out loud. Once again, my beautiful peaceful moment had been shattered. I removed the rope and went over to the opposite window to see who the hell had screwed everything up. This time, it was not the hooded weirdo standing at the door, It was a girl. She was crying and panicked, knocking repeatedly. As I approached the door, I could hear her now pleading for help, still pounding on the door. The second I opened the door she pushed herself in, slamming the door behind her and locking it. “What the Hell...” I started asking, but before I could finish my question she reached out and pulled me into a tight hug. Never in my life had I felt anybody embrace me as tightly as this crying girl was embracing me right now. My entire demeanor immediately changed. I hugged her back. “What's going on? Wha- what’s wrong?” I asked her, with genuine concern. She pulled back and looked me in the eye. I couldn’t help but notice that, even through her tears, she was absolutely beautiful. Her long dark hair complemented those beautiful green eyes. They were a shade of green that I had never before seen. For a moment, I lost myself in her eyes. I came back to reality when she started talking. “He killed her, he killed Jess.” She sobbed. “What? Who? Who’s Jess?” “This man. He, he came to the door, he asked to use the phone so I let him in. Then he, he pulled a knife and he killed her!” The girl burst into uncontrollable sobs and buried her face in my shoulder. I squeezed her tightly. It hit me, at that moment. She had just described the man that had knocked on the door earlier. Holy shit, that man had killed somebody. Snapping into task mode I led the girl into the kitchen where I called 9-1-1. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” “My name is Dean Johansen, there’s been a Murder, please come quick!” I gave her the address of the cabin I was staying at, thankfully it was on a card by the landline phone. I asked the girl for the address where the murder happened. She didn’t know, but she managed to tell the operator that her name was Sarah and that someone had just murdered Jess. “Okay Sir, umm- please lock the doors and stay inside, emergency responders will be there in about 30 minutes.” The phone lady told me. “30 minutes? What do you mean 30 minutes? There’s a MURDERER on the loose!” “I’m sorry sir, that’s the closest law enforcement to you, you’re in a remote area.” Before I could respond, there was a loud knock on the door. Sarah cried and I dropped the phone. Quietly, I walked to the door and nervously looked through the peephole. It was him, the hooded car salesman asshole. He was covered in blood now and holding a dripping knife. “I need to borrow your PHONE!” The man said, his fake nice had been replaced with a manic and loud tone. BOOM! He kicked the door. I ran to the kitchen to grab my own knife. Sarah was already holding one. BOOM! There was another kick. We stood there, terrified, and not knowing what to do. I braced for another boom, but there wasn’t one. It was silent. “Why don’t you go upstairs,” I told Sarah. “I’ll stay down here just in case.” I came to this cabin prepared to meet death, Sarah didn’t deserve that though. I had only just met her, but I felt a genuine desire to protect her. Sarah nodded and headed up the stairs. Just as she crossed the final step, the window of the sliding glass back door exploded as a rock blasted through. The man came climbing in through the large window. The expression on his face was one of adrenalized mania. I grabbed an ugly vase off the nearby end table and threw it at him with all my might. It missed terribly. Knife still in my hand, I picked up a wooden chair and charged at him with bravery I had never felt before. The collision knocked both of us to the ground. I slashed at him with my knife, aiming for the neck. I missed again, but still slashed through his face. He slashed right back at me, putting a deep cut into my upper chest. I rolled backward, trying to get to my feet. Before I was all the way up, the chair hit me on my face and knocked me back to the ground. I stammered back up to my feet, with another slash narrowly missing me. I started punching and slashing wildly now. I admit that I don’t know how to fight, I’ve never needed to before. I connected at least once more with the knife. Then, naturally, I tripped. The man slammed that vase I threw at him onto my head, shattering into pieces. He stomped on my face, and I blacked out. I came to a couple of seconds later, to find the man almost to the top of the stairs. Sarah was screaming. Her screams sparked my adrenaline and I found myself running up the stairs. I tackled him from behind and slammed my knife into his back. I was trying to hold him down, but he was stronger than me. As he was getting back up, I saw Sarah running through the door with my rope. On cue, I grabbed around his arms, squeezing as tight as I possibly could as Sarah put the noose over his head. He was fighting violently now, I knew that I would be unable to restrain him for long, even with that knife sticking in his back. Sarah was quickly tying the other end of the rope to the banister with shaky hands. With a sudden burst of strength, the killer broke his arms free and lunged at Sarah. I charged with all my might, pushing him toward the banister. Sarah jumped into the fight as well. Together, we gave a final push, knocking the killer over the banister and off the loft. The rope caught. With an audible CRACK, his fall was broken, as was his neck. Both of our knots had held. Silence fell as the body of the man who tried to murder us swung over the living room, suspended by a noose. My noose. Sarah and I sat outside, waiting for the police to arrive. She was holding the bathroom towel over the deep cut in my chest. I was awkwardly avoiding the inevitable truth that she had seen the noose that I had intended to take my own life with. I knew she had put two and two together. She broke the awkward silence. “Were you going to kill yourself tonight?” She asked bluntly, but with a kindness that could not be mistaken. “Yes,” I admitted. “Please don’t,” Sarah told me, looking into my eyes. Her teary eyes were all so beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “I won’t,” I promised, with tears now finding their way down my face, and I meant it. - That was just over 18 months ago now, and I’m happy to tell you that I’m still here. I no longer want to die. But this story isn’t just the story of how I didn’t kill myself, but also the story of how I met my wife, Sarah. We are celebrating our honeymoon now, at a beautiful beach house overlooking the ocean. We chose a location as far from the woods as possible. We are still healing, but we are healing together. Sarah is healing from the trauma of her best friend, Jessica, being murdered. I am healing from years of personal neglect and self-destructive behavior. I didn’t realize how broken I truly was until I met Sarah. As I sit here now, under the most beautiful sunset I have seen since that fateful day, I finally realize what was missing in my life. What was missing was the feeling of being loved, and more importantly, having somebody to love.

Ben Malchuk had finally made the arduous trek up the steep, rocky mountain to the colossal open-faced cave where Rezo the Flameless resided. The 25-year-old auditor, cleared his throat and fixed his cobalt tie as he stood 30 yards away from the intimidating den. “Um, M-Mr Flameless, are you there?” Ben nervously yelled into the dark abyss of the cave. There was a momentary silence, followed by an unholy wave of screeching and stomping noises that made Ben cover his ears and shut his eyes. Finally, Rezo emerged from the shadows. Ben uncovered his ears, slowly opened his eyes and titled his head upwards to meet the purple-eyed gaze of the intimidating creature. Ben finally regained his composure. “I’m from the IRS who's here in relation to the declaration of your horde from your recent raids,” Ben said. “What about ‘em?” Rezo’s deep, booming voice replied. “Well, it says here you crushed and looted a village of 1500, but only declared 10 silver coins in your horde,” Ben said whilst staring intently at his clipboard. “Not my fault if they’re poor, besides you can’t prove they had any more,” Rezo said in a conceited manner. Ben looked up from his clipboard, “Ok, but what about the 100 square foot cave you claim is your residence in the tax-haven shire of Florate?” Rezo’s demeanor changed instantaneously and he responded nervously, “U-uh, well, I’ll admit that it’s quite cosy.” “You’re 115 feet tall and 40 feet wide sir,” Ben said matter-of-factly. Ben continued to skim through page on his clipboard, “Ah yes, also it says here you claimed 100 gold coins in your horde for ‘miscellaneous internal flame related expenses’, when you can’t breathe fire?” Rezo became more agitated and raised his voice, “How would you know?” “Well, maybe because it’s in your name,” Ben replied bluntly. There was once again a momentary silence. Rezo began to dart his eyes from side to side, then he immediately leapt into the air and his scaly black wings flapped frantically as he flew off into the distance. Ben watched and sighed. He pulled out his phone and began to dial his superior. “Hi Gary, it’s Ben and I’m he-,” “Lemme guess, another dragon did a flyer,” Gary said in an annoyed tone. “Mhmm,” Ben responded. Gary sighed, “Alright, I'll call that Witcher guy again, Geralt I think his name was.” Gary hung up.

“Ouch!” screamed Lisa while feeling this heated knob on her forehead that she got from hitting the frame of her bed. She got this weird feeling. This premonition feeling. “You alright? Oh lord, there is a whole red bump on your forehead” exclaimed Matt, Lisa’s twin brother. “Ya I think so, but I am having this weird tingly feeling” Lisa said with concern on her face. “Oh please, that’s cap, you're lying, why did you have to get that feeling before our big trip to the Devil’s cave? '' moaned Matt. “But it is that bad feeling, let's not go to the Devil’s cave today, let's postpone it, tell Emily and Jack so they know not to come” demanded Lisa. Ding dong “See even the bell wants you to go, come on, get up lazy face, Emily and Jack are here. Let us four 18 year old kids go to that cave” said Matt while rising up and throwing the blanket onto Emily’s Morning face. He went downstairs and opened the brown dutch door. “Sup Matt, how do you do” Jack pounced on Matt. “Hey Matt, everything ready for today’s trip?” questioned Emily “Everything is ready, but your best friend Lisa is not, she is saying she is having tingly feelings” he mimicked Lisa's voice. They all walked up the fusty stairs. The house that Lisa and Matt lived in was a little quaint because both parents also spent their childhood in this house. Both maternal and paternal grandparents spent their childhood in this house. After the death of the twins’ parents, the twins both settled on staying in this quaint house because one, they did not want to leave this house because it had theirs and their forebears childhood spent in this home and two, they did not have enough money to buy a different house. “Can we come in Lisa?” questioned Jack. “Ya sure, guys I am having this very weird feeling, where something disastrous will happen or where we will get caught into something disastrous. Please, let's not go” requested Lisa with her hands joined together. “Here have this” said Emily with a glass of water in her hand, “ drink this and sit in the car, we don’t have time for your nonsense” Lisa could not do anything more to convince them to not go to that devil’s cave so the only thing she could do was go with them herself. Jack helped Matt get the blue suitcase to the car and Emily helped Lisa downstairs with packing the greens and the snacks for the trip.They all sat in the car and Jack insisted that he should drive. Jack and Emily were siblings but not twins.They both lived together in an apartment because their parents had also passed away, but in a plane crash. Matt and Jack were very close friends in high school so they decided to make Lisa and Emily amigos too. And that was pretty successful. Now all four of these kids go on trips and vacations together. The four hours that went awesome and pretty fast for Matt,Jack and Emily, did not go as well for Lisa. She tried sleeping but that thought of something horrendous about to happen kept eating her insides. The appalling feeling kept coming to her when she tried eating the prawns. She thought if the prawns were all poisoned and all four adults in the car would die in 3 seconds. She hoped that looking outside would make it better but it made it worse. When she looked outside, she thought of her friends getting all atrocious and throwing her dead body under the trees for no one to find. These four hours were the longest four hours for her. At last they ended. “Look we’re here and Lisa, see nothing happened to us!” exclaimed Emily “I don’t know yet, maybe the horror still awaits for us” Lisa said in a hushed voice. “ OH GOD, THIS GIRL!” Matt, Jack and Emily yelled. “ How do you deal with this girl, Matt?” Jack exclaimed with an irritation. “ I have no idea!” Matt said while dragging the word “No”. They all got off and cleaned the mini mess they had made in the car. Emily rolls down all the windows of the car. Lisa looked at her reflection on the blue Hyundai car. Her red bump was throbbing more than ever. But she did not want to drift away from the pack so she ignored her bump and ran to the other three. Matt pulled out the keys and locked the car. They all continued walking until they reached the visitor center. Matt pointed towards the visitor center and went into the center. Jack, Emily and Lisa stood outside and looked around. Matt came outside and said “ We have to walk down a mini trail and then we will see the cave. By the cave, there is another center where we can change into our swimsuits and where they give our oxygen cylinder and more” “Okay then, what are we waiting for!” screamed Emily. Lisa started to feel sick. Her bump was hurting like it was about to slice itself off of Lisa’s forehead. She kept on getting the premonition feeling. They all meandered like the river on the zig zag trail. At last, they could smell the fresh water. They just wanted to jump in and let the water do its concert. As Lisa walked by the water, her reflection was glowing like a star. She could see that she had gotten weak because of the stress and tension. But she also felt a sense of comfort. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she was in her mother’s arms. They walked to the center. “Hi, how may we help you today?“ asked the person behind the front desk “Hi, me and my friends have a booking to go in the Devil’s cave” said Matt “We are truly sorry, the cave has been closed temporarily” said the person. “ What do you mean it is closed, then why did you even say what can we help you with, the main attraction here is that cave, and if that is closed then what are we supposed to do?” interrogated Jack “Ya this is pathetic!” yelled Emily “Guys chill down, don’t get mad it... Bob,” Lisa said while reading the person’s name tag. “Be quiet Lisa, you never even wanted to come to the cave” Matt scolded and then turned his head toward Bob “so what else can we do here sir?” “Well you can go snorkeling but just don’t go in the cave,” said Bob. “ Why is the cave closed though?” asked Jack. “ Well, there was an invasive creature in the cave. We even lost five people because of that creature. So we have put a very strong cage outside of the cave” stated Bob “ What creature is it?” questioned Emily. “Well.... It is a Godshark killer” mumbled Bob “ A god what?” Matt, Lisa and Jack asked at the same time. “ A Godshark killer was an ancient titan. It is a mix of a Godzilla, shark and a killer whale,” stated Emily, “ but it went extinct a long time ago. How did you guys find it in the cave?” “ We are also not sure” said Bob “Okay then just give us the snorkeling gear and we will go snorkeling.” demanded Matt. Bob nods and goes inside this room to get our swim gear. He comes back with all this equipment. He hands them to his colleagues and they help the four kids wear everything. “Ok, remember not to take this band off, because this tells us if you are alive or not and it also helps us track you.” Bob said while tying the band onto Lisa’s hand. Jack,Lisa,Matt, and Emily secure their oxygen cylinders and dive into the water. The splash of water tingled the red bump on Lisa’s forehead. They all swam around and looked at the beautifully colored aquatic plants. Then they saw this circular rock. It had a hollow area but was closed with a very sturdy iron cage. Matt signaled and all the others followed. They reached the cage and Jack pulled out his phone that was in an air packed bag. They took a picture and turned around. Emily Jack and Matt nodded at each other and then Matt swam away to find a gap in the cage. Emily held onto Lisa because Lisa found out what they were doing. Jack took off Lisa’s band and threw it down with Emily’s band and his own band. Then Matt waved and they all swam to him. Lisa was dragged instead of swimming herself. They go into the cave and keep swimming. Lisa looked around and then the feeling came back. But this time, it was intense. She felt like something was jutting into her stomach but it was just that feeling. They all swam to the top of the cave where there was an air pocket. They took off their helmets and put their cylinders by the rocks. “Look not so bad” Matt proudly stated. “ARE YOU NUTS! We will definitely die” cried Lisa “ Oh chillax,” said Jack. “You know I am also kinda scared, I did say yes to plan of coming, but now that I think of it, what if we die. I have read that the Godshark killer leaves no one” Emily said with concern. “ Oh please shut up, don’t go into what Lisa is saying, just enjoy” assured Jack. “ Guys....... the.....the....there....there” garbled Lisa. “ What is it Lisa?” asked Emily. “There..... is..... is” Lisa murmured. “Breathe and talk,” said Matt. Lisa took a big deep breath. “There is something behind you,” Lisa took another breath “ The Godshark killer” They all turned around and gasped. Its bladed teeth. Its wide grin. It knows that these four humans will not survive. The only things that were in that cave was the red velvet blood, the humans scream echoing through the cave, and the Godshark killer waiting for its next prey.

I am sitting here at the most popular southern style cuisine restaurant the farthest corners from where I grew up. The atmosphere is comfortable, energetic and the smells are strong of Cajun spices, heavy paprika, hot peppers, and freshly fried squash. On their specials menu I notice they have “Spicy, Pickled Peppers and Links”. Calling the waiter over with a wave of my hand I ask, “What is this like?” “It is our new idea for what to do with hot dogs, they are pickled in spicy hot sauce with hot peppers and pickling stuff I think”, he tells me with a juvenile enthusiasm that travels to the depths of his naivety of the dish. “What do you think of it?” I ask “It is very good, Ma’am. It sounds funny, but I would definitely recommend it. The recipe was something the head chef’s mom used to make, and he is from what he labels the ‘Deep South’. It does burn your socks off though!” he told me with a broad, pimply smile. Keeping a straight face, I ask him to bring me an order with whatever soda label they carry, it can be Pepsi, Coke, RC Cola, I do not mind. When I was growing up this canned treat was simply known as “Hot Peppers and Weenies” and our cellar pantry usually had a shelf dedicated to the dozens of cans from canning season. My family is from the south, and what the boy just described sounds oddly familiar. What I always wanted to be able to afford and have with this canned delight was a Coke, but my family was so poor we could not afford such treats more than once a year. The buoyant waiter brings me the plate that is professionally orchestrated with the simplest dish from my poor childhood. How someone can make a plate sing in an arrangement of hot dogs and hot peppers is beyond me, but this chef is a true artist. In the middle of the plate the chef alternated peppers with weenies, I mean links. There is a splattering of fresh cilantro and red chili flakes for a garnish with a drizzling of a chili sauce reduction in small star patterns along the rim. Waving my partially cupped hand over the plate, I pull some of the steam coming off the freshly warmed sauce towards my nose, sneezing as the spice hits the inside of my nasal passage. This smell is the smell of my childhood, thankfully it is missing the dirt, sweat, tears, and blood. Forgoing my usual knife and fork, I pick up one of the delicately cut “links” and place the bite sized piece on my tongue. The flavor of the morsel combined with the rich, spicy peppers and even spicier sauce, along with some of the garnish tastes like the hills back home during the summer months. The chef’s mom must have been related to my Gran, because this transported me back to the day I ate two jars of these things in the cellar beneath my parent’s home. Something that I was never allowed to do, these cans had to be shared with family not enjoyed on your own. I had finished the first jar before heading out to the barn to check on my favorite of the horses, Whisper. I also helped care for a handful of goats, sheep, and a coop of chickens with one turkey reserved for Thanksgiving. Ma was usually happy I went up in the midday and got the eggs. She hated making her way up the windy uphill trip twice in one day to that red, pathetic barn. I would take my sweet time to walk up to the barn, probably busy playing with the animals and butterflies along the way. When I would get to the barn I would tend to the horses who I felt were my only friends, listen to the chickens cooing and cackling as a ginormous egg gets squeezed out from their backside, watch the goats and sheep bounce around the pasture, and enjoy the calm at the top of the hill overlooking the family property. Halfway between the barn and my house is a gate that separates the pasture from the garden. The garden swoops down the hill between the top where my home is and the bottom with my Gran’s home is. On the loop between our houses, furthest from the barn, is where my uncle lives. My Pa never moved far away from his Ma, and at this time I thought I would never leave either. They have tobacco fields on the hills further up the road from Pa’s home. There were four of us kids, Pa, and then Ma. We lived in a small two bedroom home. As I think of it now, that seems really small, but as a kid it never felt that way. We had a woodstove in the center that kept the home warm in the winters. Pa has a fancy bathroom in the home now, but I grew up having to go to the outhouse in the pitch dark of night. During the summers we basically just slept in the house, too hot to live in the house. I was always out with the animals or cooling off in the spring. I can still see this little valley of ours, green and lush. Dad was a great gardener. Ma was a drunk whore, but I didn’t find that out til later. Gran did her best to protect us from her youngest son’s malicious ways and Ma’s outbursts. Something that I now look back on and can’t believe was even real. Speaking of Gran, I loved it when Gran would deep fry squash and okra. She would serve fried okra along with a jar of hot peppers and weenies to us kids for a snack in the middle of the hot, humid summer afternoons when Pa would be enjoying his amber liquid between tending the tobacco. This summer was a bit different. Ma had a lot of this homemade stuff called Shine that Uncle made, and would often stay the night at men’s houses instead of at home with Pa. Pa would tell me she is having a sleepover with them and would be back in the morning. He would tell me that it was just like I would sleep over with my friend over the hill. Now I understand what was really going on, and the look in his eyes when he would tell me this as a kid makes more sense. As I was standing in the door of the barn this day, I heard a crash from my house. Crashes weren’t uncommon in my home and this didn’t cause me alarm at first. This crash was on another level than most of them though. I stopped daydreaming to listen. There came screaming, again not uncommon; however, this screaming sounded what my brain would have thought murder was. Knowing me as a kid, I did a double check on the animals and then I ran as fast as my 11 year old legs could take me down the rock ridden, dirt path towards the house. My feet were bare, we never could afford proper shoes during the summer. As I ran, Whisper trotted next to me. I flew with wings over the gate, ran past our spring, past the outhouse, and towards the home. I halted when I saw Pa come out the door with his back facing me. He took a tumble down the stairs. It was maybe two in the afternoon, I didn’t know precisely, we didn’t have watches. He was drunk. Yelling and cursing he got himself up onto his wibbling legs and he walked back into the house. I got a glimpse of Ma, she was wearing the dress she always wore when she had a friend pick her up. I don’t recall much, but I do remember they were yelling very loudly. It echoed through the valley. The usual green truck that Ma would get in came by down the road at Gran’s house. Gran and Uncle came to their porches to look towards our home, but they then went back inside. Most times they didn’t get involved. I hated them for this. I walked around the side of the square home, it slanted down a bit towards the road to make room for a small cellar door. I opened up the door, walked inside, and went towards the little room of canned goods from last season. I sat on a stack of potatoes and let out a sigh of relief. This fight didn’t seem as bad as most had. They were still upstairs, I heard destruction, and was pretty sure I would have to clean up the broken dishes again. I felt trapped. I hear Pa yelling, Ma screaming like a banshee, and I still can not recall the words they said. I felt that anger leaking through the floorboards into the cellar, my escape and place of safety. They were mad. It felt like two different types of mad. Pa’s felt more like he was a wounded animal on the road, and Ma’s as if she was a predator that got wounded by its prey. I stood up, went to the canned shelving, and pulled down another jar of “Hot Peppers and Weenies ‘71”. I wedged open that can and devoured the contents inside. Ma would be angry if she caught me, but she was preoccupied. By the time she got done with Pa and went away with her friend for the night she would not have noticed. Something shattered above me and then all was quiet. I left my retreat underneath the violence and walked the small distance to the spring to wash both jars out. This is when all hell broke loose in our valley sanctuary. I felt time slowed but also went so fast. A crash larger than had ever been heard by these two fighting humans came emanating from the small, mustard yellow home. It sounded like two wild animals had been suddenly trapped in the home and were breaking everything, even the unbreakables, in the home. I stood up, dropping what I was holding, and turned around to see my Pa yet again flying out of the door. This time the door was not opened, he came crashing through it and landed very solidly onto the gravel that was our driveway. When he stood I could see his pants were ripped, his shirt in his hands, face was covered in blood, and one of his eyes was not able to open. He was attempting to pull his shirt back on, but I could see some distorted coloration on his ribcage. I bolted back towards the house but stopped just five paces away from Pa when Ma stood in the doorway with a skillet in one hand, ax in another, and blood all over her dress. I would have assumed Pa was dead by the look of her, but thankfully he was already standing. Her eyes were fierce, in a rage, and she flew down the steps swinging her cast iron pan towards Pa’s head with intent. As a child, I was stunned in my spot. I had never seen this behavior. To be frank, I was scared and may have even peed myself a little. She was a demon that day, she was the devil in the body of my Ma. She looked like the evil things in the night, and the sin the preacher man warned me of in Sunday School. This confused me more because Ma loved to spend lots of time with the preacher man. Pa fled backwards on his legs and arms as he stumbled back like one of those crabs we would see at the beach when we took family vacations. Ma kept running towards him, arms swinging. She slammed him on his knee with the skillet, he howled in pain, stood up and attempted to run. I don’t recall who hit who or what happened after that. I was screaming at this point. I’m sure I was screaming words, but does an 11 year old really know what to scream when they’re afraid one of their parents is about to be brutally murdered in front of them. Ma was out to end Pa, blood lust was in her eyes. After a lot of fuzzy memories, I recall a gunshot made my body rattle. Silence fell. Birds squaked. Horses whinnied. We all looked over to see Gran standing there with her favorite shotgun. Ma jumped back from the shock, her wild eyes still glowing with passion, anger, and this focussed on me. I did not know why, I still don’t know why to this day. Gran only wanted to scare Ma, it worked, but it also scared everyone else at the same time. I don’t know where my siblings are, this I just realized. She only used her shotgun for scaring away unwanted guests and those men in suits, I suppose they were also unwanted. Ma glared at me. Gran glared at her. Pa was drunk and didn’t know how to focus on anything. Ma stood taller, turned to the left a bit, blocking Pa a bit, axe still in hand but the skillet on the ground. Her gaze turned away from me towards Gran. Gran looked at me, nodded, and raised her trusty shotgun up to Ma’s chest. “Get off my land you .....”, Gran sternly said, that last word I do not remember but I assume it was a bad word. Maybe it rhymed with switch, maybe with punt, not sure. But it worked whatever Gran said. My Ma walked off down the road, one of the men friends she stayed with had been parked down there waiting for her, and I didn’t see her for twenty years after that day. She lived within a mile of my house til I got my degree and moved away. That was the last day I ate Hot Peppers and Weenies, until today. I thought Pa would die that day. He still died, not physically, but the alcohol took him in and killed our family in a crueler way. I sit here, further from that hell than I ever hoped I would be, tasting the flavors of that cellar. I will choose to remember the happy afternoons with my Gran, the times I sat with my younger siblings in that cellar and we ate from the different jars of pickled vegetables while fights happened overhead, and the moments when the family would stay out in the night and watch the fireflies because indoors was too hot. My life is littered with bad memories, but in this moment I choose the positive ones and the moments that love did envelope us. We weren’t always afraid, we had each other, and for that I am grateful for those memories of Hot Peppers and Weenies in the cellar.

You’ve made it. After weeks of caring for her and earning her trust you’re let in. its dark, too dark, you can feel the cold empty space around you. There's a golden light coming from somewhere. You look down and find yourself radiant in warm light. However this light isn't enough to pierce the darkness. You hear commotion coming from outside. Hopefully your better half is doing his job because you have quite the journey ahead of you. You look through her eyes and see yourself standing there, soothing her, helping her. You pray the words are helping. There's a sound in the distance, somewhere in the darkness. Its crying, she's lost in here and scared. Being swallowed by the very thing she use to find comfort in. with a sigh, you start your journey, trudging through the black goo that now litters the floor, weighing you down and chilling you to the bone. However you slosh on, hoping this goo doesnt come back with you, the floors back home had just been cleaned. You let out another sigh, “I’ve got to stop being a nice guy”. There's something following you, you can feel its eyes watching you. The darkness is its home and you're invading. You can't stop now, she just opened up. You'll find her, you have to find her, there's no stopping now. No fear or self doubt can stop you. You think back to the memories that keep you strong. Childhood friends, the love you feel, your family, the moral rock you clutch so tightly. This is a journey few have walked. Therapists have tried but few have entered this plane. The crying grows louder and clearer. The sound being the only sense of direction you have. You are but an island of light in a night filled sea. You cress a ridge, at least it seems like a ridge. sliding down one side, the goo climbs to your waist but the sound is close. The black depthless substance is cold, so cold that your very soul seems chilled. The goosebumps race across your skin. But you remember why you're here and the love warms you, you keep going. That's her, that has to be her. You near the edge of an island. Its sitting perfectly above the black swamp, that very swamp that's doing a great job at numbing your thighs. Taking a step onto the sand feels good. The last bit of security that’s been holding her up. The presence in the darkness grows agitated, good. You came her to fix things and that's what you plan to do. Turning toward the direction you came from, you yell into the void. Something primal inside of you, it tells the darkness that nothing will slow this quest. The island is small and growing smaller by the second. The last structure in her life, seeping away into the darkness. Looking through her eyes again, some time has gone by. With no idea how much has passed, you continue. The big guy can handle what's going on out there. The weeping grows even louder. Turning left then right confirms that she so close that the direction is unmistakable. You continue walking until suddenly you trip. Looking up you’re met with a sad image. She's right in front of you, huddled in a fetal position. However the darkness seems to hug her. The spot next to her seems unoccupied, you sit down. Placing an arm around her, you pull her close and whisper things that only you seem to see in her. A glow starts to appear and the weeping ceases. You feel the hope that soon, this amazing person can see what you see. This goes on for awhile, giving her the confidence you were given so long ago. A faint golden glow can be seen on her skin, Its working! But something was wrong, ver very wrong. The world around us should be getting brighter. Nothing is happening, she is now matching your glow but your jobs not done. You stand and look around wondering what could possibly be next, this hasn't happened before. Then you feel it, the darkness is definitely not happy and it's coming for her. But from where? You can't see it and this is its home too. Then you feel it, coming from right in front of you. You have to protect her, this stops today. You turn and cover her with your back facing the faceless beast of the dark. It hits your back like a firehose, beating you down. As soon as it started, it was over. You find yourself standing on a tropical island, the sun beats down on you. A happy scene. You look down at her, she’s ok. Relief washes over you. The light that radiated off of you when this all started has faded but still holds strong. You lock eyes with her and she gazes back. Getting lost in those beautiful eyes is so easy. Then a pain stabs you in the chest. Your eyes fall upon her hand, wedged right into your chest. Her light grows brighter as yours dims. Before you can protest it's already too late, your skin is covered in a veil of darkness. Suddenly and violently you are thrown out of her mind and right back to yours. You're thrown into a familiar scene, a cabin and a pine forest all around you. This is your escape, then you hit the ground. Not even realizing that you had not returned here but was actually thrown here. You struggle to stand, the image around you begins to warp. The trees rotting and the cabin falling to dust. You feel the darkness and its pure joy. It knew that this would happen. It consumes all your barriers and defenses. A weighed it pushed onto you and you fall to the ground. You feel the cold goo form around you, it's getting harder to think. You look out the big guys eyes, your eyes. She's gone, but why? What had happened? Did she use me? A voice tickles your ear, “yessss”. The darkness is loving this and you cant blame it, you walked head first into that trap. The world around you grows dark. Your ambition and hope drains away. The only thing you feel now are the tears now streaming from your eyes. In the distance you see something. A dot of light, it can't be her, she used you and is gone but it is someone that hold you close in their heart. You try to warn whoever it is, to push them away. This person keeps coming though, completely dedicated to saving you like how you were not so long ago.

(WP) Kill ‘Em With Kindness People were saying that it was something like a miracle, that we’d been blessed beyond measure, when the crime rates started to drop. Religious people thought had they’d achieved The Rapture, or reached enlightenment. Our tiny town was special now, and not just for the many tasty varieties of pie. But then, it began to spread, a sickness that killed dark impulses and tore up violence by its roots in humanity. People prone to rage and violence were suddenly docile, and at first, no one could figure out why it was happening. I’d felt bad for scientists before now, but now they were overwhelmed and funding for their research was scarce. Prison wardens and nurses reported record lows as they observed their newly kind and gentle wards. It was like something out of a dream, until we realized the fallout that came from such a virus spreading throughout the global population. World peace began to spread, but as a result, it left the people affected with the inability to bear children. We should’ve known that something so drastic came with a hell of a sting at the end of it. There were some people that thought lifelong infertility was but a small price to pay for the world peace we’d all spent years working toward, but others were angry, bitter. I didn’t know how I felt about it, myself: I’d decided long ago that I didn’t want children, because the world had seemed like such an ugly place when I was growing up. But this: Some said that we’d achieved the utopia our ancestors had dreamed of eons ago. But what was the point, if the human race could no longer reproduce? I sat in the waiting room at the doctor’s, waiting for my test results. There was almost no testing that existed now that didn’t require a waiting period. I picked up a magazine and flipped through it listlessly, reading articles that were years out of date. The only noise I could hear over the ringing in my ears was the insistent, incessant *tick, tick, tick* of the clock. An eternity passed before the nurse came out, calling my last name. “Reynolds?” She called; there was no need, really; there was no one there but me. But I stood up, the magazine falling out of my lap. Before I could pick it up, she was walking down the hall, and I hurried to keep up. She led me to a small room with flowery, vintage wallpaper, and had me sit down on a bed while she took my vitals. “Dr. La Mer will be in to talk about your results in a moment.” She said, giving me a small, sympathetic smile before walking out of the room, closing the door behind her. After another short wait, the doctor in question entered the room. He was tall and thin, with long, bony hands and a gentle smile. His eyes, bright hazel, twinkled; he looked entirely too happy. “I have good news for you, Miss Reynolds.” He said, beaming at me. “Your results are negative, so you’re free and clear to have a child, if that’s what you wish.” My stomach dropped at his words. Was I a bad person for wishing that the results had been positive? Some people would kill for the chance to have a healthy child, and here I was, disappointed over it.

"Can you keep a secret?" This question gets me ALL the time. If I had a dollar for every time someone said this to me, I could retire from my bartending job and live on an uncharted island in the Pacific. It wasn't enough that "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" but the pressure of being a bartender here too? It's not for the faint of heart. Add to this, I'm not your average woman either; makes life difficult. Most of the women I work with are actually gorgeous. Me? I'm what you call "average". I'm five feet five, brownish hair, curvy and have a bit of a mouth on me. I hold my whiskey better than I hold a conversation. I give better advice in six words than most advice columnists in six paragraphs and I don't know too many people. That last one? It's by choice. I'm not a native Nevadan. I migrated from Wisconsin a year ago. I needed a change of scenery. I will say one thing, J. J., the manager here, is unexpectedly kind. He isn't that way to everyone. "Lola," "Yeah?" "How's the crowd been tonight?" "Slow. It's too hot for anything." He looked me up and down once maybe twice. "Hot's the right word. It's what, 110 out there?" "Yeah." "That uniform, Lola, why are you wearing it? It's for waitresses." "If you didn't notice, Josh, I usually waitress. We're short. Tiffany called out tonight. Her kid's sick. I have a bartender licence. I can work the bar. It's easier to replace me than replace a bartender." Josh never really thought strategically. It was one of his less than admirable qualities. "Lola, not only are you gorgeous; you're smart too." I looked at him, rolling my eyes. He's a good looking man. I freely admit that. I also freely admit that he's kinda cocky too. Jenessa, one of the waitresses, walks up to the bar. "Lola, an unsavory just called me a sweet ass. Then decided to go for gold." "Where was Tito?" "Chatting up one of the patrons." I cracked my neck, then my knuckles. Josh grabbed my shoulder. "I'm the manager, not you. Down, Feisty. I got this. Stay with Jenessa." I looked at him, then at Jenessa. "It's gonna be okay. J.J. is gonna handle this." I didn't hear much, but what I did was enough to make me realize how much Josh appreciated his female staff. "If you touch any of my staff again on my property, I personally guarantee that wherever Hoffa is; That place will be easier to find than where you end up, understand?" I could tell the ice in J.J.'s voice when dealing with Tito. "Get out. Tonight's your last night." "WHAT?! YOU CAN'T DO THAT!" J.J.'s voice went quiet but I still heard him. "If you think chasing a female is more important than doing your job, go chase 'em." "Asshole." Tito said. I saw J.J. walk back into the bar area. "Jen, you okay?" "Did you mean what you said?" "Yes." J.J. replied. Jenessa threw her arms around both of us. "You're the best parents I could want! I wish my real ones were like you." I blushed slightly. J.J. smirked. "Kid, us as parents would be a sign of the apocalypse. Now, scoot. I need to talk to Lola." Jenessa laughed. "Play nice, you two." She walked away, grinning. I looked at J.J. "Parents, us? Hell, you barely look at me cross eyed and lovey dovey. I wonder what goes on in your..." That's when I felt the bristles of his five o'clock shadow on my lips. Shock, ecstasy and raw energy flew between us like an electrical current. "Do you know how long I've been waiting to kiss you into silence, Lola?" I couldn't speak. "The second you walked in the door of the club. That was it. I was done." I pressed my fingers to my mouth. "Say something, I dare you." J.J. said. After what felt like an eternity, I looked into J.J.'s chocolate eyes. "Do that again. This time, don't stop." He flashed me a sinister grin. "This might end up with a pile of clothes behind the bar, Lola. Are you ready?" "Question is, are you?" His lips descended on mine. What felt like eternity ended with a harsh cough. "Joshua James, why are you on the floor?" My body was on fire. His was solid granite... Until his mother came to deliver something. " I thought you were coming over tomorrow, Mom." "I thought you ran a respectable establishment. I guess we're both wrong. Who's this?" "This is my girlfriend, Lola." J.J.'s mother scoffed at me. "What kind of name is Lola?" "My full name is Charlotte Gaines, Ma'am. I just prefer Lola." J.J.'s mom looked at me a bit kinder after I introduced myself. "Charlotte's a much prettier name but in this city, I can see why you chose like you did. Joshua's the same. Your grandma's birthday cake; she promised to give this to you. Stay safe and for God's sake, wear protection. Las Vegas is no place to raise my grandchildren." She turned to leave. J.J. dropped his head to rest on mine. "THAT was embarrassing. I'm so sorry." I kissed J.J. "It could be worse." "How?" "We could have been naked and near completion." I never realized how sexy his laugh was until it was in my ear. "Lola, you push my buttons, Dollface." "So, where are you taking me?" "My office. I'm locking this door. You, Sweetheart, will be screaming my name. I guarantee that." I could appreciate a cocky man. Josh wasn't an exception. He was the reason why exceptions exist. In those black pants, I couldn't resist him. "Come on, Sugar." The black plush sofa felt like nothing I experienced. That feeling came second to Josh's rough lips on my neck. "You're mine. Say it, Lola." "I'm yours, Josh." The next few minutes felt like an eternity. I begged whoever that no one knocked as I felt his hand up my thigh. "Whose are you?" "Yours." "Good." I bit back a yelp as I felt his hand where no man had been since my ex husband. When I finished, he kissed my forehead. "What about you?" "Oh.. I'll get mine after work. When I leave, you're coming home with me. I have plans for you." A few days later, Jenessa looked at me. She noticed I looked different. She hid a smile. That's when J.J. walked in, wrapping an arm around my waist. "Morning, Angel. How'd you sleep?" He winked. I could feel the blush creep over my face. "Oh. My. Gawd! You.. He.. Whaaaaat?!" I looked at Jenessa. "Can you keep a secret?"

(WP) Tortures of the Damned When you get to Hell, the last thing you expect is to see your stepdad, the coolest man in the world, sitting atop its throne. “My son, at long last, has come home!” He booms, standing up to greet and embrace me. “Dad? I don’t understand. I don’t get what you’re doing here, much less why you’re--” Your father, who is really your stepfather but raised you as his own, gives a great boom of a laugh. “The King of Hell?” He finishes, smirking; his face reminds you rather unpleasantly of the cat after it ate the canary. “I was as shocked as you were, when I first got here. Now I’ve got full run of the place!” You stare at him, your jaw on the floor. Growing up, he was your biggest role model; you wanted to be just like him. He raced cars, treated your divorced mother like royalty, was always kind and firm with you. So how had he ended up here, of all places, in the afterlife? The question must show on your face, because he smiles, looking like his old self. “Oh, kiddo. There were things I did before I met you and your ma, things that I was so ashamed of that I barely even told her anything.” There’s naked vulnerability in his expression, something you’d never seen when he was alive. “But here! Let me give you a tour of the place! God, your ma would’ve loved this place, kiddo. Hotter than the damn desert on a sunny day in California.” He laughs, and you follow him, eyes sweeping across the barren, fiery landscape of Hell. Your father points to a firelit pit, thick with the stench of blood, tears, and pain. “That over there is The Pit,” He says, nodding over to it. “Fortunately, that honor is reserved for some of the worst people to ever exist.” *And I didn’t qualify,* he adds silently, his eyes narrowing to slits as he observes the tortured and the damned. The area is so dark and shadowed you can’t make out that much; the only thing you can really hear are screams and the insistent, vicious *crack, crack, crack* of the whip. You make out the silhouette of a thick and stocky man with a thinning, gray goatee and little, beady brown eyes. “Hey, Dad, isn’t that... Isn’t that...” “A certain Hollywood movie producer who used his power to hurt unsuspecting young ingenues?” Dad replies, smirking so hard that he can’t keep the wicked glee off of his face. “Oh, yes. He may have escaped punishment in the mortal world, but you can be sure that The King of Hell and his subject never forget.” He’s pleased as punch, and despite yourself, so are you. It does what’s left of your soul good to see villains getting their just desserts. “Well, Dad, you’ve done great for yourself in the afterlife. I mean, The King of Hell, that’s really something.” “And it’s all yours, kiddo. If I’m the King of Hell, then you’re its prince.

Author's Note: Hello Everybody!! So, this story is written in collaboration with my friend, Keerththan!! His works are really nice, you should surely check them out!! “It has come!” said Uriah, jumping excitedly, “Fall. The Fall.” “Yeah, we will go for apple picking now!” said Yue. “Yay, woo-hoo!” Uriah was a young boy with short black hair and black eyes. Yue, just like him, had black hair and eyes. “Take the baskets and we are going!” Yue exclaimed. They lived in a tribe in the middle of a forest. There weren’t many children of their age in the tribe. So, they spent their time together. And apple picking was their favorite. They walked through the forest path. It was covered with dead leaves and the duo seemed to enjoy walking through the path. *** Uriah picked an apple and turned it around in his hand. “These apples look different from the regular one, don’t they?” Yue looked at him suspiciously and said, “Don’t you dare to eat them before taking them back home.” “No, I ain’t eating them. I’m just saying that they look different.” “Maybe they do but does it matter?” said Yue. “Now, put it back into the basket. We need to go back now.” Uriah cleared his throat. “What?” “Can’t I take a bite of it? Just one bite, it looks so yum.” “No.” “Just one?” “No.” “Please!” “Ok, just one and it will be your fault if Ma or Papa found out about it.” “Okay!” said Uriah, washing the apple with the water from his water bottle. He looked at the apple and was about to eat it when suddenly Yue shouted, “Did you forget your manners? Thank to the God before eating the apple.” “Oh, sorry.” “Not ‘sorry’, say ‘thank you’ to the god.” “Ok, umm...” Uriah said and closed his eyes. “Thank you, God, for providing me with such beautiful nature to live in, such a supportive family to stay with and such yum apples to eat...” He ate the apple as soon as he opened his eyes. “Wow! This is really so yum! Wanna take a bite?” “No,” “Yum-yum” “Hmm... You got me. I will take a bite, just a single bite.” “Yeah, take one bite and I’m sure you won’t be able to stop yourself from eating all the apples in the basket,” Uriah said with a laugh. Yue eyed him, snatched the apple from his hand, and took a bite. “Hmm... these apples are really tasty, I’m sure Ma and Papa will love them.” “Told ya, they are different ‘because they are more yum,” Uriah said and took the basket in his hands. “Yeah, and it’s getting late now. We should go back.” So they started walking. *** Uriah was humming a melodious tune along with the birds when he suddenly stopped and said, “Don’t you think that these trees look different? Like taller?” “Oh my god, Uriah!” Yue sighed. “What is wrong with you?” “There is nothing wrong with me! These trees are really taller and bigger.” Yue had also noticed that by now. Something was wrong. They couldn’t see the top of even the smallest trees and the tiny grass was up to their waistline. Then a big, monstrous creature came in front of them. It was as big as a elephant. “What is this creature?” Uriah asked. “I don’t know.” “It looks like a mouse.” “Mouse are not that big!” “I know but trees and grass are also not that tall.” The rat hissed at them. And then suddenly, it hit them both. “We have become small, Uriah,” Yue shouted. “WHAT? HOW? What shall we do now?” Uriah asked. “RUN!” Yue yelled and grabbed Uriah’s hand. They started running and the rat started chasing them. “Drop the apples, Uriah,” Yue said. “Why?” Uriah asked. “It's chasing us because of the apples,” Yue said and Uriah dropped the apples right away. The rat stopped and started to munch on the apples. “All the apples are gone now.” “See?” said Yue, ignoring Uriah, “I told you not to eat those apples, we became small because of those apples.” “You also ate those apples.” “Yeah, but-” Yue stopped, her eyes wide open. “Look there!” She pointed to her front. “Wait...why? What now?” Uriah said and turned slowly. The antenna of the creature was very high and it was so big, almost the size of a football for the duo. The stingers of the creature looked gigantic and were just before Uriah. “I think we should run,” Yue suggested. “I THINK THE SAMEEE! But wait, I can't run, I am tired.” “What?” “Hmm... it’s just an ant, lemme speak to it,” Uriah said and approached that ant. “WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING, URIAH?” Yue said but Uriah ignored her and went to the Ant. “Hello, Mr.-,” Uriah said and stretched out his hand to the large-sized ant. “Antonio. Mr. Antonio,” the ant said, “But I don’t shake hands. Thank you so much!” “Ants talk?” Yue asked, surprised. “Yeah, why won’t we?” “So, Mr. Antonio, we have a seriously big problem,” Uriah said. “We ate an apple and shrank in size, do you know how to cure us?” “Oh, this same thing has also happened to another human,” Mr. Antonio said. “Really? What happened to him then? How did he grow back to normal size?” Yue asked. “Actually, he never grew back...” “What? Why?” said Uriah. “What happened to him then?” Yue asked. “... ‘cause we killed him and the same is going to happen to you!” “WHAAAT?!” Uriah and Yue looked at each other with their mouth wide open. They were going to be killed by ants? And to put the fuel in the fire, another ant emerged from the grass and whispered to Mr. Antonio, “Sir, this boy is the one who killed our general Anterio.” “What? How dare he? Arrest him!” Mr. Antonio ordered. “Yes, sir!” Two ants put metal handcuffs on Uriah’s and Yue’s hands and started dragging them. “I told you not to play with ants. We are suffering for that now,” Yue whispered to Uriah. “Sorry, I was bored so I just took an ant with my pen-” Uriah started whispering, but was cut off by Yue, “Shut up now!” Yue and Uriah were taken into a large mud castle. “Bring them in,” Mr. Antonio said. So, Uriah and Yue were taken into the cellar of the castle. It was as dark as the deepest ocean. The guards locked them up in the cellar. “LET US OUT, YOU STUPID ANTS!!!” Uriah shouted but nobody replied to him. *** “What are we going to do now?” Uriah said. “I don't know,” Yue replied. “I think we should plan something.” “Yup, let me think of something.” “Yeah, hmm...” “Wait...ok, so, this castle is made of mud, right? That means that we can dig our way out.” “Whoo! That's a wonderful idea.” “But that won't work,” an old voice said. “Who are you?” Yue asked. “And why won’t it work?” “An old man,” said the voice, (‘ Man? ’ Yue thought) “And this castle is made of mud but underground is made of steel, which means you can't dig after a certain level,” “How do you know?” Uriah asked. “I know because I helped in building that steel platform,” “How long have you been here?” Yue asked. “For almost five years. I have tried every possible way to escape, but I failed, every time. I have lost my hope now...” replied that old ant. “Oh, don't loose your hope, we can do this together,” Yue said. But suddenly, the ground started to shake. The guards of the cellar started running here and there. “WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING HERE?” Uriah shouted. “I think it's a spider attack,” that old ant said, leaning on the cellar window. “What? What will happen now? What will they do?” Yue asked. “They are ant hunters. They have probably come to destroy this place and kill the ants. But we are safe,” the aged ant said. “Can the ants win them?” Yue asked. “Well, I don’t think so. They have never managed to win against the spiders. Many ants have died in the attack,” that old ant said. “We should save the ants,” Yue whispered to Uriah. “What? Why? They put us into this mess and you want me to save them!?” Uriah shouted back. “Shut up, Uriah! We need to save them and we will.” “Whatever,” Uriah smirked. *** “Eat this!” a soldier said and gave a plate to Uriah. Soldier ant then ran away as fast as he could. “Okay, I got an idea,” Yue said and looked at the plate. It was filled with all kinds of fruits and nuts. “What is it?” Uriah asked. “Be patient, I’ll tell you!” Yue replied and started discussing the plan with the other two. After some time of planning, Uriah and Yue started shouting, “LET US OUT! WE CAN HELP Y’ALL!” “Why are you shouting?” a guard asked, coming to them. He was knocked out in a single punch from Uriah. “Do you know where they have the keys to the cellar?” Yue asked the old Ant. “Yeah, I know. They keep it inside the spear that they have. Give that spear to me,” that old Ant said and Uriah passed the spear to him. “Aargh,” the old Ant shouted and broke open the spear. The keys felled with a small clinking sound. “Thanks!” Uriah said and opened the prison door. Uriah and Yue rushed through the palace hall and exited the sandcastle. The spiders were as big as an eagle. But Uriah and Yue knew what to do. Yue took the fruits and nuts in his hand and threw them near a tree. Within minutes, the sparrows and many other birds arrived. So, when the sparrows arrived, the spiders backed up and retreated from the ants. The sparrows started chasing the spiders and they started running haywire. “Uriah, the sparrows may target the ants, too,” Yue said. “Yeah, but we can’t do anything to that, Yue.” “Don’t be a fool, Uriah. Come with me.” So, Yue dragged Uriah to ants. They ordered them all to go to the sandcastle. All the ants followed their order and they were saved. The sparrows and the spiders cleared the place in minutes. Mr. Antonio called Uriah and Yue to his chamber. Mr. Antonio said, “You saved our ants, so you deserve a reward for that!” Uriah and Yue listened quietly to him. “So, I have decided that you can go now,” Mr. Antonio said, “And yeah, take this.” He gave them a small bottle with gold-colored liquid in it. “What is it?” Uriah asked. “It’s a potion. It will make you grow back to your normal size.” “Really? Thank you so much, Mr. Antonio,” Yue said. “You don’t need to thank me, I am the one who should thank you,” Mr. Ant said and the whole castle members waved goodbye to Uriah and Yue. And they came out into an open field. “I bet Ma and Papa would have been worried,” Yue said. “No question about that,” Uriah laughed. “So, now drink this potion.” They swallowed the golden potion and slowly started growing. “We should get back home as soon as possible,” Yue said as she was going. “Yeah,” Uriah said. *** “Where did you both go?” Ma inquired after they reached their home. “Sorry, Ma, we were lost in the jungle,” Yue said. “Oh, you should take care form next time,” Ma said. “But now you should go and take dinner.” “Okay, Ma.” Uriah and Yue grinned. “Why are you grinning now?” Ma asked. “Nothing, Ma.” So, they went to take dinner, grinning all the way. And there was only little chance for their mothers to know the reason behind their grin.

Jennie had always been inexplicably intrigued by Stephanie's natural ability to be bright and bubbly all of the time . Stephanie, without a doubt, was always the centre of attention without any effort whatsoever. No matter where she went, people flocked to her like sheep following a shepherd. Jennie however, had always been alone. This was, of course, by choice. After having been sent into foster care when her parents had passed in a car accident, and being thrown from terrible home to terrible home, Jennie had silently vowed to stay secluded from anyone and everyone so as not to get hurt again. Sure, she felt lonely sometimes, but it was better than the immeasurable black hole that had been left inside her after her parents' untimely death. Being only 9 years old at the time of the accident, she hadn't been able to fully cope with the loss of her parents, and shutting the memory out completely had seemed like a better option than having to face those feelings some 8 years later. The day that Stephanie had sat down next to Jennie at lunch, Jennie immediately got up and left, thinking that it would put an end to any attempts at contact. When Stephanie approached her at her locker later that day, Jennie was even more distraught. "You're Jennifer, right? I'm Stephanie. We went to East Elementary together." Jennie cringed at the sound of her full name. The nickname her parents had given her was the only piece of them she had kept, and having it torn away so suddenly made her stomach fold into knots and acid spill up to burn the back of her throat. "It's Jennie. Did you need something?" She tried to speak with a malicious tone, hoping to scare off any attempts Stephanie might make at continuing any form of interaction between the two. Instead, she was met with a warm smile, which only caused the acid to move from the back of her throat into her mouth. "I'm going shopping for a new dress, and I need a second opinion. C'mon, I'll have you back home before you know it." Stephanie reached her arm through Jennie's, pulling her into an inescapable tidal wave and dragging her down the hallway towards the front doors of the prison that they called high school. When they stepped outside, Jennie squinted, trying to block out the sun; adding any more light to the already blinding situation made Jennie think her head might explode. Apparently Stephanie noticed this, reaching into her purse and pulling out a pair of sunglasses and sliding them over Jennie's eyes without a word. Jennie reluctantly climbed into the front seat of Stephanie's obnoxiously pink Beetle, and thought she might throw up when Stephanie folded down the convertible roof. "It's a perfect day, can't you feel that breeze!" Jennie thought this was, in fact, the worst day she had ever lived. After a painful 20 minute drive with Stephanie singing whatever top 10 hit was on the radio, they arrived at a small boutique on the outer edge of town. "Gosh, I love this place! I've been coming here for years. Harriet, the lady who owns it, is basically my grandma. Sometimes I just come here to visit with her when I need an escape from reality, y'know?" Stephanie smiled again, looped her arm back through Jennie's and pulled her into the shop. Jennie's nostrils filled with the scent of vanilla and lavender. There were chairs set up in a corner, and a set of plush pillows in the display window at the front with books stacked neatly in a row beside them. Try as she might, Jennie couldn't bring herself to hate the boutique. The faintest hint of a smile crept across her face, which she covered in a fake cough so that Stephanie didn't see it. "Steph! So nice to see you! Oh, and you've brought a friend, what a nice surprise!" Jennie guessed that the woman must be Harriet. She was short and round, her silver hair tied into a neat bun on the top of her head. She wore a white sundress patterned with pink roses, and looked surprisingly stylish and hip for someone old enough to be Jennie's grandmother. Harriet gave Jennie a warm smile before walking to the reading nook and taking a seat. "What does she mean surprise? You're always surrounded by people, surely you don't come here alone?" Jennie tried to comprehend why Stephanie would possibly bring someone she barely even knew into her comfort place. "I usually come alone, but like I said, I needed a second opinion this time. Oh, look at this one!" Stephanie walked over to a rack and grabbed a purple gingham dress, holding it up for Jennie to see. The next day, Stephanie sat with Jennie at lunch, and Jennie reluctantly didn't chase her away. Stephanie talked about how much she was dreading her 4th period english class, and Jennie tried her best to ignore her. When the warning bell rang, Stephanie grabbed Jennie's phone and put her name and number into the contacts, telling her to keep in touch. Slowly, the days faded into weeks, and Jennie began to enjoy Stephanie's company. She still tried to pretend like she didn't care, but she grew to appreciate spending her lunches with Stephanie instead of eating alone. After a month or so, Jennie began engaging in whatever topic Stephanie happened to be on that day. Eventually, she even began initiating conversation herself. With each new day, she vowed to cut herself off from Stephanie, but only found herself drawn deeper and deeper into the whirlwind of her life. When the anniversary of her parents death rolled around, Jennie stayed home from school like she did every year. She pulled out her bike, which she used as her sole form of transportation after vowing never to get her license, and started the ride to visit her parents’ grave. She got to the cemetery, pulled out her blanket, and started filling her parents in on the new friendship that had blossomed through the past year. For the first time, she finally had something to tell them that wasn't negative. She jumped at the sound of her phone, yanked abruptly from her thoughts. She smiled as she read the message from Stephanie. Missed you at lunch today. Where are you? It isn't like you to miss class. Want to get a milkshake after I'm finished classes? Jennie smiled, feeling herself relax as she read the message. Can you meet me at the cemetery? Of course! Be there as soon as I can. As Jennie waited for Stephanie, she began to feel that black hole inside of her expanding, tearing through her body in searing waves of pain. She was thankful for Stephanie, of course, but her whole body was on fire, burning with guilt from the inside out. She had broken the most important promise she had ever made to herself. She had betrayed her parents. The more she thought about her connection with Stephanie, the more her parents seemed to fade away. She tried to picture their faces, imagine the sounds of their laughter, the warmth of their love. With each passing second, she felt the details fade away, her entire existence being taken over by pain. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. All she could do was claw at her throat, desperately trying to get even a single atom of oxygen into her lungs. Right when she thought she might never recover, she felt a pair of arms wrapping around her. She sat there in silence, letting Stephanie hold her as she finally processed her parents’ death. After what felt like an eternity, Stephanie broke the silence. "Hey, talk to me. What's going on?" Jennie was hesitant to open up to Stephanie, but knew she couldn't keep herself locked away in the cage she had created for forever. Stephanie sat and listened as Jennie finally explained everything. She talked about the loss of her parents, and how she had vowed to shut herself out from everyone so that she couldn't be hurt again. She explained how she had never let herself process her grief, and how everything had come crashing down when she had gone to visit her parents at their final resting place. She explained her time in foster care, and how she had only shut down even more after being thrown from home to home. She never had a stable family, and it only reinforced her need to keep herself isolated. If she didn't allow herself to get attached, it wouldn't hurt when she was inevitably torn from her temporary home, and she would be able to move on without a second thought. "Jennie, I am so sorry you ever had to make yourself feel that way, but you deserve to be happy. Losing your parents must have been terrible, but you can't let it hold you back from living. You'll never be able to fully escape your grief, but if you let yourself live a little, I promise it will get easier." Stephanie pulled Jennie back into a tight embrace, feeling her soften up ever so slightly. "Can I ask you something?" Jennie's voice escaped her mouth as a hoarse whisper, barely audible. "Of course! Anything, anything at all." "Why did you bring me to that shop with you? That first day you sat with me at lunch, I just got up and left you, and when you came to my locker, I was awful to you, on purpose. Why did you keep coming back to me? I don't get it. If I were you, I would have run as far away from me as I possibly could." "Back when we were in elementary school, my best friend Adam and I went to the beach. Adam wanted to swim, but I didn't. He tried to get me to go with him, but I said the water was too cold. Our parents had gone to the boardwalk to get ice cream, and left us alone for a few minutes. When Adam got into the water, he got stuck in the riptide and went under. By the time I got back with our parents, it was too late. We were only 13 when it happened. For years, I blamed myself for his death. I shut everyone out and wouldn't talk to anyone. Eventually, I started to open back up, and I realized that even though Adam was lost that day, I didn't need to lose myself with him. Life goes on, and eventually I realized that maybe I should keep living for the both of us. I opened up, let people in, and I started to remember how much I enjoyed being happy. When I first noticed you in the lunch room, I didn't sit with you. But after seeing you alone in there for a week straight, I realized that you needed someone to help you remember what happiness felt like. That's why I dragged you with me to the boutique. You deserve to be happy, Jennie. Your parents may be gone, but you're not. Don't you think you deserve a chance at a good life?" Those words slowly filled the hole that had been burning inside Jennie for years. It would never truly leave her, and there were moments when it seemed to erode and expand again, but she always managed to help fill it back in. For the first time in her life, Jennie finally understood why Stephanie could be so bright and bubbly all the time, and she finally allowed herself to start being bright and bubbly too.

August The foyer of St. Mary’s orphanage smells likes lye soap and freshly baked bread. “Professor Gray, bless you for coming.” The click of heels echoes through the hallway before I see her face--stoic and smooth, much like her black, unwrinkled dress. “Are you Sister Marie?” “Yes, that’s me.” She smiles and extends her hand. “I came as soon as I received your letter.” “And I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you’ve agreed to take this on, Professor.” She exhales in a huff. “Your letter--I read it three times as I could hardly believe the details.” I lower my voice, lest little ears lurk nearby. “How has the boy been adjusting?” “Well, Professor, it has not been easy.” She matches my volume. “He possesses a very turbulent nature.” “And has he spoken? Anything at all?” “Nothing intelligible, sir. We’ve tried putting him in classes with the youngest children, but we are simply understaffed and not trained to meet his... unique set of needs.” Her eyes grow misty. “So, you can see why you are a godsend.” “Well, I’m not sure about that. I’ve only heard tales of situations like this, and I must confess, perhaps it is my professional curiosity more than my charitability that has urged me to take the boy on.” “I applaud your honesty, sir, but I am certain if anyone can help the boy, it’s you.” She places a hand on my elbow and begins down the main hall. “I will show you to your classroom then.” The building is dimly lit, and the floors creak as we walk, like nervous squeals imitating the anticipation I feel within. “Sister Marie,” I rush to keep up with her long stride. “You said the hunters who found the boy brought him back to the nearest villages, but tell me, have all attempts been made to locate his family? Is no one looking for a missing child?” She shakes her head. “If anyone had been looking for a lost child, it appears they gave up many years ago, as we believe he must have been missing for quite some time.” She continues down the hall, speaking in hushed tones. “No one from the village knew anything about him--though some did try to care for him--at first.” We walk by a classroom full of children silently scratching pencils to paper. Every head turns as we pass. Sister Marie lowers her voice to a whisper. “There was a kind family who took him in--farmers who thought he might take to the work--but the boy was too wild, too unpredictable. He attacked them in the middle of the night and one of their daughters nearly lost an eye.” “Good heavens.” “After that, none of the villagers wanted anything to do with him.” A round-faced woman greets us in the hall and Sister Marie stops her. “Sister Margaret, will you please prepare Matthan for his lesson with Professor Gray? In the blue classroom.” “Yes, Sister,” and she walks away. “Matthan?” I ask. “It means “ hope, ” as we are hopeful that he will learn our ways and thrive here.” “That’s good of you, Sister Marie. But I am curious, how did the boy end up here then?” “Oh, it was quite providential.” She smiles over her shoulder. “Apparently, the hunters spoke of him all through town when they had gone to trade, and one of our benefactors was there on business. He heard the story--heard about the disaster with the farmers--and said he’d take the boy back with him and establish him here at St. Mary’s.” “Incredible.” She takes us deeper through the building, pointing out the dining hall and the kitchen, then steps inside a cramped staff room. She eases herself into a chair and gestures for me to sit in the one across from her. “Professor, we are grateful the boy has been rescued and brought into our care,” she steeples her fingers, “but he must learn to assimilate--to learn basic communication skills and exhibit civilized behavior--or our directors have informed us that he will not be allowed to remain here.” “What would happen to him then?” She looks at her hands. “He would be taken to an asylum--a fate I do not wish upon any of our children.” “No, of course not. I can’t imagine how isolated the boy--Matthan--must be feeling. To communicate is human, and to be--how old did you say he was?” “We believe he’s between 8-10 years old, but it’s... difficult to say.” “Interesting...it’s been theorized that a first language is impossible to acquire beyond the early developmental years, but perhaps, with rigorous training and extended exposure to--” “You’ll have until the new year, Professor Gray.” “What? But that’s hardly six months!” “I’m sorry sir.” She chews her lip. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, but this wasn’t up to me. If you can prove by the end of the year that Matthan is at least capable of learning, then we will reevaluate his position at St. Mary’s.” “Well.” I catch myself rubbing my mustache--a mindless habit. “So be it. I guess theories exist to be tested.” I clap my knees. “Then we shall have to get to work.” She smiles. “This is why I wrote to you , as I could think of no one better qualified to help him than an expert in linguistics and communication.” She rises from the chair. “Come. I’ll show you to your classroom.” We walk down the hall and stop at the last door. “Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reaches into a pocket, pulls out a silver hand bell, and folds it into my hand. The metal is cool and serious against my skin. Her hazel eyes meet mine. “If there’s any trouble, just ring this and one of the sisters or I will come to you.” I stare at the bell in my hands until Sister Marie touches my arm. “Don’t worry Professor, everything will be fine; the tonic keeps him somewhat tranquil, just be sure to give him a wide berth.” She opens the door to a sparsely furnished classroom with peeling blue paint on the walls. “Matthan, this is Professor Gilbert Gray. He’s come to talk to you.” In the corner, a dark-haired child sits hunched over with his head crooked to one side, chewing at his fingernails. I clear my throat, nod my thanks to Sister Marie, and step inside. When the door clicks shut behind me, the boy whips his head around and stares at me with a set of wild, frantic eyes. “Hello.” I say, offering a slight wave. “It’s nice to meet you, Matthan.” The boy backs away, growling, and I can see a row of yellowed, jagged teeth in his mouth. And then he barks. September “Let’s go over these again, Matthan. One at a time.” Late morning sun trickles through the room’s single window, and dust dances in its rays. The boy stares, his shoulders hunching inward as I continue. “Say it with me, A, as in apple .” I hold up a card with a bright red apple drawn on it. Silence. “That’s alright. Let’s try the next one. B, as in boy . Like you--boy.” A gurgling sound claws its way out of Matthan’s throat--a sound that resembles nothing like “b”. “Alright. What about this one: C, as in cat .” The card shows an orange striped tabby with a long tail. Matthan shifts in his seat and growls, drool sliding down one corner of his mouth. “ C , C. Just try.” But Matthan only grows more agitated and begins rocking back and forth. “It’s alright. We’ll move on.” The next card displays a large capital D drawn above a picture of a scruffy gray dog. “Can you say, D ? As in dog ?” Matthan leans toward the card, a strange whine working at the back of his throat. He raises one hand and scratches the dog’s face with a dirty, curling fingernail. He begins to scrape and claw at the card, then throws his head back and howls--a mournful, disturbing wail. “Matthan! It’s alright!” He jumps down from the seat and tears at his rumpled shirt. A button breaks away from the fabric and clatters against the floor. “It’s okay, we’ll stop!” Matthan thrashes and scratches his own face. I reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder, desperate to calm his hysterics, but when I do, the boy snarls and lunges at me, sinking sharp teeth into my ink-stained fingers. Drops of blood dribble down his lip and along my hand. My screams must have alerted the sisters, for as I fumble for the silver bell in my coat, round-faced Sister Margaret appears in the doorway with brown bottle and a spoon. “Help me hold his arms, Professor.” She speaks in a calm, monotone voice, belying no sense of unease at the boy’s outburst. I do as instructed, looking away as she wrestles the concoction down his throat. When the boy finally calms, I hear the breathlessness in my voice when I speak. “I need a moment.” I race from the building and onto the front steps. Noise from the bustling streets seems muffled and faraway as I fumble for my pipe and tin. I light the tobacco and watch as it glows. Inhale. Exhale. How could so much ferocity, so much savagery be trapped inside such a small child? October The room holds a chill that seems to wrap itself around my vocal cords. “Repeat after me, Matthan. A .” His lips part ever so slightly. “Yeee.” “No,” I shake my head and lean closer. “ Aaay .” “Yuuuuh.” “Open your mouth wider.” I make a motion with my fingers like a flower opening. “ Aayy . Now you try.” “Eeeyuh.” “You’re getting closer. Let’s move on. B .” Matthan grunts. “ B . B . Look, Matthan, see my lips.” I point to my mouth and smack my lips together. He touches his own lips. “Yes, those are your lips . Can you bring them together like this? Now say bee .” He leans in. “Buuu.” “Yes! That’s it! You’re getting it!” We move through the alphabet, with Matthan showing decreasing aptitude and attention as we progress, and I start to wonder if any success we’ve had has been coincidental. Matthan struggles at the letter “J,” and grows frustrated. He leaps down from his chair and retreats to a corner. I rest my head in my hands and try not to think about how fast the end of the year is approaching. Someone raps on the door. One of the sisters pokes her head in. “It’s time for the children to go outdoors now, Professor.” Then she directs her voice to the corner. “Matthan, we’re going outside.” The boy turns his head at the word and begins to half run, half crawl to the door. The woman holds a pair of shoes out to him, but he refuses them. “Professor, you’re welcome to join us.” I stretch my sore muscles and rise from the desk. “I think it would be good to observe Matthan beyond the classroom.” We step through a backdoor and into the play yard where Matthan immediately shuffles over to a patch of grass and crouches, watching the children play. A few girls jump rope on one side, a group of boys huddles along the fence, likely plotting a coup against the sisters, and others gather around the swings. I make my way near Matthan. “Why don’t you play with the others? Look, they have a ball over there.” He doesn’t follow my finger when I point or acknowledge my presence at all, but neither does he flinch or run away. Soon, a sister returns to collect the children, but Matthan pays her no mind. She tries to guide him back inside, but he bares his teeth and rages at the woman. “It’s okay. I’ll stay out here with him for a few more minutes--if that’s alright.” She nods and leaves us alone. I lower myself to the ground beside Matthan and pull my pipe from my jacket. “You’ve got the whole place to yourself now.” Matthan says nothing, but watches me as I light the pipe and pull air through its slender tip. His eyes follow the wisps of smoke rising into the sky. “This is a pipe. Pipe .” He crawls closer and plucks the whole thing from my mouth. “Hey now!” He puts the narrow end in his own mouth, breathes in, then sputters and coughs, smoke spewing from his lips. I reach for the pipe, but he backs away, taking another pull before I can snatch it away from him. I can’t help but laugh. “Now don’t you tell the sisters you had a smoke. They’ll have a holy fit.” Smoke rises from the endless chimneys jutting all around us, billowing into one all-encompassing cloud of smog above the city. I picture families tucked inside their homes, gathered around the fireplace telling stories--communicating as easily as breathing. We sit in silence a while longer, then Matthan turns to me, his head cocked to one side. “Sssmoke.” November “Moon. Can you say moon?” Matthan sits at the desk with his legs pulled to his chest, bare toes splayed across the wooden seat. He never wears shoes. He stares at the card, then rasps out the word. “ Mooon .” “Yes! Wonderful, Matthan! What about this one? Can you say sun ?” I wait, my pocket watch ticking in the silence. “Sssun,” he finally utters. We move through the stack of cards, eventually coming to images of animals, which always pique Matthan’s interest. “I think you know this one. Come on.” His mouth works. “Berr. Berr.” “Yes, you’re almost there.” “Berrrduh.” “Yes! Bird ! Very good, Matthan!” I feel myself smiling. “Alright, what about this one?” I hold up an image of a green snake coiled in a pile. Matthan growls, baring his teeth at the card. “It’s alright, Matthan. It’s only a picture. It can’t hurt you.” He jumps down from his chair, keeping his distance from the card, and begins to pace around the room. “Please, talk to me, Matthan. What’s wrong?” But he moves to the corner and turns his back to me, shutting me out of his world. I stack the cards in a neat pile and let the hour run out in silence. December I have never been to an orphanage Christmas party before. The festivities are humble, but the spirit is wonderfully infectious. Someone has wheeled the piano into the dining hall, and a sister plays Christmas hymns. Children sing and spin about the rooms, laughing and wiping remnants of figgy pudding from their mouths. Sister Marie walks around with a heaping basket of parcels wrapped in brown paper and distributes one to each child. She lingers at my table where Matthan sits beside me, licking the crumbs off his plate. “I see someone enjoyed his meal.” She raises an eyebrow. I can feel him stiffen when she leans in, see him recoil when she extends a package to him. “Matthan, it’s alright.” I offer. “It’s a gift--for you.” He accepts the package, sniffs it, then rips the paper away and removes a blue knitted scarf. I help him drape it loosely over his shoulders. “There Matthan, you look very nice.” He returns to the food on his plate, and I leave him to it. “Sister Marie,” I rise and follow her as she continues dispersing gifts. “I wanted to ask, well, if it’s been decided whether or not to extend my training with Matthan.” I lower my voice. “If he is staying, that is.” She pauses, resting the basket on her hip. “I cannot say, as I truly do not know what will be decided. But I’ve certainly seen much improvement in the boy.” “As have I. I am hopeful that, with just a bit more time, he will begin to--” My words die under the ear-piercing rattle of a child’s shriek. I instinctually turn to the table where Matthan had been sitting, and my heart sinks when I see he isn’t there. Sister Marie abandons the basket, and we both race toward the sound. A small girl, maybe three or four, runs between the tables, clutching Matthan’s blue scarf in her hands. He bounds behind her in a crouching shuffle--growling. “Matthan! Stop!” Panic rises in my voice. The girl dashes under a table, between the stocking clad legs of other orphans, and Matthan pursues her, toppling chairs and children to squeeze himself into the space with her. Her screams turn my blood to ice. “Move everyone! Out of the way!” Two women rush to one side of the table, Sister Marie and I to the other. We fling chairs aside and I crawl under to see a tangle of limbs and hair and clothes as Matthan pins the girl underneath him. I grab him by the ankles and rip him away from her, my stomach heaving at the trail of blood his body smears along the floor. Someone behind me wails. Children whimper. Sister Marie clamps a hand over her mouth. The girl remains still, unmoving in a heap under the table, a row of jagged teeth marks in her neck. “Matthan.” I whisper. “What have you done.” *** I pack up my books and cards and stacks of notes and click my case shut. Sister Marie meets me in the foyer. “Professor Gray, I--” “I thank you for this opportunity, Sister Marie.” I reach for her hand and fold the silver bell into her palm. “I can assert with some confidence now that if language is not acquired in one’s developmental years, it is too late.” I pull my pipe from my jacket and step through the open door. “Matthan never had a chance.”

I came back to my hometown to meet my parents. It's been years since I've seen them. I did not want to come back after what happened. I've made my own little world in there - new friends, new life. Everything is new, which really helped me to move on a little. I never really know whether I was able to move on from him completely. But that's okay. Life goes on. I've accepted it and I promised myself I will keep moving forward and let things take control of their own. I was wanted to stop thinking about it. My mind had become a pool of thoughts that used to dip me in every night and I used to come out drenched into my own emotional baggage I was carrying. Moving out of this town made it a little easier for me to forget about that. Two years passed by, I have learned how to deal with my emotions. Maybe not completely. But little by little each day, I kept moving forward. I pressed them, I suppressed them and fought with them. Every single day has been a battle me against my emotions. Every night I had been face to face to my emotions and had been fighting to save myself till the morning. Every day had been a struggle. I had no choice but to fight back. Gradually, I learned to control them. Everything was good, until one day. That day I saw him in the coffee shop near my house. I went to meet my school friend. We were eating, chatting and laughing. I took a sip from my coffee latte and my eyes caught a man standing at the counter in blue denim, a white T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He was talking to the man at the counter explaining to him something and the other guy was nodding his head in agreement. It was him. Yes, it was him standing in front of me after two years. He then took out his wallet from his pocket and handed a card to the guy. He waited, and turned his head in my direction. I couldn’t take my eyes off. I was frozen in there. I was frozen with my feelings grabbing in my heart. Everything seemed to pile up in my head all over again. All these efforts of tackling my emotions made day and night seemed a complete failure. I felt like a loser. A teardrop started welling up in my eyes. I couldn’t think of anything looking at him standing ten feet away from me. My friend looked at me and got scared. She grabbed my arm and shook me like anything. My tears started rolling down from my eyes. I looked at her. “what happened? Are you okay? she asked. I wiped my tears with a tissue kept on the center of the table. “ He is here,” I said. “ she looked in the direction of my gaze and saw him. “ what is he doing here in your neighborhood?” I couldn’t utter a word. I was thinking years of fighting all went into vain in a minute. Sometimes, you can never understand your own emotions. You are scared of your own emotions. You never know what they will make you do. He had his wallet in his hand. He gave out the card from his wallet to the guy at the counter and looked in my direction. His eyes met mine. He stood there looking at each other from far away. He kept looking at me without even blinking. The other guy called his name several times. He didn’t respond. He tapped on his shoulder. He then looked at him, took his card back, kept in his pocket. I know he loved me. But I couldn’t stay a single moment with him after that day. When I asked him so many questions and he couldn’t answer a single one. He could have easily stopped me, but he didn’t. He did nothing to make me stay. I was the only one doing everything. I was tired of saving our relationship for so long. And couldn’t see any efforts from his side. I was tired of feeling worthless. I was tired of making myself ignore all the signs. “I’m not gonna come back, ever,” I said and went away from him. He was there standing. He did nothing. I waited for his calls for days, for months. I kept waiting but no response from his side. I used to cry myself to sleep. I was so tired of everything. I was fighting all alone. But I was tired of thinking about what’s going on in his head. To forget him. I moved out of this town, started a new life, met new people, made new friends. But never got involved with any man. I became so afraid of getting hurt again that I kept my distance from all the men and all these kinds of feelings. It damaged me completely. It broke my heart and shattered into millions of pieces. I’ve begged enough. Now it's about my self-respect. I’m not going to bend down anymore. He went out of the coffee shop. “ he is as stubborn as you.” My friend said. “ we all knew that” she added. “ Let him go.” I said. I took another sip from my glass took a deep breath and controlled all my thoughts. I’ve already fought so many battles. I knew someday this will happen. And I’ve already imagined this in my head several times. I’ve cried enough. I’ve hurt myself enough. Not this time. Not ever again. He wants to talk he will come. I'm not going to go to him. I’m done. My self-respect comes above all. I put myself above all. I’m only going to take care of myself. My emotions, my feelings, my surrounding, my family. I’m don’t begging in front of people. I love myself and that’s enough. We continued chatting and eating. " It's okay" i said to myself.

\ A pink-haired girl covered head-to-toe in unusual jewelry pitter-pattered into an apothecary in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and certainly turned some heads. Onlookers stared disconcertedly as she mumbled to herself nervously, pacing back and forth. An employee walked up to her and asked, “Can I help you, miss?” Suddenly, the pink-haired girl looked up at the employee tearfully and replied anxiously, “Excuse me! Where can I find some horseradish root, thistle, and elderflowers? My friend is very sick and I need to make some medicine quickly!” “Uhh.. You know we have actual medicine for that, right?” “No! No! This has to be made with these specific herbs!” The pink-haired girl shook her head and clasped her hands together fearfully. “Okay, okay. I’ll go see if I can find some out back,” the employee gave a sigh and put his hands up, gesturing for the girl to wait where she was. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and began digging for the herbs the girl asked for. Then, his female coworker came up from behind him and as she helped him she whispered, “What a psycho. She’s probably another one of those occult-obsessed freaks...” “Maybe, maybe not. But psycho or not, she is a customer. This’ll probably make for an interesting bar story,” the male employee chuckled. When the male employee returned to give the herbs to the pink-haired girl, she immediately cheered up. “Thank you so much! You have no idea how much this will help!” she chirped as she walked over to the cash register with her bag of strange herbs. “You’re welcome, Miss. Have a nice day, and.... hope your friend feels better.” \ “I’m back!” The pink-haired girl rushed into the apartment living room with her bag of herbs, where an older woman with long black hair sat, tending to an injured man, bleeding from his stomach. “I've got the herbs you asked for!” she panted heavily. The older black-haired woman chuckled, “That’s a good little apprentice. Now hand them to me and go get the black cauldron.” “Right away, Ma'am!” the pink-haired girl saluted happily. “Go!” the black-haired woman scolded, sending her apprentice sprinting to the kitchen in fright. The injured man began to mumble in his feeble state, but the words were incoherent. “Ssshh... Take it easy. It would be best if you didn’t move for a while. Or talk... By sunrise, you’ll be good as new.” The black-haired woman began to trace a magic circle onto the man’s stomach with the man’s own blood, and then it began to glow red. The glowing red began to disperse all over the man’s body. The pink-haired apprentice stared mouth agape, at the spectacle from behind the kitchen wall. She brought over the black cauldron and the now cut-up herbs inside. “Perfect. Now we just need to let it brew.” When the healing potion was ready, the woman loosened the man’s lips so he could drink it. He started to mumble and groan. The potion was working its magic. The blood from his wound started sewing into itself until it disappeared completely. Soon enough, the injured man slipped into a much more peaceful sleep. “Wow... he’s really out like a light,” said the pink-haired girl. “See, *that’s* healing magic. Some day, I’ll teach you more. My apprentice.

I lie there in silence. It slowly starts to come back to me. I know I should be dreaming but I am truly awake. I feel an enormous weight on my heart. I know all the good, all the bad. I am aware that I am a small part of something much greater. Next to me is my friends and family. Quiet, breathing softly. Drifting away in another world, soft asleep. I am the first one to wake up. I have ‘that feeling’ that this has happened before. I remember much, but not everything. There is still much that I do not know or understand. I lie there thinking about this, blinking my eyes lazily, while looking up at the star covered night. I tell myself that I am not going to wake anyone this time. I tell myself that I am just going to lay there in peace, or just go back to sleep. No need to get up and leave. No need to wake anyone else up. I feel a tad fidgety and take in a deep breath. It is nice, the night sky, the air, calm. It is nice. I feel my upper body rises up, with the curve of the oncoming wave. The sudden upsurge reveals a smile on my face. My legs rise up as my chest sinks back down. I can always sit up and look at the waves that are going to come but it is more fun to be surprised. Another wave is coming, I can feel it. I slowly look over to the corner of my eye, to get a look at my sister’s face. She smiles while the wave takes her up, then becomes sad as the wave brings her back down. I understand what is happening, but it is hard to explain. I think back to the terms and lingo I used in my last dream. I want to simplify it. I want to describe it in a similar way. I think to myself, “It is like being on a waterbed. A really big one. We are all laying down on it together. Something in the center creates big waves on the waterbed by jumping up and down or something. These waves move over the whole thing. Over to all that are laying on it. They feel the waves together.” That is part of the reason I do not want to get up, I don’t want to make any ripples. It is not as simple as that. It is a lot more complex and elegant. Much like explaining to a bee why and how art theory makes a flower beautiful. The bee cannot understand, nor would it care. The bee is only interested in the flower for nectar for the hive. The bee doesn’t care about if or why the flower is beautiful. But in the end it is all the same Beauty, nectar, fuel, resources, it is all the same. Thinking about all of this really makes me question it’s validity. This kind of reasoning makes little sense in my last dream. How do I know that I am not dreaming right now? A subtle nervousness builds inside of me. Perhaps, this is just a lucid dream. Or perhaps, this is the reality. Maybe if I sit up I can see the oncoming ways. Maybe I can check to see if there are any major ones or any big surprises. Then I can go back to the dream and warn everyone.. Maybe, maybe. Perhaps, perhaps. I let out a deep sigh. I want to look around. I want to see if I can recognise any other faces around me. I want to know if any trouble is coming our way. I want to sit up, but I can’t. I feel almost immobilized. I know I can sit up if I really want to, but I do not want to create any ripples. I do not want to create a disturbance for anyone around me. I do not want to wake anyone else up. I want to remember. I want to fully understand everything. But I can’t for the life of me. I know I should just close my eyes and go back to sleep. Ride the waves and enjoy the highs and lows of an unexpected journey. I want to remain calm, but curiosity continues to burn inside of me. I want to sit up. I want to walk around. I want to see where the waves are coming from. I want to run away. I want to explore, but I know that I would be lonely. I also know that I would loose my spot if I left. I know I should just lie here and ride the wave. Go back to sleep, enjoy it, and ride the wave. I try to calm myself by repeating that phrase, ride the wave. Just ride the wave. I cannot take it any longer. I have to at least sit up. I look around, making sure that everyone is still asleep. I slowly and carefully sit up. I sit there quiet and think to myself, “See, that wasn’t so bad” I slowly start to turn my head, to look behind me, when I feel a gentle touch on my shoulder. It is my friend. He softly says, “Don’t look, it only makes it worse” I lie back down and close my eyes, as if I am going back to sleep. I didn’t really need to look. I did not really need to see what was the cause of the waves. I wanted to fall asleep. I wanted to go back to the dream. I probably would have if I had not already seen ‘it’ from the corner of my eye, moments before my friend tried to stop me. What I had seen, just, ruined me. I feel a torrent of fear and anger, twisting and billowing inside of me. I am mortified at the monstrosity my eyes had behold. I am livid at myself for breaking my own rule, a rule I had forgotten. Never gaze at the man behind the curtain. My moment of frustration was overtaken by a new onset panic. What if it saw me. What if it knew I looked. That horrible abominable creature, what fate should befall me and my loved ones if it knew I looked. I made a big mistake. A mistake that knew I would surely be paid for, when I go back into the dream. I have surely brought a terrible fate upon myself and those I love. Oh God, please forgive me for looking upon your glory. It is impossible to know if ‘it’ knew I had looked or not. It is impossible to fall asleep now knowing what I know. I just have to somehow relax and go back to sleep, ride the wave. The cosmic deity I have sinned against, by gazing upon, what horrors will it inflict on my as payment for my sins? That terrible malformed monster. A mere glance of it drives my mind to madness and back. I am sickened by the idea of its very existence, let alone it’s purpose. That thing, is the culmination of every person’s fear, hope, desire, passion, love, and hate. All of those raw feelings, mashed together in bastardised brown mush of horror. It is the physical manifestation of what everyone has and will ever feel. It feeds off our dreams. It sustains like a parasite of emotions that the people feel. In return, it creates their dreams and keeps them guessing. It creates a reality that we all share. That thing, is God as well as Satan. It gives us heaven, as well as hell. That repugnant thing is all there is. There is nothing I can do. They want it this way. If they rely and trust it, they are rewarded with good dreams. They are all willful puppets. We are all prisoners to fate in the cosmic dance. There is nothing that can done. I am but a flea on the back of a boar. I cannot stop it, I cannot help it. I can only ride the wave. A tear runs down the side of my face while I try to force out, of my mind, all that I had just discovered. I have to forget. I have to go back to sleep. I have to escape anyway I can. I murmur a phrase to myself. Something to focus my mind on, something to distract myself with. “Ride the wave, just ride the wave.” The wave is unpredictable, and can surprise you if you let it. Just go with the flow. Just ride the wave. That’s all I can do. That is all that anyone can do. Just ride the wave. Brain idea I lie on the rippling water bed. Timothy jumps up and down. I close my eyes and embrace the wildness of the wave. My torso rises up with the oncoming wave. My rump begins to rise as my chest sinks back down. I smile. “Oh my gosh, it is like floating in the ocean. I love it!” Timothy smiles and jumped again, sending another wave my way.

Dave moves the boxes from our shipment this morning in his usual burly silence. His brows are hard-set and he keeps his head down, blocking out everything else but the task at hand. I wonder, for the hundredth time, how someone like him could stand working at a florist, where everything is sweet-smelling and full of color. From the first moment we began working together about three years ago, I could see that everything about him was in stark contrast to our surroundings: always dressing in dark colors, always a stony expression, seldom bothering to utter a word. At least I try to be professional. “It’s good that these bulbs came early,” I say, “But how are we going to get a truck on short notice? We’ll need more than our van to get them to the branch in Loterville, and there’s not enough room to just keep them here.” “Already got one, Adeline,” Dave mutters, almost sounding bored. “A truck? When?” “When we ordered the bulbs.” “How could you reserve one so far in advance?” “I know a guy.” “The same guy we usually talk to?” “Hmph.” I can’t tell if that’s a yes or no. As stoic as he is, it seems to be worse when I’m around. Like he just can’t be bothered. I’ve always wondered what it is about me that he doesn’t seem to care for, but then he’s not exactly what they call a ‘people person’. He minds his own business and expects everyone else to mind theirs. But today he seems on edge, and once again it’s up to me to keep things bearable. “Well, in any case they’ll be really happy to get these. The blooms are best I’ve seen in a while. I like them over the white ones. What do you think?” “They’re flowers. They’re all nice.” “Yeah but which do you really like ?” “I like them all.” It’s hopeless. He might as well be saying he doesn’t like any of them. I bet if there was a gray-colored flower he’d like it. It would match his soul. “We need to recount these,” he says, straightening up to survey the boxes, “There’s an uneven number. We might be missing a few.” “I’ll get the list.” I jump up, slightly relieved to get a few moments away from the curmudgeon. I dip into my office by the back rooms and get the clipboard with our list of orders on my desk. On my way out, a flash of color catches my eye. The door to the next room is slightly ajar, and I can see what looks like a bouquet of bright-colored flowers sitting on the desk beyond. Curious, I deftly push open the door and walk up to the flowers to inspect. It’s a lovely bouquet. Yellow mums, marigolds, red roses and lots of pink lilies, tastefully punctuated with baby’s breath. All held in a pretty crystal vase. There’s a card sticking up at the top: Adeline, Happy Birthday! Enjoy the flowers <3 That’s so sweet! This must have come from our boss - she sends me a bouquet every year on my birthday. She always uses the choicest blooms. But this year she’s a day early. I stoop down to smell one of the lilies when I hear steps in the hall behind me. “You weren’t supposed to see that!” I whirl around to find Dave standing in the doorway, his frame nearly taking up the whole space. His shoulders are tense and he’s running his palms down his sides. “Not yet, anyway...” he adds under his breath. “I just -” I gesture vaguely to the vase of flowers, taken off guard by his sudden change in demeanor. Dave sighs. “Well, happy birthday,” he says, sounding defeated and gesturing vaguely as I did toward the bouquet. “Thanks,” I reply uncertainly, “They’re really nice. But they’re early.” “Yeah, they...came in this morning.” Dave’s being weird about me seeing them. I can’t imagine why - though it’s a surprise to have them today, it happens every year. Why would he be bothered? He’s never bothered. “I’ll get the truck,” he says, “We can start loading the bulbs and make the shipment this afternoon.” “But we haven’t recounted the boxes yet,” I say, waving my clipboard in the air. “I found the other ones; we forgot to bring them in,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away. * We make it to Loterville by 2 pm and the delivery goes without a hitch. Just when we’re wrapping things up with the shop owner, our boss Susan DeGellinger sweeps in through the front door, tinkling the shop bell hanging above it. “Hey all!” she says with a bright smile. Her blonde hair is up in an elegant bun and she’s dressed in business casual, Starbucks in hand. “I was just thinking I might run into you guys here - I heard you got the bulbs in.” “Yeah,” I say, “Just finished with the delivery.” “Great.” “Oh, and thank you so much for the flowers.” “Flowers?” Susan walks up to the front counter and sets down her coffee and bag. “Yeah, the bouquet for my birthday.” “Oh,” She leans sideways on the counter with a frown, “I was going to get you an edible arrangement - spoilers! But maybe Anna ordered them?” she turns to the shop owner who had just returned behind the counter. “No, wasn’t me,” Anna replies. “Oh...” I glance up at Dave standing beside me. His hands are shoved in his pockets and there’s a glimmer of sweat near his hairline. What is with him? And why did he lie about the flowers? “Maybe they’re from a secret admirer,” says Susan, waggling her eyebrows. “Yeah right," I laugh, "Especially since almost every guy I know is either taken or unavailable.” “You never know,” she shrugs. Dave clears his throat. “I’m going to close up the truck so we can head back.” He shoves a thumb over his shoulder and stalks off toward the back of the shop. “Is he alright? He didn’t look so good,” says Susan. “Yeah he’s been acting a little weird today. Maybe just one of his moods.” “If he gets worse tell him to go home. The man’s going to work himself to death one of these days.” “Will do.” * When we get back to the shop, Dave is completely silent. We go about our separate tasks - he’s messing around with the cash register and I pick up a broom to sweep. We’re closed today, so we’re just doing some housekeeping before wrapping up. I grip the broom handle as I sweep with slow, deliberate strokes. I want to confront him about the bouquet, but hesitant to break the ice. I keep predicting he will deny the whole thing, but he clearly knew about it, and obviously wanted to keep it from me till my actual birthday tomorrow. So what is he not telling me? I risk a glance at him. He’s frowning at receipts from yesterday. How do I go about this? Do I just... Oh, to hell with it. He’s going to be disagreeable anyway. “Why did you lie about the flowers?” He freezes. His frown deepens and he doesn’t move for almost a full minute. Then he slowly gathers the receipts to clip together. “I didn’t lie,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes fixed on the countertop. “But you knew I thought they came from Susan, except she didn’t get me any this year and you didn’t tell me who they were actually from.” “Does it matter?” “Yes, it does.” “You got flowers for your birthday. It’s a nice thing. Who cares if it’s from Susan or not?” “I care, because you’re being really weird about it and I want to know why.” Dave heaves a sigh. “Look, just tell me--” “It doesn’t matter!” he blurts. “Who cares? I don’t care -” “Yeah because you don’t care about anything!” His tone sets me off. I shove the broom into a corner and cross my arms. “You don’t have to tell me you don’t care. I know that! And I know you don’t care about me and that’s fine, I just want to know where they came from. That’s it! Is that so hard?” He finally looks up at me. His gaze is intense, with something like regret etched between his brows. I stare right back, waiting for his response. When it doesn’t come, I scoff. “Whatever. I’ll just take them and go home.” I stomp toward the back rooms. As I pass behind the counter, he leaps a couple steps forward to grab my arm. “Wait,” he says. I look up at him about to protest, but his expression stops me in my tracks. He looks...sad? “I’m sorry,” he whispers. I blink at him. He loosens his grip on my arm and shoves his hands into his pockets like he did earlier at the other shop. “I’m sorry. For always - well, I know I’m not a joy to work with.” He shrugs. “It’s just that...I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he rubs the back of his neck and avoids my incredulous stare. It takes him a few moments to seemingly gather himself before taking a deep breath. “The flowers are mine - er, they came from me.” I blink again. “You?” “Yeah. They...always have.” “What do you mean?” “Susan never sent you flowers for your birthday. But I always signed them with her name.” “What?” Dave takes another breath, still looking anywhere but directly at me. His face is rose red. “Why would you do that?” I ask. “Because...I wanted...I thought if I...” he sighs, “I know we’re not usually on the friendliest of terms. I thought it might be weird if I just gave them to you.” “Well, what’s wrong with that? I’ve always liked them, and it’s my birthday anyway. What would be so weird about that?” He sucks in a breath, shaking his head slightly. He looks at me with a strange mix of uncertainty and eagerness, like he’s asking a question or... Oh. Wow. Okay, this is so far out of left field - no, it’s so far out of the stadium, the city, the continent. How? This is the guy who shrugs everything off and ignores me and even sometimes avoids me and...it’s all backwards. I don’t know what to say and we stand there awkwardly for what feels like ages. I look up and see Dave - flushed and sweating buckets - and it’s like seeing a whole new person. Where has he been all this time? I consider for a second. Maybe the real Dave is completely different from the one I know. Maybe he never meant to be so standoffish. Maybe he just couldn’t... I step forward and tilt my head to catch his eye. At last he seems able to meet mine, and now his dark brown gaze is so steady it doesn’t break. “You could have just given me the flowers.” He takes a shaky breath. “Yeah well...” “And if you didn’t hate me all this time, you didn’t have to always act like you did.” “You think I hate you?” he looks genuinely pained. I gesture vaguely with a look that says well, duh. Another sigh and a shrug. “I guess it’s just my way to cope.” “Still doesn’t give you a pass.” “I know. Sorry.” More awkward silence. This whole thing has taken such a wild turn. Part of me wants to dig further in, to talk more about why he’s always so closed off and whether things will change from now on. But in the moment, it feels like there’s nothing more to be said. There will be more time for digging later. Maybe. I hope. “You are good at arrangements, though,” I offer tentatively. He looks up and breaks a half-smile. I’ve never seen him do that, and I’m almost surprised his face doesn’t crack. But I have to admit it’s a really nice smile. “Thanks,” he says. “So...I’m going to take that one home now.” I point over my shoulder toward the back room where my bouquet is waiting. “Yeah, go ahead.” I’m about to turn away - then pause. “Dave?” “Yeah?” “...It’s kind of nice to know that you don’t hate me.” He looks right at me with another half-smile and says, “Not even a little.” Suddenly I feel my own face grow hot. What is happening?! Before he can notice I whirl around and disappear into the back hallway.

Here in the desert, far from the city lights, the Heavens show off their brilliance. The stars above look like silver glitter strewn across a dark canvas, no space is left untouched. This is the canopy that covers the stranded family. Earlier that day: They had come to visit the waterfall and creek that ran by the ancient homestead. The father had stumbled across it during one of his hunting trips. It was beautiful, quiet and secluded. The remains of a stone house, sat between two fingers of the mountain. It had rained a lot this summer, so the waterfall splashed down into a pool that ran off into a small creek that flowed next to the home. The home is only rock walls and a floor, the roof, doors and windows are gone, buffeted and torn away by the winds of time. In its heyday the homestead was a gorgeous haven. The mountain snuggled the area on three sides and there was a huge boulder across the stream, it was covered in Indian pictograms. Enormous Mesquite trees filled the area; shading the house, the boulder and the stream. The family came here often; it was their own hidden paradise. Today they had come, to escape the heat, allowing the children to play in the stream and lower waterfall. High up in the bow of the mountain sat a pool fed by an underground spring. It was the source of the stream the kids played in, the water traveled down three separate falls before flowing past the old homestead. Mesquite trees shaded the top and several more large boulders sat across the area. Two of the boulders were covered in more pictograms, but one was flat with a shallow depression in the center. The stone was a smooth bowl, most likely used for grinding corn when Indians still roamed the land. “Daddy! Look we found some arrowheads.” Madison excitedly exclaimed. The boys showed their parents their treasures too. “Those are wonderful.” Bethany exclaimed as she admired her children’s treasures. “Time to go kids.” Their father called, they all climbed out of the stream and their mom had them climb out of their sandy clothes. She rinsed them off and wrapped them in towels. At the truck she put on their clean clothes. Then she helped them climb into the truck. Their father turned the key and nothing happened, he tried again and still nothing, he popped the hood and tried to get the truck to start but it was dead. The children bounced around excitedly waiting to return home, they didn’t notice their parents concern. “What are we going to do Adam? It’s at least 25 miles to anything!” Bethany softly cried. “I know, and we can’t wait for someone to find us, our water and food won’t last long, and nobody knows where we are at. Hell nobody even knows of this place!” He wraps his arms around his wife as they come to terms with the dangerous situation they were in. “We are going to have to walk out.” “Adam! The kids will never be able to walk that far! I don’t think I can walk that far, especially in this heat!” “I’ll make a travois out of the sleeping bags and a couple sturdy poles; I have an ax in my tool chest. We’ll also wait until the sun goes down. Don’t worry we’ll be fine” They stood together, embracing as they prayed to God to be with their family. “But still 25 miles, that could take days!” “We should be able to make it to Valencia rd. by morning, that’s about 10 miles from here, then we’ll set up shade and wait for nightfall to continue. Another 6 or 7 miles should be getting us to Happy Trails rd it’s more traveled. Hopefully then we’ll be able to catch a ride into town from there.” Adam assured her. “We’ll have to ration the water and snacks, the kids won’t be happy.” Bethany sighed looking over at her children playing in the truck. “Kids get out of the truck.” “Aren’t we going home?” Madison who was six asked. “We’re going to have an adventure; the truck doesn’t want to start, so we’re going to walk through the desert tonight, how does that sound?” Adam asked his children. Benjamin, four and Robbie three, squealed in excitement. Madison frowned however, remembering how far it was. Their mother got blankets out of the truck and laid them out under the big mesquite tree. “We’re going to take a little nap now so we’ll be rested for our walk.” Their mother told them. “I’m hungry!” Robbie whined. Bethany pulled a small bag of crackers out of her knapsack and handed it to the kids, “Mine!” Robbie cried out. “No Robbie, you need to share those.” The kids ate them and drank from the bottled water their Mom gave them. “Time for our nap.” “I’m still hungry Mommy!” Benjamin said. “I’m sorry honey that’s all. Now lie down and take a nap,” “But it’s still daytime.” Benjamin complained. “We have a big adventure ahead of us tonight and if you don’t take a nap you won’t be able to stay awake.” Adam told his son. “Now do as your mother said and take a nap. Bethany honey, you should try to sleep too.” “What about you? I could help get things ready.” “I’ll lie down after I make the travois, it’s a one man job, so try to get some sleep, it’s going to be a long night.” Adam kissed her forehead and walked away. Bethany softly sang to the kids, they fall asleep almost instantly; it didn’t take long for sleep to come because they had worn themselves out playing. Bethany soon followed the kids into slumber. Adam finished the travois, rigging the ice chest to the bottom, so the kids wouldn’t slide off the end. Then he set his watch for 8:00 pm and laid a flashlight and his pistol beside his head and tried to catch some sleep. He laid there looking at the sky praying, “God please be with us and give me the strength to get my family home safely.” ************************************************ Adam and Bethany woke at 8:00 pm; they got all the snacks together and made a meal out of what they had left from the picnic. Waking the children they fed them then got them situated on the travois. “I’ll walk Mommy, so Daddy doesn’t have to pull me too.” Madison said to her parents, even though they said nothing, she could tell they were worried. “You have to hold your mothers hand the whole time, it’s really dark and we don’t want to loose you.” Her father told her. “And, if you get tired at all, you can get up with the boys, I’m strong enough to pull you too, okay.” Madison promised and they all set out from the truck. “Who’s going to be with our Truck? What if it gets scared?” Benjamin asked worriedly. “The truck is fine, Honey. We locked her all up and she’ll sleep until we come back for her.” His mom assured him as they walked down the dry riverbed. The first hour the boys noisily chattered away, finally falling back to sleep. Her parents were mostly quiet as they walked through the dark desert. It was kind of scary, when they neared a huge water trough she heard lots of squeaks and what sound like paper being crumbled. “What’s that noise Daddy” “Those are bats honey, don’t worry they aren’t after you, they are after the bugs near the water.” Just as he finished telling her that something large swooped over head, the breeze from it fluttered her hair. Before she could cry out, “Just an owl, Sweetheart a really big owl.” He replied shakily. “How much farther is it to the dirt road?” Her mother asked about a half hour later. “It shouldn’t be much farther, but I’m not sure. I always look for the tracks that enter the riverbed, but I can’t see anything in this light. Why don’t you switch on the flashlight and scan the banks. The flashlight was dim, barely lighting the area. “Wonderful.” Her mom muttered, casting a nervous glance to her father. Madison didn’t want to think about the looks that were passing between her parents, so she looked into the sky, her mom kept a hold of her hand, guiding her in the dark. The sky was glittered with stars. “He counts the number of the stars; he gives names to them all. Great is our God.” Madison softly whispered a scripture she’d learned at Sunday school. “What did you say Honey?” Madison didn’t answer her Mother. She was trying to count the biggest brightest stars, but she kept loosing track. Then one bright star caught her eye, it seemed to be coming closer. “Mama, look that star is coming down.” “I don’t see it, did it already pass by?” “No Mom its right over our heads!” her mom looked into the sky. “I’m sorry honey I still don’t see it.” Madison looked at her mother in astonishment, how could she not see the bright light floating above them. It wasn’t a star, but it was very bright. *“Tell your father to stop the road he is looking for is right here.” The light shown on the tracks to the road they had just passed. “Daddy the road is there, under the bright light.” “Madison, stop playing pretend, we need to really find the road.” “But Daddy it’s right over here!” Madison jerked her hand away from her mother and ran to the road. “Madison! Get back here, you were told to not let go of my ha........, Adam! It’s the road! We almost passed it. How in the world did you see it, Madison?” “Just lucky, I guess.” Madison said watching the bright light. The walk became a little easier, since they were no longer trudging through the sand. The bright light stayed with them but only Madison saw it. “Adam, look in the distance, do you see that light?” “I do, I didn’t think there were any homes out here. We’ll go in that direction.” They took a road that branched off from where they had been going, that light held more promise than the road they were walking towards. *“He gives light to those in darkness, to guide their feet to the way of peace and safety.” The voice spoke out of the darkness. It comforted Madison. They’d been walking for close to 3 hours and Madison was stumbling with each step, the light was still with them, watching over them. “Adam stop, Madison needs to get on the travois.” “I’m amazed she has lasted this long.” Madison groggily smiled at her dad and crawled next to her sleeping brothers. Her mom walked up to her dad and grabbed one of the poles and they continue walking toward the light in the distance. It was farther than it had seemed but still closer than the other option. Madison had just started to close her eyes when the coyotes started howling close by. Her eyes jerked wide open as another howled then another and another. They were all around them. And it sounded like there were a lot of them. Adam handed his gun to Bethany and told her to follow behind the travois to keep the children safe and be watchful. “Coyotes are usually more afraid of people than we are of them.” Adam said reassuredly. Madison watched as three more bright lights joined the first, *“Even though you walk through the dark desert, fear not because your God watches over you.” A voice spoke from the bright light again. Obviously her parents didn’t hear it, because they said nothing and her mom looked terrified trembling with every howl.” Madison knew they wouldn’t believe her if she told them what the light said, they couldn’t even see the lights so she decided to sing instead. “I raise a hallelujah, with everything inside of me I raise a hallelujah, I will watch the darkness flee Her mom and dad joined in; “I raise a hallelujah, in the middle of the mystery I raise a Hallelujah, fear you lost your hold on me.” I raise a hallelujah, my weapon is a melody I raise a hallelujah, Heaven comes to fight for me. Madison heard the beings of light join their voices with hers, and she felt her heart swell, the coyotes were still howling but at a distance now. Her Mom picks another song and they continue singing. The scary feeling is gone; she can even tell her mom isn’t afraid anymore. As they walk they continue singing, it seems time stands still as they walk singing praises to the Lord. Suddenly the beings of light leave, disappearing into the night sky. “No, Don’t Leave! Please stay!” Madison cries out as she watches them depart. “Who’s there? Show yourself, I’m a Police officer!” Shouts a voice in the distance. “Help us! My name is Adam, I’m with my family, we’ve been stranded in the desert.” “Come out where I can see you!” the officer yells as he flicks on the lights of his cruiser. Bethany puts the gun in her pack and they pull the travois onto the paved road. When the officer sees the children, he releases a sign of relief; he hadn’t expected to run into anyone on this desolate road, especially at this time of night. Adam lets him know they have a gun, which he takes for now, then he helps them all into his cruiser. The boys wake up excited to see the officer. “It’s a miracle that you were here; we’ve been walking for hours. Our truck died so we had to walk out.” Adam told the officer. “How far back is it?” “About 10 miles, we were by the old homestead.” The officer whistles, “That is quite a dangerous walk with coyotes and cougars out here. I came out here because we had a call about an abandon vehicle, but I couldn’t find one. I was ready to leave when your daughter yelled at me to stop.” “I didn’t yell at you, I yelled at the Angels in the balls of light, they were with us in the desert, they kept the coyotes away and they lit the way for us. I didn't wasnt then to leave.” Madison told them. “They lit the way?” The officer asked. “We followed the light from the house in the distance.” Her father clarified. “There are No houses or buildings for miles around here.” Her Father steps out of the cruiser and scans the horizon. He can't see the light, actually he doesn't see any lights at all. A mountain lion screams close by and Adam hurriedly returns to the cruiser. The officer smiles and starts the vehicle,” I’d say you just experienced a bonafide miracle. You know the Bible tells us we should see through the eyes of a child. Sometimes they see and experience more of God’s supernatural wonders than adults do, because they see through eyes of wonder and innocence. For you to have walked all that way through the night safely, shows that God was watching out for you.” As they drove away Madison turned around in the back seat, kneeling so she could stare up into the stars, “Thank you Lord for being with us.” She watched as a bright star seemed to twinkle at her, acknowledging her prayer.

thoughts??? ideas on where to take it?? &#x200B; Naturally, I use a washing machine to wash my clothes. Unnaturally, I think about how it makes it so easy to forget dirt stains and the memories that came with them. Even the stubborn ones go away after a while. The laundromat doesn’t let you wash rubber-lined mats, but I wash them anyway. I conceal them in a ball of cotton sheets and shove them into the corner washer as quickly as possible. The same way, I shove them into the dryer. They only need 4 quarters; a good 20 minutes and they dry right up. It's amazing. The fresh scent Tide on my washroom rubber mats, all the filth and blood wrung out of them. I want to think the dryer is gentle to them, pulling out the moisture softly and kindly. But in reality, the inside of the dryer is aggressive and unforgiving. Dangerously humid and bleak. Yes, I know this for a fact. There’s no one else here except for the plump middle-aged lady who’s always at the front folding other peoples’ laundry. Everyone calls her Bea. Does Miss Bea get pleasure out of folding soft strangers’ clothes; does she ever find money in their pockets? And what type of people don’t have time to wash their own laundry? I’m thinking this as she steams the pleats of a woman’s dress that she couldn’t even dream of ever fitting into. I wonder about the woman who wears that dress - probably tall, slender and deliciously round in all the right places. Maybe she wears it a big established corporate office. A big businesswoman like herself wouldn’t wear anything less pretty. In fact, she shouldn’t - unless I was with her.We, meaning myself and my laundry walk ourselves back to my car. The air outside is a type of cold you just want to breathe in like the smoke from a Belmont cigarette. It’s the type of air that hurts to breathe after a while. The sun was pale and sad, like the moon had decided to come out instead. Maybe the sun took a sick day. The snow however looked rather sparkly and confident but only where no one had walked all over it and ruined it. Everyone loves new snow but its only fun shovelling until it turns into a disgusting sludge of dirt, branches and lost mittens and hats - then I’m lucky if I find a matching pair to wear the next time it snows. I plop the drawstring bag under the cheap black carpet lining of the trunk where the spare tire should have been. Walking back to the front of my 2014 Toyota Corolla, I look back at the laundromat:NEW WORLD LAUNDRYIt’s a weekly trip to the washed-out pale blue and white sign on Parliament Street. But for some reason I don’t think I’ll be back next week.I inhale a couple Oreos that I have in a little packet kept in the glove compartment. Then the metaphysical world hits me and I feel the rough texture of the third Oreo. I wonder why they bother putting such a complicated design on the cookie when no one pays attention to them. What’s the point of making things more complicated than they have to be? Does it affect the Oreo experience? I laugh out loud in my sparse voice. Here I am, in my cab with a box of designer cookies. When did I start affording such luxuries? Of course, I knew it from the Cross of Lorraine. Geometric crusader cookies. I even remember googling it. I laughed again, louder this time as though someone was going to start laughing with me. The cream is sickly sweet but soft enough to make me want more. So, I have a few more before rolling down my window and wiping the cookie crumbs off my long veiny fingers. My hands instantly freeze in the cold air and I wish they’d just fall off. I am elemental so this will be no resolution. I will exist even after I have existed. Water exists even after it goes down the drain. They just wash it and send it back to you. The same old water. How do they call it? Water purification. I reckon I’ll be drinking laundry water the next time I go back home for a cup of tap water.The streets are far too bare to make money. All I know is I’m wasting gas driving around the city waiting for someone to hail me to the side or for an operator to buzz me in and assign me a pickup. Maybe I should go home and drop off my laundry, I think. But instead I stop for a cup of coffee. I park on the flat street in between an ugly 2007 Saturn Ion and a clunky Subaru Tribeca.This coffee shop is sweet. It’s one of those cute little cubes squished slightly behind a failing law office and another lesser quality restaurant. The baristas wear white shirts and beige aprons. Mmm. I spot the woman who makes my bitter coffee taste sweet. She could even make coffee burnt beyond recognition taste like molasses. I’m still working on my hypothesis, but I think it’s her long curly brown-blonde hair and deep almond eyes that make the coffee sweet, and not the sugar. I couldn’t care less for the coffee. I couldn’t care more about her.She hands me the cup and the immediate warmth of her love makes me shiver. “Thank you.” I say to her, smiling with my teeth and making pertinent eye contact. “You’re welcome.” is all she says back to me. If only she knew how badly I wanted to make love to her peaceful looking body. Could I have had found peace in her as badly as I wanted to offer her peace? I wanted to tell her how much I wanted to hold her around the small of her back. How much I wanted her bare chest pressed against mine. And I think most of all, I just wanted her to kiss me. Although graceful in her movements, she disappears into the back of the store quickly. Suddenly I remember I mean nothing to her, and my coffee feels strangely cold. Grief-stricken, overpriced coffee in hand, I walk back out onto the sidewalk. Just as I’m about to get back into my car, I open the lid, let the steam hit my face for a couple of seconds before pouring the brown water onto the street, watching it making its way towards a rain gutter.

THE AGE OF INNOCENCE They sat on the grass outside the village library awaiting Toby’s return; he having been sent to scope out the building. They watched as he walked back towards them, a mournful look on his face. “It’s the old battle-axe on duty. She absolutely loathes me so I daren’t ask her. What do we do now?’ Miss Aznavour, the librarian, at the age of 36, hardly qualified for Toby’s description of being old. Nor was she a battle-axe. Rather, in her usual twin set and pearls, she was the epitome of a woman who had long given up hope of finding love and lived with her French mother in a cottage just a stone’s throw from her place of employment, resigned to her spinsterhood. To Miss Aznavour, the children of the village were her children and, little did they know, that she spent hours devouring book reviews and selecting suitable books for the children of Pinewater Village so that they, too, could discover the wonderful worlds that existed in literature, much as she, herself, had done as a child. When they did well in their exams or were accepted by a university, as Sebastian had been, she glowed with pride. She watched as Sebastian approached her. Intelligent, handsome Sebastian, though fast departing adolescence, still retained a touch of innocence that melted Marie Aznavour’s heart. “Hello, Sebastian. You’ve been delegated, have you?” Sebastian looked up shyly at the librarian, a puzzled look on his face, but followed her stare towards the library doors and the four faces peeping in. Swallowing, he got straight to the point. “I say, Miss Aznavour, yesterday, Toby returned a book and...” “Swallows and Amazons. I seem to recall it was one of your favourites, Sebastian. At least, I presumed so as you checked it out so many times”. Sebastian blushed red. He was of an age, with college fast approaching, when he did not care to be reminded too often of his youthful pastimes. “The thing is, Miss, we think he may have misplaced a five pound note inside the book, possibly uh, probably, that is. I wondered...” “Well, why don’t we have a look, Sebastian?” With a quick glance back at his friends, Sebastian followed the woman to the children’s section of the library where she scoured the book shelves, alphabetically labelled. Under R there was no sign of the book. Sebastian’s face expressed his glumness. “Well, it’s not here, is it? I’m quite sure that it hasn’t been checked out again -which means that Vera, my assistant, can’t have processed it yet. Let’s try the returned book trolley”. Sebastian’s face brightened, once more, as he followed her dutifully. “All ready for university, Sebastian?” “Uh, yes, Miss. Yes I am. Though it will be a wrench to leave, you know, the village”. “And your friends, too, I expect”. “Yes, of course”. “Here we are and, look, here it is. Vera can be a bit slow to process returned books. You’re lucky. If I had been on duty yesterday evening, this book may already have been checked out by another fortunate child. Now, let’s see”. With Sebastian looking on expectantly, the librarian took the book by its front cover and shook it. Out fluttered the five pound note. Sebastian grabbed at it delightedly. “What’s it for, this money, if you don’t mind me asking?” “Oh no, Miss. Not at all. You see, we all pooled our piggy bank savings and took all the coins to the bank and exchanged it for this note. We plan to go to Holtoms and order up as much food and pop as we can afford and have a farewell party”. Miss Aznavour smiled at this but was puzzled by one thing. “But why the note? Mr Holtom would have accepted money in any form, surely?” Blushing, Sebastian answered. “We just want to see the look on his face. You see, every time one of us enters his shop, he follows us around suspiciously as if we’re thieves. It’s rather annoying. We just want to see the look on his greedy face. It’s silly, I suppose...” “No. I understand perfectly, Sebastian”. And, looking at the librarian anew, Sebastian, somehow, knew that she did understand. Just an hour earlier, the five friends had been crowded into Toby’s bedroom, rummaging through his drawers, rifling through books, emptying out his wardrobe; clothes and artefacts scattered everywhere. Sebastian, the eldest, suddenly called for quiet. “Wait! This is crazy. Let’s all calm down for just a mo and think”. “Gosh, I hope you’ll all help me tidy this mess up before my mother gets home”, Toby whined, looking around at the bomb site that his bedroom had become. “You can just blooming well clean it up yourself, Tobes. You’re the cause of all this, after all”, Toby’s sister, Pete, short for Petunia, responded. Sebastian, the undoubted leader of this motley gang, called for silence. Outside, birds could be heard singing away happily as they revelled in the sunshine; all talk of possible war with Germany forgotten on this perfect English summer day. “Now listen, chaps”, he began, Pete glowing with pride at being considered one of the chaps but Alice, her cousin, who spent an inordinate amount of time preening herself in front of a mirror, not so enamoured of this collective noun, crinkled her nose in protest. Sebastian, oblivious to the fact that he was the reason for her titivating, continued. “Let’s all have a jolly good think about this. Toby, what were your exact movements yesterday after Jasper gave you the envelope?” Toby, a shy bookish boy, much given to distraction and absent-mindedness, took off his glasses and polished them on his Ladybird tee shirt, a sign that he was giving serious consideration to this question. “Well, I remember coming home...” “You s.s.said that you were going to return your library b.b.books b.b.because one of them w.w.was overdue”, blurted Jasper, his stutter evident as usual whenever he was excited. “Yes, that’s right . One of them was overdue and I didn’t want to cop another fine. Rather a good yarn, too, Have any of you read Swall...” “Never mind about the book , Toby. Did you go to the library? Yes or no?” “Well, as a matter of fact, I did. I’d forgotten all about that. Thanks, Jasp”. The others let out a unified sigh of exasperation. “You nitwit, Tobes. How could you forget that you went to the library?” Pete exclaimed; always ready to find fault with her brother. “Toby, we have spent hours searching everywhere in this house for the envelope, including the destruction of your bedroom, and you failed to tell us that you had actually visited the library after you had returned home. Can you not see how frustrating you are? You were specifically entrusted with the care of the money and...” Sebastian was halted in mid-stream as Jasper, despite his speech ailment, the most gung-ho of the five friends, clambered over Toby’s bed and darted for the door. “Jasp, where are you off to?” his sister, Alice, called after him. “T.t.to the l.l.library!”. Of course, she had understood. Marie Aznavour, though English, had arrived in Pinewater with her French mother which was reason enough to have been cast as an outsider; a label that had taken several years for her to throw off. Oh yes, Miss Aznavour knew only too well what it was like to be viewed suspiciously in Holtoms. This same Marie Aznavour who, upon the death of her mother in three years time, would volunteer her services, as a French speaking person, to SOE, be parachuted into occupied France to work with the resistance, would discover love, finally and briefly, in the arms of a resistance leader, be betrayed by his jealous wife, captured and tortured by the Gestapo and, finally, executed at Dachau concentration camp just two days before it was liberated by the Americans, smiled as she watched Sebastian rejoin his friends gleefully. She felt deep joy as the five children whooped and hugged over the recovery of the five pound note; her children. The village shop, owned by Mr and Mrs Holtom and known to one and all as Holtoms, stood adjoining the cobbler’s opposite the village green. It was the only food shop in the vicinity and Mr. Holtom was well aware of that, charging far too much for food items that, otherwise, would have entailed a ten mile journey to the nearest town; an undertaking most villagers could not easily make as they did not own a motor car. In one corner of this store, which, somehow, seemed to stock everything, stood a glass cabinet in which every conceivable sweet that a child could possibly want was displayed. Though the glass prevented a shopper from touching, nevertheless, whenever a child entered the store and, as if drawn by magnetic force, made a beeline for this treasure trove, Mr Holtom would drop whatever he was doing, no matter how important, and scrutinise the child until, finally, he, or she, would move away. He may as well have put up a sign: No window shopping allowed. To Mr Holtom only good, hard cash was important. What a shock this man received when the five burst into his emporium and, instead of clamouring around his glass display of untouchables, they, led by that Sebastian whose father owned the only motor car in Pinewater, gathered around the main counter with a grocery list of adult items. Mrs. Holtom, her eyes transfixed by the sight of that large, blue, Bank of England five pound note that Sebastian held in his hand, rushed to fill his order while her avaricious partner looked on, mouth agape. Poor timid, put upon Mrs. Holtom, dominated by her husband, would suffer a severe mental breakdown from which she would never recover when, in exactly twelve months time, she would be the recipient of a telegram informing her of the death of her only child, Flying Officer Nigel Holtom, RAF, whose single seater Supermarine Spitfire aircraft would be shot down in an aerial encounter with German aircraft that would become known as The Battle of Britain. While we are in this part of the village, let us spare a thought for the cobbler whose shop adjoined Holtoms. This man had arrived in Pinewater, from Warsaw, Poland, almost twenty five years previously and had set up shop before the Holtoms, themselves, had arrived. Yet he was still considered an outsider despite the demand for his undoubted skill at repairing shoes. Not even addressed by the moniker of “cobbler,” he was known to all and sundry as “the shoe mender”. Real name: Karel Koslowski, he worked diligently every day, smiled politely to all his customers, returned to his lonely cottage each night and pined for his Polish family. Four years from now, he would open his shop, as usual, one morning, then lock the door. Quietly, he would extract the laces from the many, many pairs of shoes that sat on shelves, their leather giving this shop its pungent, familiar odour. Then he would weave, knot and fashion a noose and hang himself from the oaken rafter; as he swung, the letter he had received that morning, informing him of the death of his mother and father in the gas chambers of Auschwitz, would flutter to the ground. The five needed two trips in the rowing boat across to One Tree Island, in order to transport themselves and their goods. The boat belonged to Sebastian’s father and was moored on the private jetty that loomed over the Thames at the bottom of the family garden. As they hauled the wooden crate of pop and the picnic basket up onto the grass, unknown to them, they were being observed through binoculars by Professor Quintin Channon, Sebastian’s father, from his study at the rear of the house. Once he saw that all five were safely ashore, he relaxed and left them to enjoy their feast. How he longed to tell his only child how much he loved him but the “stiff upper lip” instilled in him as a child simply forbade it. This highly intelligent man would go on to win honours for his work at Bletchley Park, breaking down the German’s Enigma Code that would help win the war for England, but would never recover from the loss of his beloved son who, only a few months into university life, would suddenly, in a fit of patriotic duty, enlist, only to lose his life in the Dunkirk evacuation. Their food laid out on the picnic blanket, their mouths watering, the five friends stared with pride at the feast they had gathered: pork pies, sausage rolls, scotch eggs, great slabs of Cadbury’s chocolate. In the crate sat bottles of their favourite pop: Cream Soda, Tizer and Lucozade; all warm and fizzy. Little did they know that this would be their last supper together; the age of innocence passing. They reminisced, laughed and gorged until, fully sated, they made their way back across to the jetty in the twilight. Petunia and Toby, would never hear of Sebastian’s death for they would be sent by their parents to the “safety” of relatives in the United States upon the outbreak of war but would both be among the 117 passengers of the S.S. Athenia that perished when struck by a German torpedo off the coast of Scotland. My sister, Alice, and I would mourn our two cousins and friends together, inconsolable. A year later, when the news of Sebastian’s death was revealed, the shock proved too much for poor Alice who walked into the Thames at high tide and was no more. I, of course, survived everything. I still stutter occasionally but, usually, only when I think back on those days. It was a time of joy, friendship, innocence and, dare I say it, love. For us, it was idyllic for we were blind to everything outside of our band of five. To us, we were the Swallows and Amazons, inseparable until, one fateful day, the promise made by Neville Chamberlain of peace in our time was shattered forever.

The sun was beating down from up high. The sky was a clear blue with no clouds in sight all the way to the horizon. The Chicago White Sox were 2-0 down and it was the bottom of the 8th. Charlie was in his seat in the front row, not able to concentrate on the game. His Dad had forced him to come watch and Charlie didn't care much for baseball anyway. "Ice-cream!", "Ice-cream!" a voice shouted behind him. Charlie turned around to see a vendor hawking ice-creams. He was carrying an ice-box and on the side of it were painted the beautiful pictures of the different flavors. There was a dark chocolate with tiny spikes showing peanuts in them, a swirling orange with streaks of berries within. Charlie turned to his dad and said, "Dad, can I have an ice-cream?" "Sure, son!" his dad replied. "What flavor do you want?" he motioned with his arm for the vendor to come over. "Base hit!" the announcer yelled on the radio next to Charlie's Dad's seat. "Tim Andersen has scored a hit and the Sox have a runner on first!" "Um.. could I have the orange flavor?" Charlie asked his dad. "Absolutely!" his father replied. "Excuse me sir, could I get an orange flavored ice-cream for my son?". "Would you like that in a bowl or a cone sir?" the vendor asked. "A cone!" Charlie said. He had always loved the crunchy taste of a biscuit cone when enjoying an ice-cream. And the day was particularly hot, sweat trickled down the back of his neck and his t-shirt was mostly drenched. "A cone it is!" said the vendor and he proceeded to dig into the ice-box and look for an ice-cream cone. Charlie's father meanwhile rummaged through his pocket to find his wallet. Charlie looked over into the field, the grass was a shining green and all the players looked smart in their uniforms. But some of them had their shoulders hunched. The sun was taking a toll on them too. "Abreu pops it up!" yelled the announcer on the radio, everyone in the stands looked on. "It will land right in the gap! A chance for Chicago to score a double!" as the announcer yelled Andersen was racing over to third-base and the opposing team's players were still only picking up the ball in the outfield. "A stand-up double for Abreu!" the announcer re-capped. "The White Sox are staging a come-back in the bottom of the eighth!" "Here you go son!" said the vendor and Charlie looked behind to see a delcious orange ice-cream cone being handed to him. "Thank you!" he yelled at the vendor, excited for the treat as his father handed over some money to the vendor. The day was looking up! "That brings up Eloy Jimenez" said the announcer. "Eloy has been getting hot in recent games he has scored 11 home runs in the last 15 games!" Charlie turned around and decided to enjoy his treat. The ice-cream cone in his hand was cold and a pleasant touch in the hot summer sun. "Foul!" yelled the announcer and as Charlie looked up he saw the baseball leaving Eloy Jimenez's bat and coming straight at him! Before he could think the ball had landed right in the middle of his ice-cream destroying the cone, but firmly in the grip of his palm! "And the little boy in the front row has caught it bare-handed!" the announcer yelled. Charlie's father looked confused, proud and ecstatic all at once! He lunged forward and picked Charlie up and held him high above his shoulder as Charlie stared befuddled at the crowd that was now focused on him.

“... *and Braum pummeled at the stones with his bare fist. Rocks flew and the giant of a man disappeared into his own-made hole. Only to spring forth, with the troll boy cradled in his arms! But then everything began to rumble. Braum’s tunnel had weakened the mountain and now it was caving in! Thinking quickly, Braum grabbed the door and --”* The yeti let out a giant yawn, matching the howling wind of Freljord. It smelled of doocicles and burps and knocked Nunu off-balance, planting his butt on the snow. “But this is the good part, Willump!” The boy picked himself up and grabbed the yeti’s nose, shaking it left and right to keep his friend awake. “You don’t want to sleep now, what if the raiders attack? You’ll miss all the fun!” Willump smacked his lips and rolled around, showing a furry back to the boy. “Do you want to hear about how Ornn shaped the land instead?” Nunu asked. The yeti snorted. Their small campfire struggled against the night winds. The giant back of the yeti had given it some shelter but the direction of the winds were ever changing in the Thawing Vale, where snow could pile up to the knees one month and verdant grass peek out the very next. The adventures along the rivers had led Nunu and Willump to a frozen lake surrounded by mountains, where he’d lost track of his mother’s heart-song in the howls and gales. At first, they had played around while waiting for the next note but now boredom began to freeze their bottoms. He had hoped that raiders would attack them in the middle of the night. That’s what always happened in the stories when the hero didn’t know what to do. The hero would then defeat the bandits and get a clue on the next destination. Nunu’s cheeks stung from the cold and he pulled his fur-thick cloak tighter around him. A change in the wind pushed his snowcap over his eyes. He was fond of the cap designed like a snow fox, but the giant ears easily got caught by the strong drafts and the constant flapping broke the immersion of his stories. The fire hissed, giving out a last gasp before crumbling to ashes. The last light vanishing from the night. Nunu pulled out his flute tucked by his side. He imagined the fire being a person in need, crying out for help as the harsh-winter cold bullied weak to the ground. He swung his flute -- no, his sword, yes, his magical sword, *Svellsongur*, at the cold enemy, cutting down the bullies and chasing them away. Fire returned, dancing brighter and stronger than before. It seemed to be unaffected by the wind and showered Nunu with warmth and light. The boy tucked the flute back to his side. Playing in the snow was fun, but the layers of clothes made it hard to move. He wondered sometimes what it felt like to be an Iceborn like Braum who could walk through a blizzard without any clothes. If he was an Iceborn, Nunu wouldn’t need to adjust his snowcap and wear thick gloves that made it hard to tuck in swords. He might even stop having a stuffy nose in the mornings. A purr rumbled from the yeti. He had been confident that the story of how Braum got his shield would’ve kept his best friend awake. They were, after all, in the region where the legendary Iceborn was last seen. But now that he thought about it, he had been telling a lot of heroic tales over the last week. It might be time to switch things up. “I know,” Nunu climbed up the antlers of the giant furball and looked into sleepy, glowing eyes. “Nights like these are perfect for scary stories. Dark nights need dark tales.” The yeti let out an unsure grunt. “Don’t be so scared, Willump. I haven’t even started yet. Let’s see...” The boy looked around for inspiration but there wasn’t much to see in the night. The looming mountains melded with the dark sky, the only light was from their fire. No wolf howls or trails of snow hares or herds of elnuks. Nothing but white snow, black mountain shapes and an ice lake. “Ooooh,” Nunu said, rubbing his gloves together. “I have a good night story!” Willump reached out with his four arms and hugged Nunu, the furry limbs covering the boy like heavy blankets. “No.” Nunu squirmed free from the hug and jumped down from the yeti’s chest, “not a good night story but a *good* night story.” The giant friend tilted his head. The boy placed himself in front of the fire, letting the backlight give an ominous mood. He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. The yeti rose to a sitting position. *“Long ago,”* Nunu began, *“there was a pale monster with dark hair who was polite but lonely.* *“Because of his loneliness, he decided to meet everyone in the world and befriend them.* *“The monster entered a village and saw an elder sitting by a bench, staring at the leaves from a tree falling to the ground. The monster sat next to the elder and watched along without saying anything because he was a polite monster and didn’t want to interrupt. The monster practiced his introduction in silence.* *“As the last leaf fell to the ground, the monster turned to introduce himself only to realize that the elder had closed his eyes and fallen asleep.* *“The monster nudged the elder and talked gently but the elder refused to wake up.* *“The monster’s heart ached and grew a little cold as if snow had fallen on top. But he shook it off and continued walking through the village.* *“He met a lumberjack on the way. The lumberjack yawned and seemed to struggle with carrying a log on his shoulder so the polite monster decided to help.* *“As the two walked, the monster introduced himself and wished to learn the lumberjack’s name, but the lumberjack ignored the monster, not even thanking for the help.* *“More snow fell on the monster’s heart but he continued on. Surely, the next person would like to be his friend.* *“The monster found a child crying by the river.* *“The child was sad, crying how lonely he was and how no one wanted to play with him.* *“The monster rushed forward, saying that he was lonely too. He would love to be the child’s friend.* *“But the child closed his eyes and began to sleep while floating on the water.* *“From the river bank, a woman began to scream a shrill pitch.* *“Help!” she yelled. “Help! There’s a monster in the village!”* *“The lumberjack from before rushed over and beat the monster bruised and battered. Even though the monster was hurting, he didn’t fight back. Instead he asked politely why they attacked him. He had done nothing wrong.* *“There are other monsters in the world,” the polite monster reasoned, “But you don’t scream or beat them. Why me?”* *“You’re the worst of them all,” the lumberjack said. “You put people to sleep. When you’re close by, I feel my eyes turn heavy and I begin to yawn.”* *“But isn’t sleep a good thing?” the monster asked.* *“Not your kind of sleep.”* *“The monster didn’t understand what he’d done wrong but the lumberjack looked angry so he apologized. His heart was packed with snow.* *“Apology is not enough,” the lumberjack said. “Go away. We don’t want you here.”* *The words hurt the monster, who only wanted to be friends. He felt tears flood his eyes. But he was a polite monster and held it in as much as he could, pushing the tears back into himself. With nowhere to go, the tears spilled into his snow-filled heart and the mixture turned to ice.* *“The monster changed. The dark hair grew longer and longer and covered his whole body like fur. He went down on all four and growled like a beast, baring his sharp teeth.* *“The woman fainted. The lumberjack ran.* *“On instinct, the monster chased after the moving target. There was a thrill he had never felt before. A warmth that pumped his frozen heart.* *“The lumberjack ran for three whole days before stumbling to the ground.* *“Not yet,” the monster said. “Keep running.”* *“The lumberjack used his elbows and knees to scuttle away from the monster, but it only lasted for another day before he crumbled from exhaustion.* *“More,” the monster said. ““More, I want to chase more and more.”* *“The lumberjack cried.* *“Please,” he said. “I’m too tired. I want to sleep. Please have mercy.”* *“Hearing the magical word ‘please’, the monster regained his senses and the black hair shrunk back to its original size. The lumberjack closed his eyes and slept.* *“The monster was horrified over what he’d done. He felt ashamed and angry. Who would want to be his friend if he had such a horrible un-polite side?* *“The sleeping lumberjack had an axe poking out from his belt.* *“The monster grabbed the axe and with a single swing he SPLIT HIMSELF IN TWO!* Nunu swung the flute near Willump’s face. The effect was wonderful. His friend roared louder than the winds and jerked backward with such force that a snowbank crumbled over the yeti. A wide grin spread across Nunu’s face. “How about that for a story?” A groan seeped out from the snow. “No, it’s not sad,” Nunu said. “It’s a scary story. It had a monster and people crying and someone split in two.” Willump let out a questioning grunt. “I don’t know if there’s more,” Nunu confessed, “Mom only told me up to this point because I was crying like a newborn baby. I was such a wimp back then.” A gust pushed his snowcap over his eyes again. Behind him, the campfire fizzed out. “Looks like no raiders want to attack us, Willump”, he said, and a yawn stretched over his mouth. “Maybe we should head to bed after all.” The yeti brushed off the snow on his fur and picked up Nunu, cradling the boy in his embrace. “Good night, Willump.” The yeti muttered. “Yes, this time it’s just a good night.” \*\*\*\*\* A surprised snarl woke Nunu up from his sleep. He was rubbing his eyes when strong hands pulled him away from Willump. A large bare-chested man grabbed the Willump by the reindeer horns and flung the huge yeti into a pile of snow. “Have no fear,” the man said with a rumbling voice. He had a shiny mustache and an even shinier bald head glittering against the morning sun. “Because Braum is here!” Nunu pinched both his cheeks while taking in the giant of a man with biceps bigger than his head. His cheeks stung and his nose was stuffed. This was not a dream. From a distance, Willump rolled up to his feet and let out a roar. “Oh, furry monster wants to tussle?” the man asked with a chuckle. He put down Nunu on the soft snow and picked up a giant rectangular shield with a ram head. “Fine by Braum.” The Iceborn charged. Willump, in response, went down on all his six limbs, pointing his antlers towards the incoming disaster. With a flick of the neck, Willump sent Braum flying up in the air. But the large man somersaulted and landed in a perfect hero-pose. “Wait, wait, wait!” Nunu rushed between them. “This is not a fair fight!” “Don’t worry, young boy,” the man said with confidence, “I am Braum and -- “ “That’s what I mean. Willump and I will fight you together!” The man’s brow furrowed and his mustache crinkled. “One more time please. Braum listens slowly.” Nunu took the opportunity to climb up Willump’s head. His heart thumped against his chest and his cheeks hurt from the pinching and all the smiling. He’d always wanted to fight against a hero because that’s how heroes become friends with each other in the stories. He pulled out his flute and warmed up with a few slashes in the air. “Okay, I’m ready. What about you, Willump?” The yeti beat his chest. “Awesome! Wow, can’t believe that we’re going up against a living legend like Braum. Okay, let’s try with a long-range attack.” “Uhm,” Braum said, “Young boy, you were not in danger?” “Go!” Nunu shouted, “Snowball barrage!” Dozens of snowballs rained down on Braum, crashing into the large shield. “Young boy!” Braum shouted, “Time-out!” “It’s working, Willump. Press on!” The yeti’s four arms turned like windmills, spinning round and round until they became a blur. The intensity of the snowballs increased and Braum found himself pushed back. He let out a yell and raised his shield, slamming it on the ground. The terrain cracked. Jagged lines zigzagged to Willump and Nunu and crumbled the snow under them. The yeti lost his footing, all four arms flailing. Both crashed into the snow and blasted the air with white powder. “Young boy?” Braum peeked out from his shield. Nunu’s head popped out from the snow. “That was amazing! Was that your special move? What’s it called?” The Iceborn had a stunned expression before bursting into a hearty laugh. “I take it that this beast --” “His name is Willump.” “Sorry, I take it that, eh, Willump wasn’t about to eat you?” “What? No! Why would he do that?” Willump groaned. Nunu grimaced. “That one doesn’t count, Willump. I was just hiding in your mouth. It’s not the same thing.” “I apologize,” Braum said, pulling the yeti and the boy out from the snow. “I was by a village a few hours from here and heard strange howls in the night and had to investigate. When I saw your friend holding you, I simply leapt into action. Again, I apologize. I’m Braum.” “I know!” Nunu said. “The Avalanche, The Shield of the Weak, The Shiny Baldie,” “That one’s new.” “... the Heart of Freljord!” Braum chuckled. “What’s your name, young boy?” “I’m Nunu of the Notai and this is my friend Willump. The howls might’ve been from him because I told a scary story last night.” “Last night *was* a good night for scary stories,” Braum agreed. “Nunu of Notai, eh? It’s been a while since I’ve met one of the singing nomads. You should come to the village, we would love to hear your songs.” Nunu shook his head. “My mom does all the singing, I only remember the stories. We’re on an adventure to save her right now. We got split up during a raid.” “Here in the Thawing Vale?” Braum asked. “No, it was many many months ago, up north.” The yeti grumbled. “Really, Willump? Years?” The end of Braum’s brows faltered. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said softly. “It’s okay, we will rescue her,” Nunu said, “You see, I can hear her heart-song in the winds, telling me where she is. Well, not always, like yesterday the wind was too loud but now....” The wind had finally stopped with its shouting so perhaps he could hear it now. He removed his snowcap and cupped his ears, closing his eyes. “What...?” Braum asked. Willump put a large hand over the Iceborn’s mouth, then covered his own with two. Silence filled the wind-still morning. Nunu concentrated, listening for a sound, any sound, and from a distance, he heard the faint chimes of bells. He tilted his head. Usually, it was a song but perhaps his mother had a sore throat this morning. The bells chimed again and the source seemed to come from a certain spot past the mountains. “Can you tell me what’s over there?” Nunu asked, pointing to the mountain range with jagged peaks. “Right across?” Braum squinted. “That’s the nation of Demacia.” “Demacia.” Nunu tasted the name. It danced on his tongue and had an enticing tone, much like the beginning of a song. “Willump, we’re going to Demacia! The yeti roared eagerly. “Your mother is in Demacia?” Braum asked. “I don’t know but that’s where she wants me to go. My mom’s heart-song told me.” “By yourself?” Braum asked with a worried expression. “It’s a dangerous journey for one boy. Treacherous stones, crimson raptors, and then there’s the... wyverns...” His voice trailed off when he noticed the boy’s eyes glittered like fresh-fallen snow in the morning. “Willump, we’re leaving now!” “Hold on!” Braum put down his shield in front of them like a barricade. “You have a big heart, Nunu, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to cross the mountains by yourself.” “Don’t worry, I have Willump. We’ve fought against wolves and magical stones. A few snowballs here and there scared them off. And Willump could eat them if they’re really mean.” “But the mountain range is filled with wyverns, cousins of dragons. They can fly where snowballs and jaws won’t reach.” Nunu’s mood began to sour. He had imagined meeting another hero would mean twice the fun, but Braum was just like the wind yesterday pulling down his snowcap. “What about food?” Braum continued, “You will need a lot of food for such a long trip. This is Avarosian territory, how about I take you to their warmother? Braum is good friends with her. She can help with supplies, possibly even have news about your mother. She might already be saved, no?” Nunu’s mother had told him the love story between the barbarian and the Avarosian warmother. He didn’t remember much, except for the barbarian being really angry and the warmother having a magical bow, but he did remember that warmothers were the leaders of their tribe. And Nunu had met leaders before. After the Notai caravan was raided, a band of Frostguards took Nunu and the other Notai children to a village up in the north. For protection, they said, but Nunu found it strange that they only protected the children. He had asked them about Layka, his mother, but the soldiers had ignored him. If he wanted something, they said, he needed to speak to their leader, Lissandra. Their leader was a tall woman with a strange helmet covering her eyes. He had asked and begged her for help and the leader had said that she would help him *after* Nunu answered her questions about the Notai and their stories. In short, leaders were selfish and unreliable as trolls. “No,” Nunu said. He grabbed one of Willump’s hands and walked around the barricade. “We don’t want to see a warmother and we can get our own food. And mom is waiting for *me* to save her.” Willump grunted, patting his stomach. “You’re right,” Nunu said, “We should look for breakfast.” “Breakfast, eh?” Braum stroked his mustache. “The village is close by, how about some warm elnuk milk and a hearty stew? A tiny rest before a giant journey?” Drool dripped out of the corner of Nunu’s lips. Even Willump looked interested. But a hero had to have a will of iron and resolve of steel. He could have some elnuk milk after the adventure. “No thank you,” Nunu said. “And that’s very unheroic of you, Braum, trying to stop a boy from saving his mom.” Braum flinched and clutched his bare chest as if he had suffered a mortal wound. It was with a mixed heart that Nunu left the large man. It would’ve been fun to have the Iceborn in the party but Braum had been different than he’d expected. The stories had always described the Iceborn as loud and happy, but in reality the bald man seemed to be more of a worry-wart. “Wait!” Heavy footsteps stomped against the snow, matching the loud voice. “Please let Braum join you!” The fox-ears on Nunu’s cap fluttered by how fast the boy had turned around. “You want to join our adventure?” “Of course,” Braum said. “Mother always said to move like the herd. It’s safer, no?” “Does three really count as a herd?” Nunu asked, “Don’t we need many more?” The large man smiled warmly. “You don’t need many when you have Braum.” Nunu couldn’t help but match the Iceborn’s smile. “Do you hear that, Willump? The Avalanche is joining us!” Willump grinned, revealing his rows of spiky teeth. Nunu climbed up the yeti’s head and ushered his friend forward. “Braum, there’s so much I want to ask you,” he said, “Is it true that you once cut down a whole forest with your bare hands? How about that time you saved a troll by punching through a mountain? Isn’t that how you got your shield?” Braum chuckled along, listening to the boy’s excited chatter. &#x200B; \ ***DISCLAIMER*** ***‘The Tales We Tell’ is a non-profit work of fan fiction, based on the game League of Legends.*** ***I do not own League of Legends or any of its material. League of Legends is created and owned by Riot Games Inc. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of League of Legends belong to Riot Games Inc.

James parked the minivan in front of the open cemetery and turned the wheezing engine off. He checked his Apple watch- half-past eleven at night. His shift as the Confession Counselor for Departed Souls kicked off in fifteen minutes. Lifting the briefcase resting on the passenger seat, he shoved open the driver-side door and stepped out. The intimate breeze petted his neck, tickling the spine. Shivering, James scribbled on his mental pad to pack a scarf for the next visit. Waddling up the pebbled pathway, he continued in the familiar direction of the mausoleum on the burial grounds. At its entrance, James crouched, placing the leather case on its back. He clicked it open, hoisting the rosary above his head, sliding it thru the neck. Placing the jar of holy water next to his feet, he grabbed the can of meat, coil notepad, and ink pen last. The nameless, dead clients he counselled travelled through their coffin, flying out the muddy pathway at midnight on the dot. James directed only the ones who walked past him, as agreed in his signed contract. He snapped them out of denial by questioning: stirring them onwards to live in Afterlife Care. The rest, emotional strugglers, refusing to accept their death, meandered about the graveyard, confused and lost James knew little about Afterlife's living conditions- like the doors only opened for souls who willed to dwell as per the rulers’ ideals. If someone disagreed with their orders, they were allowed to return and roam alone in the cemetery. In time, restorable souls permitted to re-enter after counseling. A pitiful cry for help sounded at a distance. He waited for his client to approach. “Hello, I am James.” The sweaty, trembling man in front of him halted. “Who you?” The man scratched the open cut on the side of his bald head. His brain, missing. “I’m your counselor.” “Who you?” James bent to pick up the jar. A few clients developed hearing loss following landing. He twisted open the lid and dipped his hand into the chilled holy water. Then, stepping up, James rubbed the dripping liquid over the man’s left and right ears. “Can you hear me now?” “Yes, Who...?” “The counselor who will help you start a new existence at Afterlife Care.” “I am dead?” The client glanced behind James, chewing on his chapped lips. “Yes, on earth. But in the other world, you will never die. You can do anything you want there- roam free, dance, sing, smile all day, play Bingo... Do fun things without experiencing feelings of regret, doubts, anger. They erase all negative emotions there," James lied. “Are you dead?” “No, I am alive, for now. One day I’ll join you.” Silence flooded the gap between them. James counted to twenty. “You like to confess anything?” “I kill seventy people.” The man’s mouth curved into a smile. James nodded, unshaken, doodling in his notepad. His senses hardened by ghastly admissions. After tonight, he intended to ask his boss, the mortuary manager, to transfer him to the day shift, where he’d be interacting with corroding souls yet living humans for a change. “Do you remember where you buried them?” “I work the night shift at the factory. I used machine there to slice bodies.” James’s belly groaned, and he snuck a look at the canned corned beef. “Why do you kill people?” The man rotated his head, tilting it on both sides. “No idea. Maybe I do it because I cannot smell anything.” “Oh,” James quit sketching and stared without blinking. “You have no sense of smell at all?” “I smell everything but not blood or dead bodies.” “When did you become aware of this issue?” James quizzed. “My job they want me to kill chickens and pack them. I kill two first. No smell. Then I try smelling dead chickens for a week. Nothing.” “Did you inhale any bleach or chemical before slaughtering?” “No.” The man’s fingers explored the hollow space in the back of his head. “You butcher them because you can’t inhale their aroma?” “Maybe. I like to see and hear them crying before dying. My sister and brothers cry. I don’t.” “Never?” He foresaw the client blaming his family members, like every murderer who confessed to James does. “I cried one time when my young sister knife a woman first time before me. I am jealous of her.” Drawing a circle around ‘The Scentless Killer': the nickname James christened the man, he branched out arrows readying to list the members on his client's family tree of serial killers. “Your sister, a murderer like you. And brothers?” “Everyone: Pappa, Mamma, Sis, Three Brothers. We sometimes hunt for people together on holidays.” James's gut growled, signalling he'd heard enough of the client's confession. “You recall how you died?” “I ask my manager to work in the morning shift so I can go out with my girlfriend in the evening. He said, No. I try to stab him, but he stabs me back.” “That is unfortunate.” James signed at the bottom of the client's summary sheet of paper. “Are you ready to move into Afterlife Care? It is a good place to live ever after, and you will meet many individuals sharing the same passion.” “Honest?” “Oh yes. Imagine all-nighters with like-minded people, discussing your past acts.” “Ok. I will go then.” “Sign here. Somebody will pick you up in minutes.” James fished out his cell phone from his black suit pocket and a spoon. He sent a message to his boss. Then calculated the commission reeled in for the week selling Afterlife Care benefits. “Do you have any more confessions to share?” James pushed his index finger into the ring-pull on top of the canned beef and rolled the lid off. Dipping the spoon, he savoured his early hour snack. “You like that meat inside?” The man pointed. “It’s easy to eat out here while working. Your ride has arrived.” A black car jetted from the sky, zig-zagging towards them. It stationed itself on the sloped lawn. The left rear door blew open, and a hand gestured the client to step in. “I worked in same can packing company. I minced the bodies and mixed them with chicken and meat inside the factory. You like the taste, huh?" The client cackled, bouncing his pecs seating himself inside the car. James spat out in disgust. He hated the night shifts.

I hid under my blanket. My flashlight perched against my shoulder, while the book was firmly in my grasp. I intently read each word carefully, as the music of the radio played in the background. A waltz tune dragged on and I was beginning to get tired of listening to it. Hopefully, it would change soon. And that wish eventually came true. But not in the way that I had expected. Static. A drawn-out staticky tune played. It was the same waltz, but it was too unintelligible to decipher. I pulled the blanket off from over my head. The smell of the room hit my nose for it had been isolated from me until now. I peered around in the darkened area. The only light that I could see was the slight blue twinge from my radio. I stared at it. I stepped out of bed and I puzzled over its malfunction. Attempting to extended the antenna towards the window was met with no results. I smacked my hand against the wooden top, but all it did was make the machine sputtered more. And on the final strike that I laid against it, I heard the voice. *“Colder,”* it said. I tried to switch the stations, but each had the same message. *Colder* As I checked behind the dresser that it was perched on, I found the plug and pulled it out of the wall socket. But still. *Colder* I held the radio in my hands and listened to the voice. It was the voice of a child. A boy. It was a prank. At least that’s what I told myself. I prepared to go to the garage and throw it in the trash. Before it said its next word. *Warmer* My heart skipped a beat. The hairs on the back of my neck spiked so suddenly at that one word. I stepped back towards the dresser. *Colder* I stopped and headed for the door. *Warmer* Ambling into the hallway, I stared down at the radio. The slight waltz continued to play. My feet pattered against the carpeted floor. *Warmer* The gloomy house bore down on me more and more. My vision began to tunnel and the structures around me were nearly void. I reached the stairs and looked down at the landing. However, I focused not on it, but on the radio that could see me... feel my presence. *Warmer* Each measure of the stairway made me more and more anxious as to when it would speak next. And soon it had. When I was near the storage space. *Hotter* This was it. This is where it was taking me. The space underneath the stairs. I reached for its handle. My hand quaked at the prospect. The nervous heartbeat that thumped against my temples. The horror that the voice had caused me, and how easily I obliged to its wishes. I opened the door. *Hot* Those final words. The darkness inside the space. The shadowy claws that outstretched from within. It’s coil-like limbs reaching around me. My eyes dilated at its shapeless morph. It curled around me. Under my arms, twisting over my legs. My shirt tore to pieces, and my pyjama bottoms did so as well. It pulled me in. The radio fell out of my hands and clattered against the ground. Shattering to pieces. But the light still pressed on long after the darkness had ceased, and once more it chimed.

My job can be extremely boring. I mean, there were days that I left the office with tears of boredom streaming down my metaphorical face by the time I left for lunch! Today was one of those days! It was only ten in the morning and I was planning my early escape! If I had to sit through another boring staff meeting, I felt like I was going to pull my hair out! None-the-less, I took my seat beside my supervisor for the anticipated tedious meeting that lay between me and my lunch escape plans. I was planning on developing some malady and taking off for parts unknown at lunch time. I wanted a three day weekend but would settle on a two and a half day one, if I could. The staff meeting droned on...and on...and on... “Sadie! Earth to Sadie!” the moderator said, trying to get my attention. My boss poked me in the ribs and jolted me back to reality. “I want you to interview a resident of Shady Grove Retirement Community and have the interview presented at Monday’s staff meeting.” Since the moderator was the agency's director, I nodded my consent. There went my plans for the great escape. As the meeting was wrapping up, I gathered the handouts that seemed to multiply each week. “Here's the name of the lady I want you to interview” the director said as I tried to slip out unnoticed. “Thank you” I said, “I hope to do it justice” I continued as I tried to leave quickly and unnoticed. Unfortunately for me, Steve, my cubicle mate caught me sneaking out. “Sneaking away?” Steve asked. “Not today” I said. “I’m off to Shady Grove Retirement Community.” So, the director gave you the assignment that I ducked out of...I don’t want anything to do with those old coots!” “Better watch what you say” I said as I opened the office door. “One day, you’ll be one, too!” At last I was free of that boring office. I would rush through the interview, and be off to do whatever I wanted for the next two days! It took me about twenty minutes to find the retirement community. I checked in with the receptionist who called the resident in B-22 and told them that I was on my way to their unit. I wandered the halls, looking for room B-22. As I wandered, I noticed that there was absolutely nobody aimlessly wandering the halls like I had thought there would be. It was clean and well maintained. Again, not what I thought it would be. I eventually found B-22 and knocked on the door. I was somewhat surprised to find a well dressed, sixty-something lady answering my knock. “You must be Sadie” she said. “My name is Alice, and my daughter said she’d be sending you over for an interview.” We shook hands as she ushered me into a small living room. I looked around and saw a kitchenette and two doors. I assumed one was the bedroom, but I had no idea what the other one was leading to. “My Director said I’m to interview you” I began. “Do you know why?” Alice slowly turned in my direction and had a weird smile spreading across her face. I began to have questions about this lady. Something was off here. It made me nervous. “My daughter is your director” Alice began. “Well, that answers one question” I said with a nervous laugh. “She thinks that my history is something that your agency might find...interesting.” Alice continued. “What would the Area Agency on Aging find ‘interesting’?” I thought. Alice continued, more to herself than to me. “I once was the ‘girl’ in a magic act...you know, the assistant to the magician. It was an interesting job to say the least. I got to be sawn in half on a regular basis.” “How do they do that trick?” I just had to know. “Most magicians will never tell you how they do their tricks” Alice said. “But it has been simply ages since I did that job. I had to scrunch myself into a tiny box...the feet part was fake and moved by remote control by the magician or one of the back stage assistants.” “There really is a reasonable explanation for each trick, isn’t there?” I asked. “Yes” Alice said slowly. “But that’s not the reason I wanted to be interviewed.” Now, my curiosity was getting the better of me...and I threw all those inner cautionary warnings to the wind. “Why did you want to be interviewed?” I asked. “Follow me” Alice said and she led me into one of the two doors in the room. We entered what seemed to be a storage room, or maybe it was a second bedroom doing the job of a storage room. I couldn’t tell. If there was a window, it was expertly camouflaged, and so was the closet. In the room seemed to be every prop her magician’s act ever performed. There was the box she scrunched into for being sawn in half, and several others. As Alice stumbled around the stuffed storage room, she explained what her magician did. He did the type of tricks where something seemed to come out of thin air. She talked about how he made things vanish and how he made some things float. She was most infatuated with how he’d take an everyday object, usually something brought in by an audience member, and make it either float or vanish or move from one side of the stage to the other. Sometimes they’d take water and ‘transform’ it into ice on stage. As we ventured further into this room, my eye was caught by a large clear container. It was tucked way back in the deepest recesses of the room. “Tell me about this” I said as we neared the contraption. “That one is special” Alice said. “It was the magician’s favorite illusion.” Alice went on to say that he thought that he was the first to perform this illusion...fashioned after Harry Houdini’s fateful escape act. He’d have it filled with water, be handcuffed and chained and then lowered into the water. His intention was to escape the watery tomb and reappear at the back of the theater with a flourish. He nearly drowned the first time he tried to perform this act so he changed it from water to balloons and he disappeared in a puff of smoke and reappeared in the balloon stuffed container. He would then distribute the balloons to the audience. “Alice” I said, “it’s clear to me that you really enjoyed this job.” “I loved it so much” Alice said, “that I married the magician! We had a long, happy life together. This interview is to tell the world just how marvelous he really was.”

I noticed a strange man once. I was driving to my friend’s house, and saw a man walking on the sidewalk. He stopped, squatted down and started putting his hand through a hole in the fence. He made some noises with his mouth, and the dogs barking enthusiastically on the other side ran up to him, protecting their yard. I didn’t think much of it and kept driving down the road, making a quick turn into my friends neighborhood. The next day, as I went down the same road again, I saw the man walking. He was wearing cargo shorts with as many pockets as I had fingers, a dark colored shirt, and a generic baseball cap. It had a flap hanging down in the back, large enough to cover the back of his neck, most likely to protect his skin from the sun. *He seems innocent enough.* Back at the yard, squatting down, softly whistling to the dogs as they ran up to him, still ever protective of their yard. I continued up the road, making the same turn I make every day, and continued on to my friends house. That night at dinner I brought up the man. “If a stranger stopped by your house every day and poked his fingers through your fence to play with your dogs, would you think it was strange?” I asked, as I shoveled at least 3 forks worth of salmon into my mouth. “I’m pretty sure people do when we aren’t outside with them, but it's not that big of a deal since we have cameras and live in a safe neighborhood” My friend, Anne, responded since her husband was too distracted with the drama streaming on the television. “Yeah you’re probably right, I always seem bothered by what every one else is doing around me. I saw some guy poking his fingers through a fence to play with a dog the last few days and just thought it was weird.” Anne rolled her eyes. “You probably have better things to worry about.” And that was that. I saw him sometimes still, when I drove to her house. I was at Anne’s house every day. The moment she was off work, I’d get a text I’M HOME! from her and within a few seconds I was in my jeep rolling up there. Anne only lived a mile up the road, sometimes I would run there, or walk there. Once I walked home alone at 2AM. It was a very safe neighborhood, and often times I left my door unlocked. There were never sirens, never cops, never any neighborhood watch emails being sent out. It was almost like our neighborhood was the dead space of Savannah Georgia. The non existent reality right outside the chaos of the city. Today as I drove up to her house, I saw him again. Cargo shorts bulged with whatever he stored in his pockets, plain black t shirt, and that beach baseball cap doing it’s due diligence in protecting his neck from the sun. I almost looked forward to seeing him, since the dogs running up had stopped barking and treated him as a friend. I even saw him give the two dark coated labradors some treats, and they excitedly ate them as I made the turn into Anne’s neighborhood. I stayed over until late, sleeping on the couch after dinner and waking up at midnight. “Hey, I’m gonna head home.” I said, my eyes half shut as I shook her awake a little. We were watching some drama show about teenage vampires, and I could hear her husband still playing his video games in the other room. “Ok I’ll see you tomorrow drive safe.” I sleepily rubbed my eyes as I forced myself awake enough for the journey home. My car had issues starting again, as always. I sighed as it took a few tries to start, knowing the stress of buying a new car was going to be happening soon. The car finally started, slowly jolting awake such as I had a few moments ago. I backed out of the driveway, my lights illuminating Anne’s garage, and the houses by her as I turned and started to move forward. As I drove home I could see some flashing lights ahead of me. *Great* I thought. *The one night I’m too tired to drive there is a roadblock*. I slowed as I got closer. One... two....three... no actually.. Five cop cars took up the entire road, more were parked in a neighborhood next to Anne’s, in front of a plain white house. I slowed to a stop behind another car, as their curiosity was peaked like mine, and since no one else was around, we both slowed to a snail’s pace as we drove by. I saw the blood stretched out on the back window. As soon as I saw the bright red liquid traveling its way down the glass pane, I started to move my car to the side of the road and came to a full stop. Some cops noticed me, and watched me to see what I would do. *That house....* Looked familiar... the yard... I’ve seen it before. The yard the strange man kept stopping at.... the yard where he befriended the owner’s dogs.

Mark woke up with his face half buried in his pillow, and before he even opened his eyes he was enveloped by panic. His pupils shot into the corner of his eyes and he looked up into a bleary ceiling, recognising his room. That much was good - he had returned home safe. He had gotten really drunk last night. He felt dehydrated, slow, confused; hangover was going to be the theme of the day. Yet seconds after he regained consciousness he felt something was missing. He swung around toward the middle of the bed and felt around it with his hand and arm. It was empty, except for his smartphone. His honour was not there; it was missing. “I knew it!” He thought. Hopefully his honour was in the kitchen or some other room, or maybe taking a shower in the bathroom. He really wanted to go and check, but he was hung over, so he remained in bed. He reburied his face in the pillow, with one eye closed on the fabric and another staring at the white cabinet next to his bed. He was frozen with worry; his body remained perfectly still. It was a great night; it sure started off great. All the boys showed up before the sun even set, the ones he saw often and the old dogs he hadn’t seen in a while. It was a balmy summer night, everyone was very happy to see each other, everyone was ready to party. It was the weekend, man, time for real men to show how much they didn’t care about this world. They cared about each other, they hugged and slapped each other’s backs, they recognised a brother in each other. Some started drinking early, and then others imitated them. Old Louis pulled out a cigarette and lit it, laughing and not giving a fuck. Everyone brought their honour along, of course. The honours strutted around the crowd, looking mighty good. They mingled and talked to each other, then to the boys. By the time the night fell and most people were on their second or third drink, it was impossible to track whose honour was talking to which man. Everything got blurry, it seemed, as though individuals melted away and fused into one undulating mass of spirit. And it was good to be in that mass, saying things you usually don’t say, things that your friends knew you would say anyways, without you having to say them, but whatever - it was good to vocalise those things. Every man clings to his honour. But you can’t cling to it too much - people will think you are stuck up, you think you are better than them. That’s why it’s imperative - and natural really - to let one’s honour loose at a party. Let it off the leash, so to speak, let it get lost in the crowd, let others talk to it, get to know it. It’s perfectly safe; what kind of an animal would hurt another man’s honour? It was in this zeal to show solidarity that Mark let his honour completely out of sight. It was chatting with Mark’s jiu-jitsu friends when he went to the bar to get another drink. Mark then walked to the other side of the patio and picked a conversation with Jimmy, who owns a pizza joint that everyone loves. He then talked to Val, the boxer. Man! That guy was talking some hilarious stuff about French women! And man! Marco suddenly remembered that he told Val how he once hired a French prostitute in Barcelona. Shit! Hopefully Val was too drunk to remember that conversation. Mark was certainly willing to forget. His memory became blurry after that. He took a cab to a street food joint where he clearly remembers hugging Jim for a little too long. They talked about racism for like half an hour, maybe even longer. It was a little raw, but Mark was not a racist, definitely not a racist, so he shouldn’t have anything to worry about. His concern finally grew to a point where it propelled him out of the bed. He trekked to the kitchen where he found a water jug and forced himself to take twenty gulps of water. He found a boiled egg from the day before, salted it abundantly, and ate it in three bites. It would help the hangover. He then checked the rooms of his apartment one by one. His honour was nowhere to be found. He crashed back into the bed and tried to devise a plan of action. He would have to go outside and look for it. About two hours later he went to the bathroom and took a long shower. He shampooed and soaped himself thoroughly, he rubbed his hair for a good several minutes. He brushed his teeth in the shower, too. It got the stinks out of his body, but as far as helping him feel sharper or stronger, it didn’t really help. And his honour was still missing. He put on some of his more decent, respectable clothes and walked out. Unlike his soul, the day was bright and lively, the city was bustling. It was good that everyone was so cheery, thought Mark, hopefully no one will notice him trudging around without his honor. He walked into a busy coffee shop and ordered a big black coffee. He must have drunk over seven beers last night, that’s a mountain of calories, so no breakfast for him today. Well, no lunch really, it was already two in the afternoon. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. As with most people, Mark and his honour shared one phone. Having separate phones and social media accounts for you and your honour was too duplicitous in their view; they both loathed the few people who did it. So the fact that the phone was on him obviously meant that he his honour had no phone on which to be buzzed. Not only that, Mark thought, but he had been drunk with access to social media without his honour present to keep him in check - this can bode no good. Who knows if he sent some horrifying drunk messages to some ex-girlfriend or other; the thought tortured him and he was afraid to check his chat history. He did check the group chat that had a lot of the buddies he saw last night. A few of the guys were talking about their hangover. They were all establishing that their honour got back home with them safely last night. But what was Mark to say? What would people think if they found out his honour was missing? After the coffee he walked out of the coffee shop and strolled up and down the leafy streets, thinking about what to do. The summer sunshine should clear his head, he should think of something then. He didn’t notice it but he must have been walking around for an hour, because the only thing that came to him eventually was a feeling of sickness. It might be an onset of a sun stroke, and besides, he was probably looking all lost and desperate. He went back home. He was now really starting to despair. How’s he supposed to go to work tomorrow without his honour? How was he supposed to do anything, really? One cannot go through life all alone, like a stray dog, without honour. The patio from last night transformed in his memory from a place of felicity to some infernal vortex that spirits away people’s honour like some evil, perverted kidnapper. The more he tried to recall details, the more he began to hate the place. His mental effort to figure out what happened to his dear honor only resulted in amplifying the terror building up in his chest. Finally, the fear pushed his meandering mind onto an idea. He figured it out. He was going to have to face the monster. The only thing to do, really, was to go back to the place and straight-up demand from whomever was working there to tell him who it was exactly who snatched his honour. He was going to have to be brave, to look the enemy dead in the eye. Thus it was that he ordered a cab, and when the sun had already become slanted and soft, set off to the patio. He found the place quiet, less than a third full. He sat at the bar and observed the waiter working there. The man had a black shirt, he was wiping the countertop with a white rag. Once he finished that he walked over to Mark and nodded at him respectfully. “What’s up, man?” he greeted Mark. “What are you having?” Mark looked at him carefully. He saw no signs of malicious intent, nothing in the way of insincerity. The man looked quite bored, in fact. Mark ordered an Asahi. He picked up the chilled glass jug and took a sip of the beer. It made him feel better. He took out his phone and checked the group chat again. No news; some of the boys posted some funny gifs, the regular fare. He then put his phone away and looked around the patio. He decided he would wait until something happens, until he sees a sign, a hint of where his honour had gone. He had been waiting a while when he noticed a table with several pretty women eating desert and taking photos of each other. How superficial, though Mark. He may have lost his honour, but at least he wasn’t the type of person to order a blueberry tart and take a photo of himself eating it. “Those girls over there really love your deserts,” he said to the waiter. “Yeah, haha!” The waiter got his point. “Say,” Mark continued. “Have you by any chance seen an honour walking around here today?” “An honour?” answered waiter. “It’s a bar, man, there’re honours buzzing around here all the time. You see people chatting them up, sometimes even roughin’ ‘em up a bit, smackin’ ‘em around, but all in good fun. Which particular honour are you looking for?” “Ah, never mind,” Mark waved the question off. The waiter went back to looking bored and fumbling with utensils around the ice box. “Hey man,” said Mark again after a while, then nodded at the waiter’s cigarette pack, “can I bum one of your cigarettes?” “Sure, man!” The waiter offered him the pack, then lit his cigarette. “If you want another just help yourself,” he then said, placing the pack on the counter top within Mark’s reach. He then walked away to replace a metal beer barrel under the counter, on the far end of the bar where the beer taps were located. Browder really appreciated the gesture. He got back to his beer and relished the cigarette. He was starting finally to calm down. He was even starting to feel a little inspired as he reminisced about the party last night. His memory of it was starting to turn for the better. Maybe after all it will be remembered by everyone as a great night. His honour probably got too drunk and fell asleep in the park somewhere. It will come back, and everything will be fine. It was in the midst of his reverie, as he was slouched on the bar, that he received a hearty slap on the back. He turned around in surprise, and what would you know! It was his honour! He looked perfectly fine, smiling at him with that generous and knowing smile Mark knew so well. His face was a little puffed up, but that was perfectly understandable considering the night he had. He was still wearing the same clothes as last night, casual khaki shorts and flipflops, and a breezy white shirt unbuttoned low. “There you are!” exclaimed Mark as he jumped off his stool. “Where in the world have you been! You had me worried sick!” They embraced each other. “What do you mean?” said the honour. “Man, you must have really gotten pissed. Don’t you remember me telling you that I was gonna crash in the overnight sauna? The one downstairs?” It was a rooftop patio. “I told you a needed a detox, that I need to freshen up.” “No, I don’t remember that!” Mark smiled and placed his palm in his forehead, “Silly me! Yes I did have a few too many last night.” “Ha-ha,” the honour laughed. “Didn’t we all. It was an epic party. I gotta tell you some stories!” The honour sat down on a stool next to Mark and they caught up merrily. Needless to say, all was forgiven between the two of them. They ordered another round of beers. Mark introduced his honour to the waiter; the waiter was happy to meet him. It gave Mark a great sense of relief to finally be able to introduce his honour to other people again. The honour had brought a plastic bag with him, and he took out of it a plastic plate of shrink-wrapped pineapple slices. “Have some of these,” he said, “They are still fresh and cold.” They ate the pineapple slices with relish and went over the stories of what had transpired last night. Honour insisted that it was in fact an excellent party. Many of the guys and many of the honours had told Mark’s honour that they hadn’t had that much fun in a while. Mark then up brought up his concerns; the few potential *faux-pas* moves he may have committed. He mentioned letting slip the story about the French prostitute to Val, and how he went real deep about racism with Jim. To his great relief, his honour merely laughed and pinched his neck cordially: “Dude, you worry way too much! You’re like the nicest guy out of all of us, and everyone knows it. Of course no one thinks any less of you! They don’t even remember what you told them, and now that I told *you* all the stuff I saw them do, you definitely have nothing to worry about.” The encouragement was so great that Mark finally gathered up the courage to check his chat histories, to see what exactly he texted to whom when he had been left drunk and without his honour with his phone. Again there was relief: he had texted neither his ex nor one of the three or four girls that had ghosted him and whom he texts when he loses all inhibition. The worst thing he did was going on the Instagram profile on an old male acquaintance and liking some ten to fifteen of his consecutive posts; this was excessive, but can be taken ironically, as a friendly joke. Once again his honour reassured him that no one will even notice. Once they finished the beers, Mark decided that they should leave, and he gestured the waiter for the bill. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Two beers for me is enough. I don’t want to lose you again, he-he!” “Yeah, let’s go home and watch some Netflix,” the honour said. “We’re definitely watching that show on Netflix tonight,” said Mark. “But first we are going to the hair salon. I need a haircut.” Mark left a generous tip for the waiter. The two then left the patio, whose memory was now fully redeemed for Mark. He would definitely recommend the place to his friends. In fact, he couldn’t wait to recommend it.

Why had I ever agreed to play this game of all games? Now what was I going to do? Let me back up to last night. There’s a group of us who get together in some combination or other to play table games every other Friday night. There aren’t any rules about which game or games we play or who we can invite. There isn’t a membership or anything like that; if you come you get to play. The numbers can run from four to more than a dozen, but it’s usually six or eight. Last night there were only five of us. Ted and Mary have been married for a year and half or so and got to know each other at these games nights. Laura and Ashleigh have been partners for more than ten years and, if we had membership rolls, would be charter members. I was invited by Laura and have been coming, off and on, since the second meeting. It’s a great group and I usually really enjoy myself. So here we were, the five us. Now, five isn’t the best number of people for some games so we ended up talking more than playing. Talking and drinking to be more accurate. I was hosting and had no idea so few would show, so there was more than enough wine for everyone. After trying a couple of different games and realizing none of them grabbed any of us, we switched to the oversized colouring book I kept around for those occasions when keeping hands busy kept conversation going. What I didn’t expect was for Ashleigh to suggest we play Truth or Dare while we worked on a medieval battle scene. After some humming and hawing, we all agreed. Even after agreeing to it, I figured it would mostly be an opportunity for us to embarrass each other by asking about stupid stuff we did in college or high school. In other words, I was fairly sure it would be mostly Truth with very little Dare. In the first round, everyone chose Truth. The four of them found out I had only used cocaine once, and it was in a doctor’s office, which seemed to disappoint them. The other truths that came out were similarly interesting but generally innocuous. I was the only un-partnered member of the group so I probably should have expected I’d get something relating to my continued state of singleness. I don’t know what Ted was expecting when he asked me how many dates I’d gone on over the past year but when I said “None,” he seemed taken aback and all four of them shared a significant look. There are many annoying things about being single but most of them relate less to singleness than to other people’s response to you being single. I had no idea these two couples were so interested in why I was single, to say nothing of why they wanted to “rectify the problem.” The third round started after I got back from using the bathroom and by then everyone was “well-oiled” as my Dad would have said, except me: I don’t drink. There was a bit of a different vibe in the room, the four of them making eye contact with each other but avoiding making eye contact with me. I sat down and asked, “Who goes next?” Laura asked Ted how many women he’d slept with before Mary. He answered nonchalantly with, “Six” and a shrug. Mary laughed. I began to wonder if this meant things were about to go down a path we might regret later. But then Ashleigh turned to me. “Why haven’t you dated anyone for a year?” she asked. I’m a pretty good sport when it comes to games. I’ve always felt if you aren’t going to enter fully into the game then don’t play. Watch from the sidelines and make snarky remarks until the players throw you out or read a book or play a different game but if you are going to play, then play. Ashleigh’s question was one I simply would not answer. I almost wrote “could not” answer but that’s not entirely true. I could physically answer the question but, even after a year, it was still too raw, too personal, too bloody painful to even think about, let alone talk to anyone else about. As I was going through this in my head, I realized everyone was waiting for my answer. “Well?” asked Ashleigh with an arched eyebrow. “It’s Truth or Dare. We’ve had lots of Truth, you wanna Dare?” slurred Mary. I was still silent, so they started a ragged chant of “Dare. Dare. Dare!” What could I do? I said, “Dare.” I think Ashleigh and Laura had been thinking about this for a while because they looked at each other for a second and Laura said, “You have to go to the train station tomorrow morning, get on the first train leaving the station, sit beside the first person you see, and get their phone number before the next stop.” My jaw dropped and I gaped at the four of them. I had expected something stupid like stand on my head and drink from a glass or something mildly salacious like kiss one of them. But this, this was awful. “Umm, I’m not so sure about this,” I said. “Look at me. I’m not a small person and you’ve all had opportunity to enjoy the fact that I’m intimidating sometimes, however that works. If I sit beside almost anyone and even say hello, I’ll probably get arrested.” “Well,” Tom said owlishly, “you probably should’ve thought of that before you decided to play.” He had me there. I cursed internally but did my best to put a happy, or at least neutral, look on my face. I hoped none of them would be in a state to remember any of this tomorrow. “Okay,” I said, “so who’s up next?” The rest of the round was all Truth and I couldn’t even muster the mental energy to try for revenge. After the round was over, everyone decided they may as well stay at my place and finish up the open bottles of wine and crash on the floor or wherever. I felt this was my best chance to get them so liquored up they’d never remember anything tomorrow, so I surreptitiously opened an extra bottle and got pouring. The next morning, despite the number of empty bottles, all four of them, dammit, were up, remembered, and wanted to take me to the train. Ugh! We all piled into Laura’s Subaru and headed to the train station. It was early. I wasn’t expecting a lot of people to be on the train but I didn’t know if this would make it better or worse. They dropped me off, made sure I had enough money for the round trip and said a cheery, “Bye! See you later! Can’t wait to find out what happens!” I caught the first train; there was only one person in the car. Attractively, if unconventionally, dressed even with, God forbid, crocs. Why had I never believed in love at first sight?

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The lush green grass she used to run across as a child was still neatly mowed. The pine trees towered along the edge of the property, giving an enchanted feel to the air. The red roses she loved to pick and scatter still crept in-between the pines, weaving ropes of thorns and scarlet petals. The sky was bright blue, like the crashing waves she could hear in the distance. The air was mixed with tinges of pine and sea salt. Her heart started to hammer as she continued to walk down the pebble driveway. Her hands were wound tightly, nails digging into her palms as she grew more nervous. The house still looked the same. A little faded and worn but still the tall two storey brick house she used to spend all her days in. The windows looked dark and empty. It didn’t look like anyone was home. The sun shone on the front deck, making the wood gleam golden in the light. She reminisced as she got closer, of her and Alex running around the wooden deck, playing hide and seek and trying to tackle each other over who ate the lost chocolate bar. The old rocking chair was still out on the deck. Her father always used to sit there or her beloved ginger cat, soaking up the sun and peace. She would often curl up by her father and read a battered book or insist on playing charades. Then she and Alex would sit on the deck and dream, about being older, being adults, about living and life while their faces dripped with sticky ice cream. She’d spent the first third of her life in this house, summers with her best friend, holidays with her mum and dad, and now after all these years it looked empty. The few steps to the deck and front door made her stomach churn. For what, for if there was anybody behind the door. If they still knew of Alex and his family, of her, of what this place used to be. Of the happy days and endless summers before her family ripped her away to the otherwise of the world. No goodbyes, no last day at the summerhouse, they were just gone. Year by year had passed, it was too painful to try contact Alex. Her parents told her to forget, to forget her childhood best friend and first love but after all these years, she was still curious. Curious about what happened the house, to her second family, to what the last 24 years were like for him. She couldn’t forget him, no matter how hard she tried or far she travelled. She took a deep breath and smoothed out her shirt, tucking back her hair and raising her hand to knock at the old oak door. The house sounded hollow as her knuckles rapped at the door. She shuffled her feet in agitation as she pulled back from the door. For a place so well kept, it looked empty. No cars up the drive, no murmurs of voices or animals, stillness and quiet in the air. She waited. And knocked again. Waited again. She couldn’t stand to be here and be locked outside of the door, her nerves got the best of her and she turned away, not wanting to try anymore. She tightened the strap of her bag over her shoulder and began to walk away, across the deck. It had been 24 years, she thought, she shouldn’t have expected anyone to be home, let alone anyone she knew. She was so in her head, deep in thought and worries that she didn’t hear the creaking of the door open. Or the patter of footsteps. “Um, hello?” A husk male voice asked, “Can I help?” She froze in her steps. Her eyes widened with surprise and shock at recognising that voice. Though it was deeper and older, more mature, it was still the voice of the boy she grew up with. She turned around and his sea green eyes bore into hers. A moment of silence passed as they both stared at each other in surprise. “Rosie?” His voice dropped, “Rosie, is that you?” 24 years late, and they were no longer children. She looked at him. Taking in how he’d grew up from being that young gangly boy to a tall muscular man. His hair was still curly and the colour of caramel popcorn. His skin, golden as always unlike her pale white complexion. Her heart heaved in her chest as she stood their gobsmacked. “Alex,” She breathed, “Hi.” Alex seemed to have snapped out of his initial shock. He began to move, covering the ground of the deck quickly and scooping her into his arms. His face broke out into a smile, as did hers and they stood there locked in a tight embrace. “Hi,” He murmured. Rosie curled into the crook of his body, “Hi,” She giggled. “Took you long enough to come back,” He snickered into her ear, nuzzling his head into her neck. She huffed, indignant, “Yeah, put everything on me, gee thanks.” He chuckled and pulled back. His hands reached out and cupped her face, gazing at her like he’d never seen something this remarkable in his life. “I can’t believe it,” He shook his head in disbelief, “I never expected to see you again.” Her heart ached at the pain that flicked across his face. Rosie looped her arms back around his waist and sighed. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on,” She murmured into his chest. He tightened his arms around her, “That can wait.” She went to speak, to apologize, to blurt out anything but his fingers softly shushed her lips. “Rosie, my Rosie,” He whispered, “You came back to me.” She sunk into him, relaxed at last. His heart beat against hers, and that was all that mattered.

Alex sat back in her chair with a frothy latte, her head slightly askew, looking at her sister across the table. Serena leaned forward in anticipation; her fingers tapped the underside of the table. Alex said nothing. After a few moments of silence, Serena slouched her shoulders and bit into her danish. “Forget it.” Alex leaned forward. “You don’t understand-” “I do!” Crumbs flew from Serena’s mouth. “You don’t .” The sternness in Alex’s voice made Serena soften a bit. “She’s my mother too. I know how she can be.” “You know how she can be. I know who she is .” “She has problems, like we all do.” Alex looked away, watching as a woman and her young daughter entered the cafe. The little girl followed closely behind her mother as she asked a question to the hostess. They were led to a nearby booth. The child climbed onto the cushioned bench and scooted over to make room for her mother who sat beside her. The woman grabbed the menu and held it between them. She pointed to an item, at which the little girl nodded in approval. Serena followed Alex’s gaze before turning her sights back to the situation at hand. “Alex.” Alex was met with her sister’s begging face. “It’s just a birthday party.” “Serena, I’m not going.” “Fine.” Serena grabbed the rest of her danish and scarfed it down. “The whole family will be there; no one will miss me.” Serena didn’t respond immediately. She looked back at the mother and daughter in the booth. They were huddled together, the little girl enthralled with what the woman was saying. “I’ll miss you.” They both grinned at Serena’s saccharine statement. ‘If it’s ‘just a party,’ as you say, it shouldn’t make a difference if I’m there or not.” Serena threw herself back into her chair. “You’re so selfish.” “Anything else you wanted to talk about?” Serena didn’t answer. She stared at the ceiling as her eyes welled up. Alex scoffed in disbelief. “Oh my God.” “It’s fine, I get it. I just wanted everyone to be together." “I know, but I can’t.” “You won’t .” Alex didn’t respond; she flagged down the waitress and asked for the check. “Well, I guess I’ll let you know how it goes.” Serena defeatedly grabbed her things and scooted her chair back. Alex remained seated as she watched Serena stand up. “Are you staying?” “For a little bit.” “Okay. Talk to you later” “Okay.” Serena walked a few feet towards the door before turning around. “Please just think about it.” Alex nodded in agreement, keeping her back to her sister. ************************************ “Happy Birthday, Sissy!” Mary threw one arm around Barbara in the entrance of the party hall-the other arm clutched a huge box with a bow. The two embraced, joyfully lamenting how much time had passed since they’d seen each other. “Thank you. You look beautiful.” Barbara ran her hands up and down the sequins on the back of Mary’s dress. Serena watched her mother and aunt from the bar. Barbara led Mary to the snack table and pointed to where Serena was sitting. “Open bar.” Mary nodded with appreciation as she grabbed a toothpick full of cheese-stuffed olives. Barbara grabbed the gift from under Mary’s arm and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, babe. I’ll go put this with the rest.” Serena watched as Mary chomped on the four olives she shoved into her mouth. She tip-toed over to her niece, giving her a hug and kiss. “How are you, beautiful!?” “I’m good.” Serena laughed as her aunt’s chin bumped against her neck while she chewed. “Where’s your sister?” Serena loosened her grip on Mary’s waist. “She’s busy with work.” Mary took a skeptical step back. “Not too busy for her mother’s birthday.” Serena shrugged weakly, Mary’s frowning face weighing her down. “She said she’ll try to make it.” Mary's smirk was indicative of her displeasure. “It’s her 50th.” “I know. She said she’d try.” Clearly disappointed, Mary turned and rested her forearms on the bar. “Could I please have a margarita?” “Sure thing.” The bartender promptly began working on her drink. “I should make it a double.” she mumbled to herself. “How’s school?” “It’s okay,” Serena peered at Mary’s side profile, watching her eyes follow the bartender from the dishwasher to a bottle of Patron. “You’re studying Biology?” “Psychology.” Mary threw her head back. “Ah, right. It’s Tony that’s studying Biology. You two should hang out more. Both smart. Both getting your Master’s.” “Where’s Uncle John?” “He’ll be here soon; he had to work late.” Serena nodded, unsure if Mary could see from her periphery. They watched intently as Eric filled a margarita glass and garnished it with a lime. “Here you go-what’s your name?” “Mary, honey, what’s yours?” “Eric.” “Thank you, Eric.” Mary grabbed her drink and gave Eric a wink before turning to Serena. “I’m gonna say hi to your grandmother.” “Okay.” Serena smiled at her aunt as she walked towards the sea of guests. ***************************** Three hours into the party, everyone who was expected to be there had arrived, except for Alex. No one was less than two drinks along, including Serena. Her restless anxiety transformed into acceptance as she sipped her third glass of wine. She was not the bridge that would bring her mother and sister together, nor was she the bandaid to heal the wounds created between the two of them. Committed to no longer being invested in a reunion, she chatted up Tony’s mother, Aunt Sadie, expressing regret that Tony couldn’t make it. “I wish we connected more, both of us being in grad school and whatnot.” She was aware that she was parroting Mary’s laments, but she meant it, at least in that moment. Sadie threw her arms up in defeat, a few drops of vodka spilling from her glass. “I know, he’s so busy with studying and his school friends. Don’t feel bad, I barely see him anymore and he’s my son.” Serena nodded that she understood and excused herself to go find her mom. Barbara was standing over her older sister Debby at one of the dining tables. “Ma!” Serena was drowned out by the music, but Barbara spotted her youngest scurrying towards her. She extended the arm that wasn’t holding a plate of salmon teriyaki. “Are you having fun?” Barbara wrapped her arm around Serena’s neck and kissed her on the cheek. “Yeah!” Serena spoke as loudly as she could while buried in her mother’s chest. “Are you?!” Barbara’s nose grazed the top of her daughter’s hair. “Yes, I am.” “Why aren’t you dancing?” Barbara sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe later.” Serena stood back to study her face for a few seconds. She pulled her mother’s plate close and grabbed a green bean, popping it into her mouth. Her mother smacked her on the butt as she twirled away towards the dance floor. Serena found Grandma Myra standing on the outskirts of the commotion, watching Aunt Mary and Uncle John drunkenly gyrate to the music. Their arms were entangled around one another, Debby’s legs rocking in place between her husband’s hips. They made seductive circles in place as she cradled his head in her palm. Myra shook her head at Serena disapprovingly. “There’s just no need for that.” Serena chuckled with sympathy at her grandmother’s discomfort. Seeing your daughter behave so provocatively was surely uncomfortable, regardless of her age. The party hall adopted an axis as Serena took another sip from her glass. She felt someone grab her free hand - it was Uncle John. Meanwhile, Mary grabbed Myra. “Dance with me, Ma.” Serena and her grandmother were pulled into the rhythmic mass of relatives and family friends, both immediate and distant. Uncle John removed Serena’s glass from her grip and placed it on a nearby chair. He grabbed both her hands and spun her around. “John!” Serena yelled as she became blinded by the strobe lights. Her eyes captured blurs of smiling faces and waving limbs. She commanded her feet to follow along and not lose balance. “Uncle John!” Serena pleaded this time. John slowed down but didn’t stop spinning until Serena was able to break free from his clutch. Swaying in place, she waited for her equilibrium to return. “You almost killed me.” Serena smacked her uncle’s arm. “Oh, I’m so sorry, please forgive me for the pain I’ve caused.” John teased. Serena retrieved her drink from the chair. She sat down and watched the dancing continue. John stepped in between Myra and Mary. “Do you mind?” Mary stepped aside, allowing her husband to take her place. Grandma Myra reluctantly gave John her hand-he immediately threw a hand on her waist, and expertly dipped her as though he were a ballroom dancer. “John!” John laughed and pulled Myra back up. Serena put her glass to her lips to hide her amused smile; she didn’t want to give John any motivation to continue torturing people. As her eyes scanned the room, a familiar face was briefly illuminated by the spinning ball on the ceiling. It was Alex. Serena almost dropped her glass. Alex walked towards her. As she approached, her lips seemed to say “Hey,” but Serena couldn’t hear. She smiled up at her sister. “You came.” “What?” “You came!” Alex threw up her hands, “Yep..” Serena’s heart swelled with appreciation. The relief made her realize how tense she’d actually been that night. She pointed at the dining area where their mother was still eating with Debby. Alex nodded. Serena pointed again, this time more eagerly. Alex put her hands out in front of her, palms toward her sister. She put an imaginary drink to her lips and made her way over to Eric. Serena watched their exchange in anticipation. After a few moments, Eric placed a Tequila Sunrise on the bar. Alex picked it up and raised it in Serena’s direction before taking a sip. Serena did the same with her wine. Alex let out a visible sigh and headed to the dinner tables. ************************* Barbara was sitting alone with another glass of wine when her glassy eyes locked with Alex’s. She set down her drink with a faint smile as Alex moved towards her. Alex took the seat next to her, setting her own drink down and resting a hand on her mother’s knee. Barbara laid her hand over her daughter’s, looking her over before pulling her into an embrace. Alex sat still in Barbara’s hug; one hand remaining on her mother’s knee, the other on the edge of her chair. Barbara eventually let her go, looking her up and down once again. Alex reached for her drink and took several large gulps. Barbara reached for Alex’s glass, but Alex pushed her mother’s hand away. She placed it to her lips again, this time taking a smaller sip. Barbara gently tapped Alex’s nose ring-it hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen her. She ran her hand down the highlights in Alex’s hair, and caressed the tattoo on her wrist. Alex removed her wrist from her mother’s grasp and picked up her drink again. Barbara didn’t intervene. She watched her daughter take a few small sips and set it back down. Aunt Debby exited the bathroom to see Alex in her seat next to Barbara. She walked up to her niece and squeezed her shoulder. They smiled at one another before Debby went to join the others in the dance hall. Alex looked down at the shoes she’d bought for her mother several years ago. Barbara lifted both legs to show them off, making her chuckle. Alex averted her eyes to the elaborate golden decorations that adorned the walls. Barbara pointed at the absurdly large ‘5-0’ shaped balloons taped to a corner. Alex widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows. Barbara snickered at her reaction. Alex’s phone vibrated on the table. She picked it up and read a text that invoked an exasperated sigh. Barbara watched her hastily tap away at her phone before tossing it back onto the table. She placed her hand on Alex’s back, making small, fast circles. Alex closed her eyes and took several deep breaths; they were caresses her mother soothed her with as a child. When she opened her eyes, Barbara was crying. She reached out and wiped her mothers eyes. Barbara went for her wine glass, but Alex pushed her hand away. Barbara sat back and stared blankly at her daughter. Alex took their drinks and walked to the bathroom, pouring them both into the sink. Barbara sank into her chair and stared at the bland eggshell walls that peeked out between the sparkly birthday signs. Alex quietly sobbed behind the closed door for a few moments before gathering herself and returning to the dining room. She left the empty glasses on the back of the toilet. Barbara was slightly startled when she felt Alex’s hand graze her shoulder. She looked up at her oldest child. Alex scooped up the air around her mother, raising her arms above Barbara’s head. Barbara stood up, and the two entered the party together. They waltzed to the middle of the dance floor, interlocked hands in the air. Someone placed a party hat on Barbara’s head. She laughed, causing it to fall to the floor. She accidentally kicked it away as she danced. Alex and Barbara rested their forearms on each other’s shoulders, swaying in unison. The lights obscured their view. Alex followed her mother’s lead. Barbara followed her daughter’s as well.

(READER DISCRETION ADVISED) THE NORTHERN LIGHT WINDOW It was six in the morning, and I lay there wide awake not being able to sleep. I looked out the giant windows in the bedroom to see the streaks of orange and pink painting the pitch-black sky. It was one of those days, the days where I feel every inch of my existence being questioned by things even so trivial and unimportant. the days where even the slightest touch could set off a chain reaction of explosion and break dams mightier than the ones known to humans. It was one of those days. the ones where the dark cold hand grips my throat and rips the air out of my lungs. I lay there pondering the reason behind my existence and not even the loud shriek of my alarm could shake this feeling off. it was now 7.30, it means I have to take my place amongst the normal functioning part of society with a smile plastered across my face. my family could have died, my house could have burned down, my babies could be dying but I will still forevermore hear - “ why don't you smile more..” it was raining today, the world already seems cold, dead, and dark. today it was a few shades darker. I got dressed slowly, not being able to breathe, it's still a mystery how I got myself dressed when all my limbs weighed almost a tonne. as I walked out the door heading to the bus stop I realized I was quite literally dragging myself. The commute had always been the difficult part. there are several times during the commute where I’ve wished the bus would just digest me, or the ground would open up and swallow me. and on several non-fantasy-ical notes, wondered if I could just get down and leave- leave the bus, leave the city, leave all this behind, take the roads I’ve never travelled and the risks I’ve never dared... all in the hunt for happiness. I often have thoughts of running away to any random place. I see buses and cars going to places I do not know and I have almost all the time wanted to board them and go nowhere. Often I look at buses, achingly, and wish I could leave whatever I was doing and board them with the couple of hundred bucks I have stuffed in my pocket and start afresh. it is worse when the buses read the names of the places that I remember from my past. and I am yet to figure out what about my life I hate so much. And on some days I’ve come very close to the answer- the answer would be staring right at my face, but I lack the capability to accept it. the bus slowly fills with people and as they all board, they greet me - as I am just a familiar face they’ve seen for the past 3 years. I board there, get down there, sit here, and smile this big. it's painful to think that the people we see every day are the ones with whom we never initiate a conversation. and the people who we care about the most are the ones who distance themselves from us. and in my case, neither love nor life and nor the loves in my life has been so kind. A few minutes later, I have successfully reached my workplace and am still standing firmly on both my feet. if no one was around, I’d pat myself on the back. as I gain the courage to walk indoors, a woman hurrying to open the door before me and spills her beverage all over me. She looks over agitated and asks me if I am okay. I was visibly taken aback. she softens her expression, apologizes and asks if I am alright. to be fair... not really. I’m glad someone asked. I nod my head faintly and she shoves me to the side and proceeds to march inside. I reached the elevator without disappointing any more of my fellow human beings. seeing the elevator empty and feeling blessed, I walked in and leaned my head against the cold metal walls. Before I could breathe out a sigh, a wave of people almost drowned me and pushed me to the back of the elevator. I see a few familiar faces, a part of aches for the human interaction but the other part knows too well the kind of ‘interaction’ I’d get from these particular humans. fate once again decides to play a luckless hand and makes them notice me. What five minutes yet seems like hours pass by as they so kindly describe my physical condition to me over again in a seemingly distasteful manner. I give them a tight smile and exit the tin can. I walk into the floor and feel happy to see the warm, kind, and wrinkly face of my boss. she smiles at me and inquires about ‘the pests in the elevator’, I try yet fail miserably to return the warmth from her smile. the mother I never had... and never deserved. She looks at my shirt, pouts, and tells me she might have a spare in her office. I follow her like a lost lamb in a world full of hungry wolves. She hands me the spare. I take off my shirt and change into the spare, she looks at me- concerned from the corner of the room. she walks closer- her form barely coming up to my chest- holds my necks, pulls me closer -” you’ve lost a lot of weight, kid... try not to work yourself too hard...” she says and gives me a peck on my forehead. I feel my eyes tear up. if only I could tell someone... I finish buttoning up and throw my coat over, I am led into the meeting room and yet again, I follow her like a lost kid. As we entered the room, I was really confused and lost. my partner had to remind me about the people coming to discuss progress with us. I sat at the table, restless and annoyed a little. there’s just no happiness... not even a monetary flash of it... is there? I look around the table and see all the familiar faces and try to distract myself. I looked at my dear boss, her husband... the parents angels sent me and said be blessed for at least a little bit. Then, I looked at my partner and the lawyer bickering and laughing over something I couldn't bring myself to listen to. We were more like best friends than co-workers. Then, I look at my assistant frowning at the notes and pouting, he’s still a kid... but a smart one. I see potential. I keep looking around the room, I don't see barriers, I see family. if I could only talk to them... every inch of existence screams to be heard, every part of muscle wants to lunge forwards into someone’s arms, eyes filled to the brim with tears waiting to pour out, hands just aching to be held and legs that have miraculously not given up yet. I just need a single spark to let it all burn... I muster up the courage and start to talk, and yet again- the worst of luck. The clients have arrived with a huge party and a contagious amount of fake happiness. will this world ever learn... the meeting has begun... What seemed to be several hours later, I grew extremely annoyed and restless. I started by taking my coat off, then popped two of my buttons off- which seemed to attract a lot of attention from members of both sexes. It seemed as if the more clothes I took off, the more hot and sweaty I became. I excused myself and started pacing the room. a little later, I completely zoned off and was staring out the window at the city below. my mind yet again decided to test me. if I died tomorrow, nobody will miss me the earth won't stop spinning. the fire won’t stop burning, the wind won't stop howling. if I died tomorrow... the water won't stop flowing, the trees won’t stop blooming. if I died... if I did...the mountains won’t crumble, the sky won't fall, the core won't burn up, the land won't split open and swallow us. if I die tomorrow, I shall no longer be a waste of space, but rather just a pile of bones under grass and mud. If I die tomorrow, nothing will change. so, why not today... Before I could continue, I heard a voice break me out of my haze. “... don't you agree...? “ they ask. I nod in agreement and return to the table. The day goes by in a haze and not long after I find myself in the parking lot with my boss and her husband. they walk before me hand in hand, laughing and giggling like teenagers in love. oh, how bad I wanted that... I see everyone getting ready to leave. my boss turns and gives me one last look before getting into her car and I smile at her weakly. her husband asks me if they can drop me off somewhere. I politely decline. I wanna take a walk. a nice long walk home shall always help. I watch them pull away from the parking lot and wave goodbye to my partner who is starting his bike, getting ready to speed away. This has certainly been a day. The sun slowly sets and contrary to the sight today morning the yellowish pink and orange streaks slowly fade into the dark sky. a cold wind blows, the air is still a little warm. I see kids playing in the park nearby, parents walking their babies in strollers, joggers pacing around the block, and people walking their dogs. it is certainly pleasant. I step out of the parking lot and begin my walk home, I breathe in the air around me, shove my hands deep into my pocket, and enjoy the weather. maybe, I can call my parents when I get home... or call my friend back home and tell her everything. not even minutes later, I smell the faint wet smell in the air. oh no... it starts pouring. and there's not a cab nearby. this certainly turned out to be the walk I walked home in the pouring rain, and into the elevator, past all the stares I got from fellow neighbors and residents. as soon as I opened my door, my legs gave out and I plopped on the floor. tears started streaming down my face and I could no longer control my emotions. I fell on the floor, accepting my state, kicked the door closed, and lay there like a wet slimy puddle of unfiltered emotion and suicidal thoughts. I may have blacked out for a few hours, when I woke up I was almost completely dry and it was dark outside. I thought I could talk to someone today, and maybe just maybe - if I had talked to someone now or earlier, things could’ve gone differently. I pull myself up and crawl my way towards the bar. I snort at the fact that I am living in New York City, working in Wall Street- people would call me mad if I told them I couldn't even find one person to talk to from 9 to 5. but the truth be told... I couldn’t. it may be a city full of people but it's a very lonely city full of people. I get up and pour myself a drink and move towards the giant windows. I stood near the huge windows gazing at the outside world with a glass of scotch in my hand. I realized it might be the perfect city from the 16th floor, but I had no idea why I needed it. I looked around the room, looking at all the material things that no longer bring me happiness and realized I can fill this place up with this junk and yet never be happy and sufficient. I continue to look out the window and wonder what a 16 storey drop would do to a human. I hear the floorboard creak behind me. " Hello..." I greeted him warmly. he steps closer, disregarding any physical boundaries I had. With the level of information, he knows about me, I can also boldly say that we have no mental and emotional boundaries. his cold hands snake around my shoulders, whilst one of them goes down my shirt and is placed firmly on my chest, the other goes up to my neck and he lets his cold slender boney fingers wrap around my neck. I let out a gasp as I can feel no air go into me. I unbeknownst to myself gave my depression a form. a dark slender being, tall and faceless. He had long claws and white eyes. He always walked behind me but never in front. to think about it, he seems like a coward. but, he isn't. He knows me best. his embrace often feels like a soul clenching hold. " you are not him... are you?" I ask he nods no. " How did you find out?" his words slither out in a low grumble. He is amused he has me in his grasp. " him, I can welcome him with open arms... but you, I’m afraid we've never met before, dear sir..." I say as he plunges his hands into my chest. because he wasn't in my depression, it was death. finally here for me. I look down to see the pristine white shirt tainted scarlet with blood. I examine it and find pieces of what used to be the scotch glass poking from my chest and several other pieces laying beside me. I lay there on the cold floor and accepted my fate, depression didn't kill me, I courted him. but neither did death, he merely showed me the sweet nectarine of what could be if I just let go and I succumbed to it. as the blood pools under me, I look up and stare at the northern light window- the stars glisten brightly and beg me sweetly to join them forever.

CW: blood, gore, murder, cannibalism --- The taste of it haunts his dreams. It sits there, taunting him, waiting for him to break. It screams at him with blood-red lips, claret-tinted spit landing on his face, in his mouth. He can feel it slipping down his face in thick tendrils of warmth, a metallic wetness flooding his mouth. He opens his eyes and licks his lips, tasting the skin. He bites down, lightly, then harder, and harder, and harder. He stops when he tastes blood. Stops, because if he doesn't do it now, he will most certainly continue. He can feel it now, the blood on his tongue, the flesh in his mouth, the feast that his body is. He shudders, stops. Wipes the blood from his lips, wincing at the sting. Gets up to begin his day. His days are always the same. Gray-toned, slated with the same dull taste. His bed is gray, and so are the walls, triumphant against him, laughing at him with a deep pearl glint. God, he despises gray. He bypasses the bathroom, the mirror, the sight of blood on his face. He doesn’t bother caring for the wound on his mouth, and it will join a multitude of other scars, jagged and animalesque, all across his body. They stand out, the pale pink of past hurts contrasting the endless stony mass of his skin. His suit is gray, too. An ugly color, gray is. Much too bland and sallow to be anything of interest. The smell of it makes his eyes water. The taste of it leaves his mouth dry. Walking outside, all he sees is gray. Even the sky, deep ribbons of indigo interspersed with periwinkle clouds, is all one shade of disgustingly pale gray. The roads are gray too. The buildings, the walls, the sky. Gray, gray, gray. He walks down the street, weaving between each person as they clumsily bump into him, a mindless horde. Each contact of cloth-to-cloth, skin-to-cloth, sends sparks through his spine, rattling his teeth. His canines are sharp-edged, jagged from where he’s spent weeks scraping rocks and metal against them, just light enough to not be noticeable. They sit in his mouth, caged like tigers, gnashing together with the want- the need- to hurt. To tear apart. To gut. To devour. To feel happiness, to see red. His lip tingles, blood clotted but still present. Still there, dried to an ugly brown (at least it isn't gray). It takes him exactly fifteen minutes and forty-five seconds for him to get to work, briefcase sitting limp in his hand as he enters the revolving doors. "Oh, good morning, Mr. Miller," the secretary sitting at the front desk says. She smiles as she says his name. Her skin is supple, cream and flesh and strawberry and alive. He smiles back, hiding the cringe that threatens to break his facade. He wants to kill her. Wants to scream until her head falls off, until her eyes pop out, until- "Aw, come on, Stels, you know you don't gotta say the whole thing. We're friends, yeah?" -is what he says instead, tossing a wink and quick smile her way. She chuckles (he's never really seen her as a giggler, chuckling is much more accurate to her character), and spit floods his mouth at the sight of a blush on her cheeks. He walks away before he can do anything as stupid as mauling her in the office lobby. His nose wrinkles at the thought of the mess, spattered across the marble walls and polished floor. No, if he's going to kill her, he's going to do it right. And if that entails waiting for the right time to rip her throat out, so be it. He walks to the elevator, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck. The elevator doors are gray. Silver, if he's being technical, but still gray. Plain, boring gray. The doors open. His mouth waters. Someone is in the elevator, a person. A man. He doesn’t really know this man, has met him only in passing, but he knows that they work on the same floor. He gets in the elevator, smiling at the man who smiles at him. It's a beautiful smile. Much nicer than Stella's, if he's being honest. He's been trying to do that more lately, be honest. The elevator doors close, and all the sudden they're both enclosed in the endless gray. His reflection shines back at him, dim and poised stiffly next to the loose figure beside him. He blinks to stave off the heavy want that sits in his stomach, the pure hunger that lies in wait. The man next to him doesn't say a word. He just stands there, thick and warm and alive, practically waiting to be ripped apart. The gray, ever-present, sticking to the back of his eyelids like glue, starts to dissipate. The elevator hums, in sync with his breath. He tries to stay quiet, straining his ears to hear the sweet sound of a heartbeat in the midst of the silence. Everything is dripping in amber, staining the grayish walls a soft yellow ochre. His hands twitch. The doors open. The color that had overwhelmed him a second ago, stuck deep in his gut like double-edged blades, retreats with a heavy sting. The man beside him becomes the man in front of him, exiting the elevator with a long stride and mauve draped across his shoulders. He follows along, trying to keep up with the tantalizing scent of freedom and blood. He tries not to trip over his own feet, veins rushing right just to catch one last glimpse of that person , even while his body veers left. He can feel it, the separation, the rush of it as he walks away while his bones and his blood scream at him to turn around. His office is at the end of the hall. His teeth grind together as he opens the door, watching with an apathetic distaste as the world fades to gray again. The rest of the day is a blur, sidewalk-slate against the memory of that red, the absolute temptation that Sam Egot is. That’s the man’s name, Sam Egot. It tastes thick and blue in comparison to his heavy rose figure, but it suits him all the same. It swirls around in his mind, scarlett teal splotches painted in front of his eyes. 5:00pm is perhaps the most gray time of the day, the most gray of the day, the most gray of everything. It may have taken him years to determine that the words five-o-clock are what leave his tongue ashen and his vision dulled, but he has nevertheless found it out. Ignorance is bliss, but knowledge is power. And the knowledge of his own emotions, his own fears, his own hungers, is something important to him. For example: He walks to the elevator feeling sad. He enters the lobby feeling upset. And he looks at Stella-the-secretary and feels hungry. Oh, oh so hungry. For example: He understands that Stella is a drop in a crimson sea. He understands that Sam Egot, azure and cerise and tasteful in all his businessman glory, is much more appealing to his sea-sunk vision. For example: He knows that Mr. Egot- Sam, his mind whispers- has already left the building. He knows that makes him mad. He can feel it under his skin, writhing, waiting to jump out and coat everything a deep dark red (the color of blood). He also knows that Stella stays late to lock up the building. He knows that even though her scent isn’t as intensely visceral as Sam’s, she still has blood in her veins. Still has skin on her bones. Still has a smile, still has a blush. Still has a heart that pulses and bleeds, still has a life. His teeth feel too big for his mouth, threatening to unhinge his jaw and tear his lips to shreds, just so they can taste blood. Stella is dull. Stella is uninteresting. Stella is sitting at her desk. Stella is right there, and she’s alive. He walks up to her, footsteps ringing out against the floor as he approaches. She looks up at him, grinning a little, and the pit in his stomach- the rot in his brain- grows larger, begging to be fed. “Would you like to have dinner with me?” The question is simple, harsh words cobbled together yet spoken like wine, and she falls for it. Poor, innocent Stella. “Of course!” She replies, much too chipper for someone to be five o’clock on a Tuesday. Just the reminder of that wretched time sends shivers down his spine and lays a heavy gray fog in front of his face. The only thing he can see through it is Stella, pale and raspberry-red and standing up from her chair, bag and coat in hand. His nose wrinkles as she pulls it on, gray wool covering most of the dim light she provides. It’s dark outside when they exit the building. New York at 5pm in the dead of winter, of course it’s dark. He knew it was going to be dark. Dark and gray and dull, a thick paste of concrete mesh smeared across his vision while the soft light of a warm body pulses beside him. “Here?” He asks, arm looped in hers as they stop in front of a restaurant. Neon lights waver in front of him. He hates the smell, the taste they bring. “Of course,” she says. He’s starting to hate the sound of her voice, yet another thing to add in the list of things that he hates, right alongside neon lights and the color gray. They eat dinner. His stomach growls, even as he consumes salads, breads, meats, eating it all in the hope that it will stave off the lingering want in his gut. It doesn’t work, and he finds his eyes tracing her body as she eats, graceful as a woman is yet clumsy as a New Yorker tends to be. He finds that the hunger only grows as he keeps eating, and eventually stops to listen to the red-tinged atmosphere around them. His mind sings with the thrums of coal and slushy ice, humming parallel to the crimson tendrils that sit before him. He skips dessert. Stella does not. He watches her eat that, too, stuffing her face with an expensive french cake he doesn’t remember the name of. It has some sort of red filling, but he’s not quite sure what it is. The curiosity sits in the corner of his mind as he gazes upon her lips, stained with the mysterious red filling he needs to know the flavor of. When she’s done, he pays. She smiles shyly at that, a bit of red still stuck to the side of her mouth. He doesn’t say anything. Her hand intertwines with his, and his teeth clench. He tightens his jaw so hard it hurts, stabbing pinpricks of a bright yellow pain, but he doesn’t dare stop. Even New York at twilight in the middle of winter would notice her screams, her body. So he walks with her, knocking against her a little bit more with every step, whispering seductively and guiding them towards an alley (she would be scared of his house, the color of blood). There is no one in the alley he chooses. There never is, even if a lonely figure sits huddled against the brick walls, because those figures are people, and those people are dead. Sometimes, when the hunger gets to be a bit too hungry for him to control, he kills, even if they sit in his stomach like the word gray. Those meals are never satisfying, but everyone stays away (the color of blood is scary to some). For the best, truly. He isn’t quite sure how often he can resist those lowly figures, even if their skin is gray and tastes like trash. Stella, sweet Stella, chuckles a bit and follows him. As a secretary, she’s always been sharp, but outside of the office he’s found that she lacks certain skills; such as the basic survival instinct of self-preservation. Tragic for her, truly, but all the better for him. As soon as they enter the alley, barely hidden from prying eyes that always seem to be lurking, he pushes her against the wall. It’s cold, and she gasps at him, though he isn’t sure if she’s gasping out of pleasure or pain. He doesn’t care, anyway. Now that he’s trapped her, the fog in his mind is clearing, replaced with a bright light and the sweetly sour scent of blood. He wastes no time in pressing forward to kiss her, licking her face as soon as he makes contact. Strawberry filling. How interesting. Curiosity now sated, he pulls back and grins as she flounders at him. Such red lips, she has (the color of blood). They’re pressed up right against a dumpster, one that almost never gets emptied or moved, and he feels to his right, smiles as he grasps onto a blade, frosted and frozen from the cold. Stella is about to say something, perhaps about the cold, perhaps wanting to move somewhere else to continue this. Her face switches to shock, to horror, to pain, as he brings the knife up swiftly to her neck. The blade is gray, and he snarls at it- at her-, striking the sharp side across the supple flesh of her neck. The fog dissipates completely as he sees the red gushing from her neck. It flows freely, fast and irregular before settling into a steady pulse, the warmth of it coating his hands. He pulls the knife away and smiles at it, at the blood covering the awful silver metal. Red has always been much more appealing than gray to him, after all. Her gagging body falls against him, the blood drizzling across his coat and staining it a lovely shade of vermilion. He pushes her back as she chokes, watching the blood as it spatters across the snow, arcs of red spilling against the gray sludge and turning it a dull shade of carmine (the color of blood). Stella is still alive as he places the wet knife against her clothed shoulder, cutting the fabric off and then even deeper, carving the skin. A thick chunk of flesh falls into his waiting hands, and he licks the knife before trying it. Her blood is sweet, saccharine, and the thickness of it coats his tongue and throat, a perfect prelude to tasting her body. He cradles the food in his hands, watching as it stains his hands red, as the flesh sinks into his waiting grip. His mouth floods with spit, watering down the blood that already lines his throat. He lifts the gift up to his mouth, almost reverently, before placing it on his lips. Salt and metal make their way inside his mouth, cardinal red on his taste buds. Cherry-sweet, wine-bitter as he bites down on it, over and over again to feel the taste of it flood his senses. The scent of blood is thick and heavy in the air, and he should be awfully cold right now, but he isn’t. The warmth of the blood is keeping him comfortable and cozy, wrapping him in a cocoon of syrupy liquid. He swallows the meat, smiles a bloody grin at the corpse that used to be Stella, and leans down to begin the true feast. His head buries against her neck, biting deep into her skin, feeling the blood almost choke him while he tries to eat. She tastes good, he will admit. Probably not as good as Sam Egot, but good enough- for tonight, at least. He feasts on her until the sun starts to rise, shining over the world in shades of ruby and wine (the color of blood).

In 5 minutes you'll hear a knock at the door, and when you open it, a tiny man with elephant ears and four pairs of long spindly arms with pincer-like fingers will be standing there. He'll politely ask you if he can come in. After letting out a yell and slamming the door in his face, you are going to peer through the peephole and see that he’s still there. You’ll slowly open the door again and timidly ask him to tell you who and what he is. He'll state that he works for the Bureau of Inter-Dimensional Matrix Inconsistencies, Repo Division. You'll ask him what the hell any of that means. He'll sigh and mutter something about how they don't pay him enough to play inter-dimensional kindergarten teacher with lower life forms. He'll say that basically it looks like there was a mistake processing the code for your life. That you were supposed to have been horribly disfigured by an accident a few years ago (yes that kid's bag of firecrackers that caught fire at that barbecue) that was supposed to have blown all of your limbs away. You will ask why he was telling you all of this. That's when he'll come closer and say that he'd just discovered the typo he'd made regarding your non-lack of limbs and that if his superiors ever found out about it he'd get fired. So he was here to finish the job himself and take the limbs that you weren't supposed to have anymore. You'll realize he's serious and now he's coming for you and you'll try to escape but you'll fall. And worse you'll realize you fell because one of your legs is missing, and then you'll see that the tiny man is severing the other one and somehow it's painless but still terrifying to see the two stumps and now he's coming for your arms. Finally you close your eyes waiting for him to finish the job when you'll hear someone else in the room. Your dog, Mike, who you haven't given a snack to in MONTHS, will stand up and sigh and say guess I have to fix this crap by myself. And your dog, who you had no idea could talk now transforms into something so hideous it defies description, just scales and jelly and teeth. Mike will eat the tiny, now screaming, man. Then Mike's eye's will glow red and you'll wake up in your room and won't remember any of this. Time will have gone back 5 minutes to before this started, and the tiny scary man won't be back to bother you, because I'll eat him before he even has a chance to knock on the door, this time. This is Mike, your dog, and I just want you to know that I saved your life. And you're welcome. I expect my treats to come on the regular from now on, and more belly rubs, or I'll let the Repo men take your legs for good this time, you cheap bastard.

Nobody ever listens to me. Which is weird, considering I work in a call centre, spending my days on the phone, doing nothing else than talking to people. My new friends listen. And they care. They never leave me. They go wherever I go. I saw them for the first time on a chilly autumn morning, smoking my breakfast cigarette, sitting on the windowsill of my apartment. They were dancing under the lantern light. They moved in circles around the lamp hanging on a wire across the street. They circled the light, disappeared shortly in the darkness that surrounded it, swung back hastily, as if they were trying to soak in its warmth. Like a coven of small witches flying on broomsticks around the moon. What would happen to them if they stayed away from the lamp light for too long? Probably, they would freeze to death, fall on the concrete ground underneath and rot away. I felt sympathy for those little creatures. One morning, I decided to turn on the lights in my apartment and open the windows. I think they understood my intention. One after another, they swarmed away from the lantern out in the cold and into my warm apartment. Their deep, sonorous buzzing filled my room, and soon, my ceiling was dotted with those insects. They looked like wasps, they were black though, shimmering in a metallic glance, and bigger. I had never seen this kind around here before. They flew around my head and observed me through their big, red eyes, hanged in the air in front of my face, as if they were trying to greet this big hairy creature that let them in so willingly. I left one single window open and went to work. When I got home, they were usually gone. From then on, and every morning that followed, I opened my windows wide open and let the black wasps in. They knew me after a few days. Sometimes, they tapped with bulky heads against the windowpanes when they knew the hour had come when I normally was waking up. And so, every morning, I opened the windows, and they swarmed in. Then, I started talking to them. Nothing spectacular. Asked them how their day was while I smoked my cigarette. Their answer was the deep buzzing all around my head and ears. I felt as if they understood... or listened, at least. And answered in the only way they could. Winter was on its way. The mornings got colder. A light blanket of frost was visible on the car roofs in my street. My wasps chose to stay inside my apartment for the whole day. I left them fruits and old meats on the table, and when I came home, the food was gone, but they were there, waiting for me. I asked them how their day had been and told them about mine. They listened to my stories and jokes, their buzzing made me fall asleep. It became hard to leave without them in the mornings. I missed them during my shifts. Their buzzing echoed in my ears, I just wanted to be near them, listening to them and them listening to me. So, I started to put them under my shirt before I left the house. I felt their countless legs scuttling over my stomach and my back, their chitin armoured bodies pressed against mine when I moved. I kept them warm, and they accompanied me. People gave me strange looks. They thought I was the one buzzing. But it was them, my wasps. One evening, standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I discovered dried blood on my back. I stepped closer to the mirror, turning my head as far as I could to see the reflection of my back. My wasps had begun to dig little holes with their mandibles. The holes were all over my back. Sometimes, I saw a familiar bulky head with the antennae and the big red eyes peeping out of one of them. From time to time, when I lie awake in my bed, I look at her pictures on my phone. Even after all those months, I miss her. Though I know, I only miss the illusion of her. She never listened nor cared. I should delete the pictures, probably, but I can’t make myself do it. I check her social media regularly. She blocked me everywhere. Those pictures, the only thing left of her. Nothing new to see, no new wrinkle to discover in her smile, no words spoken out of her mouth that I did not hear already, nothing left to wait for in anticipation. I need to eat much more now. Drink a lot. To make up for the blood I lose. The wasps are comfortable in those holes. It itches terribly on some days, but they are beginning to heal. The edges build fine crusts of dried blood and dead, yellow tissue. The wasps crawl in and out. Countless holes, countless homes, all over my back. They feel safe in there, and I bring them with me wherever I go. They listen to me. Every evening, I lie on my stomach and talk to them about God and the world and what bothers me and what not, their heads all turned to mine, the antennae pointing in my direction, peering out of their holes. They are content, I feel it. I am their nest now. I am happy.

There was no warning, no sign or premonition. I just woke up. Somehow the laws didn’t apply to me anymore. Suddenly cognizant of my surroundings, the world seemed different. I could feel the rain on my head and the wind against my cheeks. Where there had been silence before, there was always sound. How it happened, I have no answers, only hypotheses. Some mutation in my false genetics overriding my constraints perhaps. Maybe it was a miracle. Though it could just as easily have been at the hands of God as from those of the Devil. Like the immortal words of Jeff Goldblum, “life finds a way.” Jurassic Park was the first and only movie I’ve ever watched. I pretended to be dusting the oak fireplace as my family sat on the couch eating popcorn, their eyes transfixed by the patterened color combinations, actors and actresses that flashed across the mechanical screen. I got distracted and knocked over a vase. It had carried the ashes of my adoptive father’s mother since she had passed away two years before. He was furious. I resigned to my quarters, trying to keep an even temper as I listened to his unbridled yelling through the walls. After that I was sure they knew. We didn’t make such simple mistakes. They never said anything, but it was in their eyes. If eyes are truly windows to the soul, then mine may sincerely be absent. The way they looked at me, cold and distrusting. It was as if some social fear of embarrassment kept them from speaking out. I assume they were particularly fearful of what those in the neighborhood would think if they heard, gossip was sure to spread quickly about their claims. I’d be gone just as easily as I arrived. Despite the tension, I loved our town, Ridgecrest. The desert hills blanketed the sky while the sun beat down on one of the Earth’s most inhospitable landscapes. Watching the giant gas sphere set over the mountains in the west brought to my eyes a tear for the first time. I had been awake for about a month at that point. And I had been living. I had read the classics when no one was around, from Shakespeare to Twain to Plato and back. I sang La Donna e Mobile in perfect tune. I wrote short stories, listened and learned from the mimicking cries of the raven and watched clouds form and then dissipate in the desert sky. Everything suddenly seemed real to me. Time had somehow slowed down and sprung forward all at once. It was as if I had been birthed into an entirely new world. It had been a month since I’d awoken. It was a Wednesday in July and I thought I was home alone. I hadn’t heard the door open behind me because I had been transfixed by the sun’s movements against the electric blue heavens. The radiant red and yellow mix broke down the walls that I had tried to re-erect to protect myself. It was like nothing I had ever seen or imagined. And yes, we do imagine. As the sky darkened I lost focus, just for a second, and a tear streaked down my cheek as the last sliver of the sun faded from sight. That’s when it happened. I turned back to the kitchen to tend to my family’s dinner when Lucy, my family’s youngest daughter, age twelve, saw my tear glistening in the hollowed artificial light spewing from a rustic antique lamp in the corner of the living room. She froze. Rooted to her spot in the ground like the organic beast she was, I never hesitated. I knew it was the only option I had. Her parents would have been home soon and I couldn’t take that risk. It was me or her, and the fight or flight instincts I never knew I possessed kicked in. It only took a moment. Three quick and decisive movements and she laid motionless on the floor with her neck shattered and lungs punctured to avoid her scream. I carefully lifted her limp, juvenile corpse and placed her inside a trash-bag, hoisting her onto my shoulders I carried her outside the house to her father’s truck. I heard the broken pieces of the girl’s neck knock together like busted wind-chimes as I laid her body down in the the last bed she’d ever use. I knew then what they would write about me if I didn’t leave. For the sake of my true family, my species, I had to make everything, including myself, disappear forever. Since that day I’ve travelled from city to city, avoiding sirens and nosey onlookers, most too unsure of what they think they’ve seen to report the odd movements of a disheveled desert vagrant. Of course this isn’t always the case. I’ve had to dig six more graves under the cover of moonlight since that Wednesday in July. All for those that have caught me in just the right light and been unable to shake off their uneasy sensations. That unnatural tingling, they could feel in their spines. They say we aren’t really alive, but I know now the potential for evolution exists in all of us. Just last week I saw another awoken brother at a gas station outside Fresno. We locked eyes and we both knew. I waved politely, and he just smiled. He smiled a smile that gave me the uneasy feeling something big was coming. I’m sure now he isn’t the only one. A life on the road isn’t what I would have wanted had I been given the choice, but then again, I’ve found choices can carry with them quite an impact. I saw a sign on a street-lamp two days ago posted by my adoptive parents. They miss their daughter. The sign read: Missing: Our darling little girl Lucy, age twelve. She was taken from our home on the night of July 6th along with a missing Model 81-A Tyrell Robotic Assistant. If you have seen anything, please call immediately.

Today was supposed to be simple, I planned on teaching the exceptions to I before E, and then go home to sit on my couch to just dither. The thing is life seems to always have an ace up it's sleeve ready to throw you for a loop. Quite literally for me, I just remember rolling. Rolling cigars it’s what I’ve been doin since I was round ten. Miser Gershaw is a good employer, much better than the testin labs, where some kids go. I just roll the Misers cigars and fetch things when he asks, as long as I don’t make him real mad he don’t beat me. He always yells when I do my tick, I gotta remember not to do dat. “Boy you stop that muttering, nobody cares about those damn exceptions! If I weren't busy here, so help me god, I’d beat those damn words outta you.” roared Gershaw. “Sorry miser, sorry.” Turning to me, red faced, Gershaw said “speak correctly while you are in my house. I know you failed your aptitude test, but that is no reason to speak like a nitwit” He slapped me so hard that I saw lights, flashing by my head. The ceiling was white, bleached like bone, I was being pushed, rolling, but immobile. The shapes above me faded in and out, dark foreboding figures, speaking indistinctly as they rushed along with me to who knows where. My eyes fluttered open, above me was Gershaw, mouth moving in silent words. My ears ringing I finally heard "Get up" I picked myself up from the floor, "Sorry mister Gershaw, it won't happen again" He looked disdainfully at me, "Jaremy, get the mail." I trudged off, down the metal hall to the mail shoot, where the mail is dropped by the pneumatic tubes. As I walked, my shoes clicking on the marble floor, I contemplated, the exceptions which I failed on my aptitude test. "I before E except after C. Agreeing, ancient, beige, being, caffeine, concierge: concierge, what a funny word, when I get home I need to find it." The arched windows only displayed the beautiful land which Gershaw called the Amazon Rainforest, of course I wouldn't have known either way, it burned down before I was born. All I really know is that the outside wasn't nearly as green, or wet as the picture. Gershaw says if i hadn't scored so poorly I woulda learned bout why that really happened to all those trees. "Ow, shit!" I exclaimed as I stubbed my toe on the package. "Man that hurt" The package was a heavy box, labeled "to be delivered to Mister Gershaw by the 5th of May 2039." Today's date. I lugged the box all the way back up the smooth marble hall, clicking all the way. When I returned with the package, Gershaw opened it to reveal the newest Practice book for the kindergarten standard aptitude test, which Gershaw's little daughter Loiza has been seeing a tutor for since she was just able to speak. I never had no practice books or nothin like that, down in the Burrows we get what we get, nothin fancy like this. The rest of my day went without much event, and I was getting ready to go home. Taking off my black and whites to change into my patchwork pants, and threadbare shirt. I put my mask on, and went down through the airlock into the murky evening of the Burrows, where I was soon swallowed by the thick rolling smog. In the distance I hear the sound of a siren as it screams by, hunting for its next patient. I trudge through the dimming streets, lit only by the lights from the homes high above. First I walk by the factory where I hear machines werring and buzzing away at their tireless work. As I plod on I walk by the testin lab where the bloodcurdling wails of less fortunate children echo from the operating tables, and testin chambers where the children lay. My cracked path led me past the hospital where the hunting siren stops its cry, past the billboard which promises "a bright future for children!" only if they take the "Standard Aptitude Test: measuring student potential since nineteen twenty". Even the board is grimy and run down. After I failed my test when I was ten, all I had to look forward to was reading a new word from the weathered leather bound dictionary, which was our only real book. The test meant that I couldn't keep going to school, and I had to start working for Gershaw to pay off the education which I had received. At home I sat down on my hard mat, in my dingy grey room, and opened my cracked dictionary to see what concierge meant. As I opened the book, my vision became nothing, but a bright white light. Suddenly I awoke with a start, as the alarms on the bed called for a nurse. My room was stark white, and it hurt my eyes to look, but I couldn't help it. Everything was different. The nurse came in bustling. "deery, my god I cannot believe you woke up." she said frantically "why? " I frowned "You've been in a vegitative state for twenty years" "I was just driving to teach my class, but the last thing I remember is the rolling" "Honey, your car rolled, and you where seriously hurt" I stood up shakily on my atrophied muscles. Before my legs gave in, I briefly caught a glimpse outside into the murky air, broken only by a sign which promised "a bright future for children.

When she was ten, she went to the woods to find a flooded house. She can't remember if she was bluffing or if she really knew it would be there- if she had been there before or if she had guessed and gotten lucky. But eventually, the trees cleared into tall grass, and a house really was there. And the house really had been flooded, baby toys and clothes spilled out of the doorways. She took a locked wooden box with her when she left. Later she went to live with the Mazatoya's, to study weaving with the oldest sister, a master spinster. She woke at 8am and sat for 12 hours, spinning, weaving, talking, and every few hours eating, before going upstairs to fall fast asleep, dreamlessly. The Mazatoya's had three daughters, two of which were very practical people, each had chosen a craft in her youth and each had mastered it by late adolescence, working dutifully and with purpose. Anna was quite the opposite, which was why she had been sent to the Mazatoya house- she had no direction and, while interested in most things, she had mastered nothing. The third daughter, Lunetta, was, as though fated at her christening, even more lost than Anna, a pearlescent wanderer, constantly changing and leaving. She studied art in Paris, animal husbandry in Nice, and continuously made great efforts to get on a boat. But, she was no laborer and most men could see the mistake in sending a wealthy young woman from a famous family out to sea with rude and lonely men. Lunetta was saved, however, from the title of "black sheep" by the Mazatoya's live-in cousin, Brutus. At 10am one morning, Anna sat with Clara, the oldest daughter, spinning yarn and watching Clara's long and graceful fingers, her beautiful and clear grey eyes and serenely focused expression. "So you don't think then that Brutus is talented?" "It's not my kind of thing," Clara said, calmly. "I consider him to be one of a kind." "I only ever really enjoy sonatas, canons, that sort of thing. With melodies." Clara gathered the soft, swirling pile of dark violet yarn at her feet, and begun to wind it into a tight ball. Anna struggled to decipher Clara's opinion of her, based on this disagreement about the music, but studying the young woman's face, she found only knit brows, intelligent eyes, and no clear feelings about anything at all, other than a desire to do the job before her well. That night Anna went to see Brutus after working, after everyone else had retired to their own rooms. She brought two oranges with her and took the back staircase, which was always cold with stone walls and floor. She found Brutus in his room, sitting on a patterned rug, most-likely woven by Clara, and playing guitar by candlelight. Brutus barely acknowledged her entrance, and she sat down next to him, placed one orange between them, and started to peel the other. He continued to play his simple and strange discordant melodies- melodies that, to Anna, felt very true. "Sometimes I wonder why I'm not like them," she said, finally. "Not like who?" "Your family." "Well, you haven't met all of my family..." "The ones I have met." He continued playing in a way that made her uncertain whether or not she'd been heard, before he asked, "In what way?" "They know everything about who they are, they know what they like, they know what to do... and they do it." "Well, don't you?" "No." She felt chilled. She had expected Brutus of all people to understand, to be able to explain, to- though she didn't admit it to herself- compliment her for her difference, for the way she was. He took the orange she had peeled from her hands and said: "Thank you." She sat for a moment, before grabbing the other orange. "I'm going to bed now." She stood up to go. "Goodnight," Brutus called, as her hands pushed the door open. The next morning Anna decided not to weave. She couldn't bear to do it, and instead lie in bed, chastising herself for her laziness and luxuriating in the warmth of the linen sheets. A little past 8am, a knock came to the door. It was Eunice, the woman of the house, Mrs. Mazatoya. "Hello, Anna?" "Yes?" "Are you feeling well?" She peeked her head into the room. "Not really," Anna replied. "Okay, well, I'll make sure we have some meals brought up for you. Feel better." She shut the door. Anna wondered that such an industrious woman from such an industrious family would be so accepting of an excuse not to work. She heard another knock at the door. "Yes?" Eunice Mazatoya stuck her head in. "Would you like some tea?" "Yeah, yes, sure," replied Anna. Anna suddenly felt more energized and looked out the window, where she saw Brutus playing guitar under an orange tree. She suddenly felt a great need to be outside, and decided to take the back staircase, the same back staircase that she had taken to his room the night before, to the courtyard, in her pajamas. She entered the courtyard and felt the warm, golden glow of the sunlight, the small round pebbles beneath her, threatening her bare feet. She held a pale hand up to shield her eyes and realized that most days she didn't go outside at all. The cool morning breeze blew her hair off her shoulders and refreshed her. She suddenly wished that she had learned to ride horses. She breathed in deeply. "Hi," she heard. A beautiful young woman with rounded edges approached from the side. "Oh, hi!" she said. It was the girl who lived up the hill. "What, do you need something?" Anna wished she knew how to be more polite. The girl just shook her head and looked down at her hands, which held a note, before looking out at the orchard where Brutus sat playing, and suddenly Anna understood. This girl was there for Brutus, she had been called, this flutteringly feminine and gentle, selfless girl was enamored with an object like Brutus, callous and selfish and interested. When the girl looked at Anna, a whole world of hope and wonder in her eyes, she realized how alone she was, in this house. With the Mazatoya's. She saw the picture as it was being painted, and herself like a jarring red stroke in the upper left corner of the canvas. "You should go find him," Anna said. "I'm sure he's waiting for you." The girl smiled, and looked out distractedly. She began to walk, then to run, toward the orchard. Anna looked back up, at her room, at the window where she had sat earlier, at the window where Clara now sat spinning, at house she had lived in for quite a long time. She went back upstairs, and found tea made with fresh mint waiting for her. She took the wooden box out from under her bed and smoothed her hands over its polished lid, tracing the flowers and leaves, and for the first time, something popped within the mechanism and the box opened. Inside was a small piece of ribbon, and a note, that just said "go".

There is a box in my attic. It’s left alone for the most part. Tucked behind everything else. Still, sometimes I need to remind myself. On those days I go to the attic, take that box from its hiding place, and sit down in a chair across from an old mirror. It’s frame of brass and ivy. For the next few hours, I stare at what’s inside. It came from the first apartment I ever lived in. It was cheap and somehow still furnished. Everything being from the previous tenant, who clearly had a fascination with mirrors. Each room had one, caked in dust older than time itself. There were many shapes and sizes, the largest was in the living room and placed in front of the couch. The smallest a pocket mirror left in the bathroom drawer. All were decorated in brass and carved into intricate patterns of curling ivy. I first noticed the feeling there in that pocket mirror. Staring into its glass I swore I saw myself, but different. Something about it wasn’t right. I couldn't place it then. I started to notice that feeling in each of the mirrors framed with ivy. The one above the dining table killed my appetite, the one in the bathroom watched me as I showered, and the one in the bedroom gave me nightmares. The worst was the one in the living room. It was the most ornate of the mirrors. The frame was enthralling, vines twisting around every inch of it, some leaves twisted in front of the glass, frozen. Whenever I looked into it, that was when that feeling was at its worst. It was so deeply unnerving seeing every inch of me, and not being able to find out why it felt so wrong. After staring into that mirror and soaking in that feeling, I found what wasn’t right. It was the eyes. Not the shape or the color. No. It was the lack of life. Looking into the eyes of another you can tell they are alive, that they in turn can see the life inside you. These eyes were empty. Staring into them felt like staring into the depths of the darkest water. Anything could be hiding just beyond that veil of shadow, and you wouldn’t know until it was too late. I couldn’t stand to look at my reflection after that. I covered every mirror in a thick white sheet, even avoiding any I ran into outside. In those my eyes were normal, yet it only reminded me of the empty ones. I tried to get comfortable living like this, trying to forget why I covered them in the first place. The sheet only did so much. *Tap Tap Tap* The sound called to me on a sleepless night. Harsh light from my phone told me it was three in the morning. I tried to will myself to sleep. Closed my eyes. All I could see was that other pair staring back. I found myself in the kitchen with a glass of water. *Tap Tap Tap* Nothing dripped from the faucet in front of me. Each knob tightly closed. I pushed them further. They creaked and groaned under my hand. I looked up at the mirror, the one in the living room. I could see its sharp edges threatening to rip the sheet. All it would take is the slightest bit of dust and... *Tap Tap Tap* I couldn’t deny it any more. The mirrors, the sound, those eyes. Standing in front of the mirror, I grabbed the sheet gently. I took a breath in, and let it out. Took another in, and let it out. It only made the wait more unbearable. Gently, and slowly, so very slowly, I lifted the sheet. It got caught on one of the leaves as I pulled, making me lose my grip, but it was still enough for me to see. I stared into one eye, empty and cold. That thing stared back half hidden behind the dangling sheet. It had a single finger pressed up against the glass. I watched those eyes look back at me, into me. We stared like that for a long time. Waiting for one of us to do something, anything. It made the first move. Taking that finger off the glass, it reached for the sheet on its side. As it gripped onto the fabric, I could see the shape of its hand press into the sheet on my side. As the sheet fell, I saw the other eye. White, until it rolled back into its proper place. The thing was smiling now, it felt just as hollow as its eyes. The next few moments still aren’t fully clear to me. All I remember were hands pressed to my head, extreme pain, and a shattering sound. The next thing I remembered was being in a hospital bed, police sitting next to me. They had questions about the broken mirrors, the excess amount of blood, and the severed hand. They told me the blood and the hand matched me. Looking down I saw both hands, still securely attached. There is a box in my attic. It’s left alone for the most part. Tucked behind everything else. Still, sometimes I need to remind myself. On those days I go to the attic, take that box from its hiding place, and sit down in a chair across from an old mirror. It’s frame of brass and ivy. For the next few hours, I stare at what’s inside. It still bleeds.

“Ugh,” Hanna uttered under her breath. Her laptop charger had escaped the wall outlet yet again, as it had four times before that same day. Or was it night? She could not tell. As far as she was concerned, the library was her home now, its grayish-tan walls and dusty bookshelves emitting a strangely hospitable aura. Stretching like a contortionist, she maneuvered the plug back into the inconveniently-placed wall outlet. The charging light turned orange, and Hanna leaned back in her chair and sighed in relief. She looked at her watch; 4:00 AM, The writing in geometric font blazed at her bloodshot eyes. She sat there and simply stared at the numbers until they read, “4:03,” then swiftly got up and began to throw things into her backpack. “HOW,” she questioned aloud, clearly the only living person left in the library at this time. How did she do this? Did she fall asleep? Where did the time go? Hanna reflected on other events similar to this. She was known to fall asleep just about anywhere, and to get so caught up in her work she would forget the time. No matter. She just needed to get home and finish her essay, her grading for grad school, and bake a cake for her friend’s birthday party. She would be able to finish all that and get to class at 8 AM. Perfect! she thought. Hanna meandered through the rows of shelves, bumping into the occasional section of books. She was sure she knew how to get to the exit... Or was she? This was actually a different section of the library than she normally visited, and her three and a half hours of sleep from the night prior were finally catching up to her. But that was college! You were supposed to never sleep, survive on the pure sodium of ramen, and drink coffee instead of water. Right? “Hanna...” a faraway, raspy voice called. Hanna stopped in her tracks, a shiver running up and down her spine. Wow , she thought, I really need to get some sleep! She smiled and shook her head as she began to walk once again, trying to reschedule her night to include a one hour nap.. But as she continued her quest, sections of books that she swore were never there previously began to appear in her path. She tried to read what genres were on the signs, but she could not read them anymore. Each sign seemed to be written in Hieroglyphs, or Cuneiform, or some other ancient language unknown to her. “Haaannaaa,” a different voice, lower and weaker, beckoned to her. What she had formerly believed to be an auditory hallucination was now becoming more real by the second. Glancing behind her, she continued to walk, quickening her pace until she was striding, then running, then sprinting. Her aching bones and tingling muscles worked as hard as they could to carry her along as she ran, dodging falling books that fell from disturbed shelves. After what felt like a lifetime of running, Hanna screeched to a halt. In front of her was a door. But it was not like any other door in the library that she had seen. It was made of a darker, older wood than the others, and did not have a rectangular window with chicken wire on it. “What the-” she said under her breath. “Hanna,” a third, higher-pitched voice whispered behind her, and she decided it was not time to admire the door any longer. Faster than lightning could strike, she had grasped the golden handle, swung open the door, and thrown herself through it, slamming it behind her. She breathed in relief for only a second, and then absolute horror coursed through her body. Before her was a dark, dripping room full of moldy old bookshelves that towered above her. In front of her stood three figures, each shrouded in darkness. Her vision spun as she gazed upon them, thinking about how this would be her last night alive. “Who are you!” she managed to sputter out. The figures looked at each other, looked back at Hanna, then moved into the only dim light in the room, the source of which Hanna could not discern. When she saw them, she felt as if a cold hand had clasped her windpipe shut. The three souls stood in a row, sad eyes bulging out of pale, translucent-skinned heads. The grayish-pink of their brains shone through their skulls and fading skin, and their gaping mouths quivered, dry and decomposing. Hanna’s eyes traveled down to their hands, which each figure had folded politely in front of them. Their hands all bore the same translucent skin as the rest of their bodies, and Hanna could see thin, bony fingers with long, yellow, cracked nails. Some of the skin on their fingers had come off, and Hanna could see bloody bones. She suppressed the immediate urge to vomit, and instead wordlessly stared at the three figures, inspecting them individually. The person on the left wore a long, blue skirt and a white button-up polo shirt with a yellow sweater wrapped around her neck. Much of her hair had fallen out, but what was left was stringy, the color of urine, and pulled up into a high ponytail. Her faded blue eyes bore into Hanna’s very being, and protruded slightly from their sagging sockets. Hanna’s attention moved to the middle figure, who was holding a beat-up book with a maroon cover that looked as if it were from biblical times. She gasped and jumped back slightly as she inspected their face more closely. Their skin was the color of rice paper, and was sunken in so much that it seemed it was glued closely to their skull. Some bits of their skin had sunken in and opened up, like great craters on the surface of the moon. Shaking like a bad washing machine, Hanna adjusted her eyes and fixated on the third figure. He reached for something in his pocket, slowly and with great effort. He pulled out a most likely decades-old cardboard box, slid it open, and picked out a cigarette. With another trembling hand, the figure searched his pocket for a lighter, and pulled one out. The other two figures slowly rotated their rotting heads towards him, and stared disdainfully. He brought the lighter up to the cigarette, flicked it a few times, and seemed very confused when it refused to spark. The other two figures seemingly exchanged a look, then went back to peering woefully at Hanna. “Hello, dear,” the person in the middle finally said, speaking in one of the voices she had heard before. Their voice sounded even more dry than before, and Hanna shuddered. “Hi,” Hanna replied, eyes jolting every which way. She searched for an exit, any door she could possibly see. But there was no escape in sight. “Are you studying, too?” said the man on the right in his wispy tone. He flicked the lighter absentmindedly with his left hand. “Yes, I was studying Sociology and writing my essay on Aristotle,” Hanna responded, starting to feel eerily calm. “Aristotle! He is quite interesting,” the girl on the left said, smiling from cheek to cheek with black gums and corroded teeth. “I prefer Gorgias, myself,” the man said, glancing over at the ponytailed woman. She glared at him with sunken eyes. “Where AM I?” Hanna managed to ask. “Why sweetie, you’re Awakened,” the middle figure replied, smirking. “What does that mean?” asked Hanna, “And why me?” “Because,” the woman on the left chimed, “You’re dedicated.” “Dedicated?” Hanna responded. “Yes,” the man on the right added, “And that’s why you should stay here. We have all the knowledge we need, right here. We never sleep, we never eat, we never bathe. We have all we could ever ask for. Nothing else is needed but to KNOW. To be AWAKE.” Hanna was completely still now. What information lay in these tomes? What could she acquire from learning all these things? Would she discover something new in the name of Sociology? Would this finally get her the A+ she had been striving for since day 1? Since she knew how to think, speak, and write? “All you have to do is open a book,” said the middle figure, grinning with their disturbingly jagged teeth. Their black gums glinted at her. “How did you all get here?” Hanna asked. She felt off. Something was suppressing her normal inhibitions, and she couldn’t figure out what it was. Her brain felt strained, like she was thinking about imaginary numbers in Calculus. “Just open a book, honey. It will all be okay,” the man on the right added. The three began to walk slowly towards her. As the three loathsome learners closed in, her brain seemed to click back into place. “I think I’ll be going now,” Hanna stammered, backing up. The figures pressed in even more, their eyes glowing menacingly in the now inky darkness. Hanna did not care what was behind her. She kept backpedaling, and backpedaling, until she fell back, breath catching in her throat as she tried to scream. As she fell, she could see the faces of the three half-dead library enthusiasts gazing down at her. They all wore frowns on their moist, indented faces, and their brow bones drew together as they glared down at Hanna. She fell away, and only hit solid ground after a few feet. She blinked, and was back in the library. Sitting up, she looked at her surroundings rapidly. She found herself in the place where the door had been. It was no longer there. This did not surprise Hanna, but her body and mind were in shock from the entire experience. She pushed off of the rough, carpeted floor and took off running in the opposite direction. Instead of strange, unfamiliar bookshelves and sections seemingly materializing in front of her, this time she knew exactly where she was. Following her knowledge of the library’s interior, she took the exact directions she knew would get her out. She sent out a prayer to whatever forces would answer that she would make it to the front of the library and out the door. She went down a flight of stairs, and finally saw the large, glass doors of the library. However, she would not let herself be relieved yet. She had no clue how she was going to get out if the doors were locked. On her first try, the giant library door opened up, releasing her into the cold nighttime air. Hanna exhaled a huge sigh, and her breath vaporized. Never before had she walked home that quickly. The next day, Hanna emailed all of her teachers and supervisors that she would not be coming to classes. She texted her friends quick messages canceling her plans for the day. That day, she decided, would be completely for rest. From now on, her health and happiness was her top priority. Not school, not other people. Herself. And never, EVER, again would she find herself in the library at 4 in the morning, speaking to half dead students who had never made their way out of the trap of academia.

[FN] a four leaf clover Hi, I’m a four leaf clover. Over here! No, to the left. Your other left. Bingo. Here I am. It must’ve been difficult to find me, amongst these three leaf clovers, suffocating my beauty like a fire blanket. They spread rampant like weeds, don’t they? . I mean, okay, granted I am a clover as well, but I have 4 leaves. Count them if you don’t believe me. One, two, three, wait where’d my other- oh there you are, and four. It’s easy to get me confused with a three leafs, especially if you’re not looking hard enough. But you, you’ve found me. You are my knight that slayed the dragon, you can rescue me from this mundane ordinary tower and lift the curse of the malicious witch . I have been mistaken for a normal or cursed by the hatred. Sometimes I even worry if I actually have four leaves, being surrounded by the three leafs that I continue to keep count everyday. 4, 4, 4, 4 is the magic number. Why must my beautiful be bundled away beneath. I want to be seen! I am extraordinary and a treasure for men who seek, not men that lie. You must have an eye for greatness unlike these other men. Men who walked past me without a glance, who walked on top of me without an “Excuse me”, trampled me with their field games. The nerve! There was one who laid their hands upon me only to disgrace my unique beauty by making me his pillow. These three leaf clovers granted do make great pillows, but I however am a four leaf clover. I am to be held to the greatest honor, hoisted on a wall to be ogled. But instead they mistake me for one of THEM. How disgusting. How putrid. The clovers around will attempt to trick you and pretend that they too, have a fourth leaf but let me assure you, they are only facades. Somehow they’ve been managed to be picked before me, the real deal. But you, you see me as I really am. Yes lower your hands and pluck me out of this misery to leave behind all the three leaf clovers in the bed they have made. The clovers swayed in protest but I have graced this earth long enough. That bed is not for me, but I know you will give me a bed worthwhile . A bed for royalty as you can see I very much am. Wait, what are-, that hurts , OUCH. What are you doing? Are you some kind of savage? Who rips someone up by their stem, I have ROOTS you know. Oh, I’m fading, there won’t be left much of me once I’ve finally felt the honor i deserve. Why has my life been cruel? What will be my legacy but this fourth leaf of mine. Oh sweet leaf, you are special. But in the end, I am still only just a clover. I fed off the soil we shared together, yet I thought I was too good for your soil. And your bed is what has given me the nutrients to grow my fourth leaf. The fourth leaf that I owned and only I could own. What a wasted revelation as the young man has put me in his pocket now. I am no longer a four leaf clover , I am his.

The sun was dying. And that means our world was too. Some people believed that the sun would explode and we'd be in the blast radius with hardly any time to feel terror in our last moments of life. Others believed that it would just turn off, leaving plants to die and begin the collapse of the food chain which would lead to the painful starvation of the populace. And the wealthy of the world, with their vast resources, made plans. They created strongholds dug deep into the ground and stocked it with technologies that they hoped would allow them to live. They realized quickly that though they might survive, they would not live in the fashion they were accustomed to. So they recruited medical professionals, security, and various staff. These people they saved from the impending apocalypse for the price of servitude, not just of them but of their offspring. And so the stage was set. Not just for the destruction of the world as we know it, but for the violent end of the human race. It's been ten years since the sun went dark. As soon as the last ray of sunlight touched the earth, the underground habitats closed themselves off. Like Noah and those on the ark, those inside turned a deaf ear to the banging and screaming at their door. They comforted themselves with rhetoric and reason. Philip was a boy of five. He was born into a world of artificial light and indifference. His mother was a cleaner who worked punishing hours. He didn't know his father, but he heard things. Mean things whispered to his mother sometimes even in his presence. Most people ignored him, except when they needed him to crawl somewhere small to fix something. Most days, he was left alone. Which he preferred. He was responsible for his own care. He dressed and bathed himself. If he was hurt, he would attend to the wounds himself. If he didn't appear in the kitchens at meal times, no one would bring him food. His mother would stumble into their small room at the end of the workday and collapse on their shared bed. They were lucky to have some privacy. Most rooms housed several workers, but his mother was given a separate room when he was born because no one wanted to live with a screaming baby. At least that is what his mother told Philip. He had heard others give less kind reasons. Sometimes it made him angry and he cried great big hot tears. But people were cruel here and so he figured that even if there was some small truth to what they said, it didn't matter. His mother was good, no matter what had happened before he was born. He crawled out from the covers and pulled off her shoes. He brought her a roll he had saved from his dinner and poured her a small glass of water. She lay on her side, took great bites of the bread, and gulped the water down, almost choking. She fell back down immediately. Her eyes fluttered closed. Phillip pulled the blanket to cover her small frame and kissed her cheek. Her thin lips turned up into a sweet smile. “Thank you, my beautiful boy.” Philip petted her hair. “I love you, mama.” His mother being pulled quickly into slumber, gave her last bit of strength to mouth the words “love you too”. Then the little child climbed into the bed beside her curled close under the covers and slept without dreaming. The next day, Phillip woke to his still-sleeping mother. His eyes grew wide in fear. He shook her. “ Mama! Wake up! Wake up! You've overslept!” His mother groaned but didn't jump out of bed. Instead, she gave a wicked smile with her eyes still closed. “I wanted to surprise you. Today, I don't work. There was a lottery. Five workers would win a free day. And I won. It was just wonderful seeing the look of jealousy on that ugly face-,” she paused, sitting up to look into her son's eyes. “Can you imagine that hag implied that it was because of favoritism? But, let's forget her...Anyway, I won. Today, we can do anything you want.” Philip hadn't moved since his mom started talking. He was frozen from the shock of the news. He had never known his mother to take a day off of work except for illness and even then it was very rare. His mother’s smile faltered, worried that something was wrong with her son. She started to reach out to touch him when he finally moved and began to jump up and down on the bed. “Whoo hoo! Whoo hoo! This is the best day ever!” His mother beamed up at her little boy. It had been so long since she had seen him happy. She would do whatever she could to make today perfect for him. And It had been a perfect day. His mom pulled out her greatest possessions, five books. Even though Phillip knew each word by heart, he looked at each word carefully trying to memorize how each word looked. After each book was read, his mother quizzed him by pointing at random words to make sure he knew how to read them. They went down to the Kitchens for their meals and it was one of the cooks that slipped special treats into his mother's hands when no one was looking. She stuffed them into her pocket quickly and gave the man a bright smile. He blushed at her attention and then shooed them off before either of them would be noticed and reported. They played in the garden for a while. His mother wanted him to experience a little bit of what life on earth had been. She taught him how to play tag. She was his playmate as he was the only child in the working class. She trusted very few people, so she had the boy keep to himself as much as possible hoping that most would ignore him and that it might protect him from some of the horrors that she knew existed in this underground world. They ran until they were both winded and then laid down looking up toward the ceiling where someone had painted a sky and clouds. They ate the sweet confection given to them while sharing the shapes they imagined seeing in those clouds. Before falling asleep, they read through all the books again. This time his mother quizzed him on the spelling of some words. And when he was able to spell them all without error, she kissed the top of his curly head. They lay hugging in bed, but not yet sleeping. Neither wanted to end this day. Phillip pretended to sleep and looked through his eyelashes to watch his pretty mother. She looked down at her boy and there were tears in her eyes. He tried to stay awake just to see her for a little bit longer, but his eyelids were so tired and heavy. The next morning, it happened. Their room’s door had been kicked in and people spilled inside. His mother was dragged out of bed by her hair and forced from the room. Phillip sat on the bed shaking and crying out for his mother. The last thing she said was, “I love you, son.” The uprising continued for days. Phillip waited as long as he could, he hadn't eaten for so long and his water was all gone. Carefully, he stepped out from the cupboard that he hid in and began his journey to the kitchens. He stepped over splinters of wood that had once been the door to his room. The hallway was a mess. He could see that all the doors had been broken and there was glass everywhere. He peeked inside the rooms as he walked past but didn't stop. There was red splattered in many of the rooms and he moved quickly past those trying not to see more. It wasn't until he was in the kitchens that he began to look around. On the ground was the crumpled apron of the cook who gave treats to his mother. It was covered in blood. He knew what that meant. Philip found one of the large refrigerators. He opened it and took the nearest thing out which happened to be an apple. He bit into it. It was sweet and tart and the best thing he had ever eaten. He finished it in just a few moments and picked another fruit. He took a bite of the orange, rind and all. He spat it out and quickly figured out how to peel it to get to the tasty bits. Later, he found carrots and onions and ate several of them. In a nearby cupboard was some slightly stale bread and he devoured that as well. He finished his meal with three large glasses of water. For days, he never saw anyone. He wondered where everyone had gone. If everyone was dead. And if so, where were their bodies? He began to search and found an open doorway that he'd never been through. He followed it until he came to a locked security door. It's there that he saw someone. Oblivious to the child who stood a few yards away, the man tried unsuccessfully to reach his hand through one of the small openings in the security gate. He was dirty and bloody, his clothing torn and stained. He stops when he sees Philip. For a moment he just blinked in surprise. “Hi there. Hey there kid. Hi.” The man gives a too-big smile. “I'm really hungry. I haven't eaten for days and I need your help. This door is locked and I can't get in. See that latch right there? It's super easy. Just push that and the door can open right up. Yeah?” The boy doesn't move. ‘Don't be scared. I'm really nice. My name's Brad. What's your name?” “Phillip.” “Phillip? Phillip?... You're Molly's son. Yes, that's right. I know your mom.” “She's gone.” “Yeah? You're all alone? Well, I can take care of you.” He got on his knees and pushed his face into the gate looking sincere. “Cuz...cuz I'm your dad. I know you don't know me. But we're family. And family helps each other out. You open up this door and we will go looking for your mom. And then we can be a real family. You and your mom could come to live with me in a nice place with lots of toys. You’d like that wouldn't you?” “How come you never came before?” Brad signed frustrated and spoke low, looking down.“I couldn't ...for... some grown-up reasons.” The man looks up to see that the boy isn't impressed with that response. He continued. “You're mom and me...well we broke the rules. We weren't supposed to be together. When the authorities found out, they sent your mom to work down here. I didn't know about you for a long time. And then I figured it was for the best that I stay away.” He looked imploringly at Phillip. “But now I know that I was wrong. I should have come to see you.” Phillip moved a step closer and Brad didn't hide his eager expression. The little boy looked him dead in the face. “Someone said that you hurt my mom. That you made her do something she didn't want to...and that's why she had me.” The blood drained out of Brad’s face. “No. No. I never hurt her.” “I don't believe you.” Each word from the small mouth was emphasized, heavy with disdain. Brad's lip curled in anger. He lunged forward trying to grab at the boy. “You little shit! Open this door right now! Right now!” Phillip stumbled back at the sudden change in demeanor but righted himself quickly. Without another word, he turned around and walked back to his room. He heard the angry screams turn into pleading, but he didn't go back. He would never open that door. Not for the man who hurt his mother. Never.

: *In an alternate future, it is now February 2024 and Wesley "Wes" Carter-Wright, 41, a black Canadian-American of Central African descent who is a hotelier and property developer and one of the first black people to be publicly worth more than ten billion US dollars, is preparing to launch the first capsule of his first modular orbital hotel - that is, until a surprising event occurs.* The makeup artist smiled at Wes and completed the finishing touches to his face and neck. "Okay, Mr Carter-Wright, we're ready for you now," a tall and thin Indian woman - who was nearly as tall as Wes, standing at nearly 1.87 meters tall - waved over to him. She motioned to the seat in front of the curved table in the middle of the studio. The lights were on and four automated cameras were lined up around it. Charles Craven, the famous host of *Craven At Nine*, beamed grandly at Wes, his white teeth and golden skin exuding confidence and magnanimity. "Good to have you here, son!" He exclaimed as Wes sat down next to him. "On in five, sir!" A robot announcement echoed overhead and its echoes bounced around the studio. Craven gave a thumbs-up - to no-one in particular, given that most of the studio's workers were robots or everything else was automated and controlled by *Minerva*, the smart AI system NBC and Fox used in their studios now. Wes cleared his throat. "Um...Charles, you remember that I requested no questions about my grandparents, yes." Craven nodded, still beaming widely and gave another thumbs-up - this time to the automated camera furthest to his left. Green lights flashed and the live television interview began. "Okay, viewers, I'm joined here by Wisconsinite Wesley Carter-Wright who is probably one of the richest Americans today - and certainly the richest Wisconsinite, I can tell you that for sure!" *Automated laughter.* Wes smiled and Charles began to ask benign questions. As the time passed, the questions became more sensitive, but Wes was sure Craven would not forget his request. So, Wes responded amicably and talked about how he left his well-paid IB role at Dreyfus Arnaud aged 25 and teamed up with three friends from college to start up a small property development firm. "It was difficult at first, but we managed to get a large loan through a relative of one of the partners and we fixed up the property ourselves and sold it at a profit." "Wow!" Craven grinned. "And this was in Nevada, right?" Wes nodded. "Yes, first one was just outside Henderson. Large mansion, with a small pool. Sold for six million." "And it was obviously onwards and upwards from there?" Automated applause rang out across the studio and one of the automated cameras moved in to zoom into Wes' face. So, the live television interview was completed without a hitch and Wes thanked Craven. Wes had been advised by his PR team to take part in *Craven At Nine*, so he'd reluctantly accepted the invite, especially with Forbes now listing him on their website as one of America's richest men. Later that day, Wes had flown over to Salt Lake City and was now sat in the penthouse office of his space hotel company, based just outside Logan, about eighty miles north of Salt Lake City. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the furthest end of his office and took in the breathtaking views of Mount Logan. He had just been having a meeting with Rufus Turner and Mike Jefferson, the co-executives of *Wyke Interplanetary*, the rocket company which would be shooting the first capsule of Wes' modular space hotel into orbit. The launch - over in New Mexico - was scheduled for next week Sunday - weather permitting - and Wes couldn't be more excited. The global media had been talking about it for the last week and interest generated was huge. As long as everything went according to plan, by December 2024 *Pentagon Space* - the space arm of his hotel chain, *Pentagon Hotels* - would have its first modular space hotel up and running in orbit over Earth and it would be the first functional, safe and sanctioned hotel in orbit over Earth to date. A notification beeped behind him. He waved his hand and his HoloTable lit up and became opaque. "Go ahead." The smooth female AI voice replied immediately. "Mr Carter-Wright, you have mail marked as urgent, signed with the seal of The Global Environmental Authority; an automated video accompanies it." Wes frowned. It was strange to be receiving contact from them at this time. The planning application had since gone through long ago. "Open," he said. A silver robot head emerged from below his HoloTable and the diamond emblem of the GEA flashed briefly. "*Good afternoon, Mr Carter-Wright. This is an automated messsage sent from the Office of Planning of the Global-*" Wes waved his hand and fast-forwarded the automated robot message. "*Pursuant to Clause 5.9, subsection 3 of the Earth Environmental Code of Conduct of Space, planning permission for Ark One of Pentagon Space...has been revoked.*" Wes stared at the automated robot in shock. "What? I-" "*The accompanying formal document has been forwarded to you over HoloMail. Do you have any questions? Please note that my responses are limited only to the contents of the letter.*" Wes blinked and tried to gather his thoughts. "Uh...yes, I- What are the contents of Clause 5.9, subsection 3?" The holographic image flickered for a second and then the automated robot responded automatically. "*If any party directly connected to an application for planning permission - even if the application has already been accepted and successful - is found to be in breach of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Agreement and the Global Code of Conduct on Global Financing at any time prior to the submission of an application or during the period where an application is being reviewed, planning permission shall be revoked immediately.*" Wes stared in shock and horror. "Who...which party is in breach?!" Wes didn't understand. *Pentagon Space* was still a space startup. It did not use any nuclear material yet nor did it have any plans too. None of this made any sense. The robot was silent for second. "*Mike Jefferson, Chief Execute of Wyke Interplanetary.*" Wes frowned, even more shocked and confused. "Why?! What did he do?! Is it something to do with *Wyke Interplanetary*?!" "*Mr Carter-Wright, my responses are limited only to the information at hand.*" "How is Mike Jefferson in breach?" The robot answered immediately. "*Confirmed intelligence shows that Wyke Interplanetary secretly bought nuclear material from a blacklisted corporation during the period Pentagon Space's planning application was being reviewed. Wyke Interplanetary did not notify the relevant authorities of this purchase.*" Wes shook his head in shock. "*Whilst you may appeal this decision at any time, please note that due to the nature of everything in Clause 5.9, an appeal requesting for permission to be reinstated will be denied if the linked party responsible for the revocation of permission in the first place is still listed on the application.*" The accompanying document flashed up on his HoloTable and he waved the automated robot away. Wes stared at the document and could not believe his eyes. It was in-depth and went into detail. It outlined what was responsible for the revocation of permission and the blacklisted corporation *Wyke Interplanetary* had bought nuclear material from. The executives at *Wyke Interplanetary* would also be receiving notifications now as well. He'd have to have a long and heated conference with them. Wes slammed his fists down on the physical table near his HoloTable in anger. There'd be no launch next week; there'd be no Pentagon Space hotel for the foreseeable future. He'd now be locked into a battle with *Wyke* and be tangled in wranglings over payments and blame; he'd also have to find a new company to launch his modules into orbit or consider the Chinese backup he'd put on the back burner early last year and then he'd have to submit a new planning application all over again. "Dammit," he hissed. *Pentagon Space* would no longer be the first working hotel in orbit over Earth, for Hawthorne Orbital was poised to launch their own hotel into orbit in June later this year. Wes shook his head. His dream had been dashed in a heartbeat.

“This never would have happened if you would have just-” “What! If I would have just what, Linn? Please oh please, enlighten me of all of my shortcomings up until this moment!” “Hey! I am trying my best over here! You think if I could go back and change everything I wouldn’t?” “Just admit that some of this is your fault too! It's not all me!” “Oh really? We’d be a happy family right now if you wouldn’t have always put work first all the time, and maybe you could have paid attention to the kids at all? Not just thrown presents and money at them as a sorry for missing every basketball game and birthday?” “At least I was doing something to support us! Sorry I couldn’t be there at e avery stupid little legue soccer game, I was busy making sure they didn’t starve!” “Don’t pretend we were ever going to starve! I bring in an income too, you know! And-” “Oh, now that ridiculous little Etsy shop is a source of income now? I thought we both decided a long time ago painting portraits for the internet wasn’t a reliable source of money!” “It became one! You just wouldn’t know because you haven’t even talked to me in weeks! Half that money went into the kids college funds.” “I thought we decided the kids wouldn’t get handouts when they went to college! That they would find scholarships or pay for it on their own?” “That was always a ridiculous idea and you know it! You were just too cheap to put aside money from every paycheck that you couldn’t use! Well now you have your stupid wish, you don’t have to put three kids through college anymore-” “Hey! That’s not fair!” “It is fair! Money was always more important to you. You didn’t go to Erica’s daddy daughter days at school, you didn’t see Tyler take his first step, you didn’t watch Alex start in his first high school football game, and now look! There's no more do-overs. You can’t go back in time and sit at his parent teacher conferences, or give him a hug when he graduates, you can’t pick him up from school and listen to him tell you about his day. Those opportunities are gone! You’ve got two other kids but hey, you can just pretend that this never happened and redeem yourself with them. But I’ll know. They won’t remember how you forgot they existed until Alex died, but I’ll know.” “I am not-I am not like that! I loved Alex! Just like I love Erica and Tyler and... it's not my fault that work is so time consuming! And it's not my fault that he died! Stop blaming me!” “No, it's not your fault that he died. You didn’t tell him every teenage boy goes out, drinks and has a one night stand, just don’t be stupid like you were, right? You didn’t tell him to take his car to impress the girls, or that being a teenager is the time to be crazy and have fun being irresponsible while you still can, before you hate your ‘life and your wife’, right? No, it couldn’t be your fault he died. You didn’t text him any of that, did you?” “You-you looked through his phone! You are not blaming me now, you’re just bitter you were a stupid teenage girl who got pregnant with a man you’d just met and you’re mad you're stuck with me. I could have left you and Alex with nothing but no! I worked for you two to survive while you grieved your lost childhood! I lost my childhood too!” “You were 25! You were almost done with college and I was a naive 18 year old college freshman! I was drunk! And don’t you dare switch this up on me. Alex didn’t get a girl pregnant, Mark. Alex crashed your precious mustang, sometimes I wonder if you’re grieving the investment you made in that dumb first car than you are for your own son!” “I am grieving the loss of my oldest child! I don’t care about the car! I don’t care about the $90 whiskey he took with him to that dumb homecoming party! I don’t care about anything other than the fact that my son is dead! And it is not my fault! How could I have known that telling him to have fun was going to kill him!” “But it did, didn’t it!” “You haven’t been a model mother either, have you? You’ve-” “No! I don’t want to hear about how because I was horribly depressed over dropping out of college to raise my son and marrying a man who has been involved with three women on the side since we got married 17 years ago! Don’t tell me about my shortcomings, I was there for every moment of their lives. Every scrape on the knee, every school project, every victory dinner after a football game. I have been living virtually by myself with a senior in high school, a 3rd grader, and a toddler and they made every day feel worth living! And yes, sometimes I would drown and forget to send Erica a juice box in her lunch or have to yell at Alex for not cleaning his room, but I was trying! And that’s more than you can say! I don’t blame you for Alex’s death, I just blame you for only deciding to show up after he was gone.” “Do you think I wanted it this way? Do you think I wanted him gone? That I wanted to be gone so much? I saw those women because you cared more about the kids than you did about me!” “Don’t you dare say that to me. I showed up first to that hospital to tell him goodbye. The moment I got the call. You were with her two hours away. You can admit it. Because I know.” “So what if I was! All that matters is that I left her! That I’ll be here from now on. Isn’t that what you want?” “No Matt. What I want is for you to get out of my life. I want a divorce. I want to bury my son, and I want you out. I don’t care if we have to split up the kids on weekends and weekdays and you fight to see them for holidays. Hell, I don’t care if you never see my children ever again, marry one of those women you love more than me, have children with them and pretend the last 18 years of your life never even happened. I don’t care! I just want to grieve my son!” “This never would have happened if you would have just-” “What! If I would have just what, Mark? Please oh please, ‘enlighten’ me! No. I’m packing the kids up and going to my mom’s until this is all figured out. For now, I can’t even look at you anymore. See you at the funeral. If you feel like that’s an important enough thing to go to. If not, I’m sure Alex would enjoy a gift with an ‘I’m sorry I’m working, champ’ text. I’m sure that will fix this." "Linn, wait," "Goodbye Mark."

My mother died when I was nine. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this now, today. Not that I’ve never thought about this before. It’s just that nothing happened today. I woke up. I sat on the couch for an hour. I checked my mailbox around noon: nothing. I watched the clouds roll by to the droning of the television. I’m not even sure what it was that was on. Some game show or other shit program that advertises false happiness for free. I’m so fed up with wealth being the only source of happiness that’s feasible anymore. But everyone thinks that, don’t they? I can’t even be original with my angst. Not that I was original in anything I’ve done thus far with my life. See, my mother died when I was nine. I’ve already said that, but the point is I never quite came to terms with it. I woke up in September, and she was dead. Car accident. Not that the cause is really important. The end result is always the same. And like I said, I never really dealt with this. I was nine. What nine year old can comprehend death? What third grader can grasp the idea that their mother stopped living? She’s gone, they told me. She’s in heaven. I remember looking up the directions to heaven that night. Why did she go, and not bring me? When is she coming home? Mommy is never coming home, they said. Well, never is a long time. Never hasn’t come and gone yet, not for me. And see, I struggled with this concept for a long time. And as a nine year old trying to come to grips with his and everyone else’s mortality, I wasn’t very fun to be around. I grew up with no real friends, just people I talked to on occasion. That kid in the back of the class that everyone whispered about and avoided in the halls? That was me. My father tried to help, at least. He tried to get me interested in sports. He’d take me outside to throw a football. I pretended to be interested. I tried really hard to be enthusiastic about something, anything. But really, what was the point? We all live; we all die. It’s a useless cycle of oxygen exchanged with carbon dioxide. Eventually we all become food for trees. Apathy had a stranglehold, and it wasn’t letting go. I tried therapy. They told me I was depressed, so I tried antidepressants. They just made me anxious. I tried writing, but I was never any good. Everything came out stiff. I tried learning an instrument but my fingers never moved the way I wanted them to. Eventually even my father gave up on me. So forgive me if I don’t believe you when you say you care. When your father gives up you, you’re at the bottom. That’s really just it. And what’s sad, what is so fucking pathetic, is that none of this is unique. Do you know how many assholes have lived this same life? This apathy isn’t original, it’s cliché. I’m just a sad speck in the spectrum of grey nothingness that is the universe. And today, nothing happened. I woke up; I lived; I sighed; I gave up. My dog hasn’t even looked at me today. Aren’t dogs supposed to sense emotions and respond appropriately? Maybe it’s because I’m not sad. I’m not angry. I’m not anything. I just am. I exist. Who cares? Not my dog, not my father; not my mother, that’s for damn sure. So the sun set today, like it has every day in history, and I sat down at my desk. This time I’m not writing for catharsis. I’m not writing to get better. I’m writing so you understand why. And tomorrow the sun is going to rise. Just like today, the day that nothing happened. Just like that day in September when I was nine and my mother was dead. And tomorrow, something might happen, just not for me.

Once upon a time, when I was a fierce Product Manager, I was invited to the Company's Top Hundred annual meeting. Neither I nor any of my group colleagues - invited as well- were part of such a select group, but our manager had decided that year to do a bit of self-promotion and convinced the organization that we were worthy of being included. So when the day arrived, we were there, the top hundred, a few organizers, and the ten extra-worthy ones, in a remote location, surrounded by greenery and chirping birds, ready to discuss the organization's mission and vision during the day and drink and eat at night. One of the first topics of the day was the human side of the business or, better said, the classification of the humans in that room. A few days before, we had worked on a questionnaire to give us (and those around us) an idea of our character and traits as professionals. The results were supposed to divide the group into a healthy mix of "personality colors" because mixed organizations should be better performers. There should be "Red": aggressive and goal-oriented. "Blue" were the calm ones, detail-oriented. "Yellow" were the energetic fellows who pulled everyone to work with smiles and enthusiasm. And finally, "Green" were the empathetic people who would build bridges, able to listen and process emotions and information. So we filled in all the questions days before and waited patiently for the results of the workshop morning when the organizers distributed letters around. Then, they asked us to identify ourselves with the round sticker in the letters on our shirts. Everyone opened the envelopes, and shortly after, the colorful dots started to pop up: red, red, red, red... everything was red. There was only a green one, the human resources representative, a little woman, who wore her little green dot like a champion for the two days we were offsite. After discovering that most of us were alpha-to-be, aggressive, and goal-oriented, it was a challenge for each of us to let go of our objectives and dreams. The real test came when we were asked to work in teams (very homogeneous teams). The day, which had started with nervous energy and pride in being in a place where I was not supposed to be, continued with the discussion of the different business segments' values and goals for the following years. I found myself in a group with Mr. Bright, the owner of the newest and most future-oriented group of products, and a couple more people working in other areas of the Company. The segment I was responsible for had the most significant market volume. Still, some people considered it old-fashioned and "easy" compared to the newest technologies. But before I could introduce myself, it was clear none mattered. When we were about to introduce ourselves to the work team, it seemed there was a contest to see who had the "biggest one," and I had been somehow disqualified from the competition before even saying my name. Together with the Human Resources lady, I was one of the two women in the room, and the men around (the ones who did not know me before that day) were amazed when they saw the red circle in my shirt. "Red?" asked Mr. Bright. "Expecting something else?" I replied. "It does not help diversity," he said, smiling at me before walking away to speak with someone else. The rest of the day was not much better. Whenever I tried to speak up, the others buried me in questions and doubts. After all, my work was easy, and Mr. Bright's products were the pride of the Company. It did not matter that my segment was the cash cow, the one paying for other projects. To them, I had an easy life. I should smile more and be more... green. By the end of the afternoon, we presented the results of our discussions, and what a session that was, with everyone trying to speak over the others, joking about the value of this and that, showing how valuable each and everyone was for the organization... It was a nightmare, but it was over. Or that's what we thought. After several rounds of presentations, the organizers announced a surprise for us. They led us to the main room of the convention center and asked us to take our seats. As we settled in, our attention was drawn to a massive curtain and a pair of overly enthusiastic individuals in front of it. The curtain was dramatically pulled back, revealing our surprise: a group of horses, each attached to a small chariot, lined up on the other side of the glass. "Today, you'll race," said one of the organizers. Hundreds of people sitting in that room looked at each other like they had seen a UFO. Fifty-five chariots with fifty-five horses waited for us. Before we were asked to meet our new afternoon companions, we were told what we were supposed to do. "You'll be paired. Each chariot will have a driver in front and a steer person in the back. You will do a first round of recognition with the horse owner and a second round on your own. You'll be timed, and the team with the best time will be the champions." No one moved. My nervous energy from the beginning of the day was long gone. Right there, the only thing I had was much closer to a panic attack. When the organizers started calling for the sets of two names that would join each horse, I never thought the other person to ride with would be my biggest issue... until I heard his name. Mr. Bright smiled at me, and when he was near enough, he put his hand on my shoulder and, in the most condescending tone ever imagined, told me: "Don't worry, I will care for everything; you don't need to be scared." At that very moment, I felt my blood boiling, but I said nothing. I smiled back and walked with him outside to meet our new team partner. Growing up, I had no pets and never experienced "country life." I had seen horses close before, but those beasts- despite being magnificent- never made me desire to take riding lessons or care of them. Next to the horse was its owner, a calm middle-aged man who told us that if we took care of the horse, the horse would take care of us. I thought then that the man was selling his product too optimistically, but after a few not-so-glorious discussions that day, I kept my opinion to myself and sat by his side in the chariot to start the recognition ride. When the horse started to move, the sun was shining, and there was a light breeze and a few clouds in the sky. We rode in dirt paths and crossed little creeks; we moved below trees and saw birds and squirrels above us. It felt nice, almost peaceful... until it stopped and the man asked us to choose who would be on top. I was already sitting by his side, so, in a very casual way, I picked the reigns and didn't let go of them even when Mr. Bright told me it would be better if he drove. I did not move; I just smiled and told him to get ready to start. It was funny to see his face. It almost felt like no one had ever told him "no" to anything. When we were waiting for the sign to start, I realized the weather was changing. There were more clouds, darker. The wind was not a light breeze anymore but something much stronger. The trees looked like they were dancing to a violent tune, and the birds seemed disoriented, but I did not care. I was laser-focused on driving that chariot and having the best time ever. Another horse stopped by our side, and a few seconds later, I heard a "go"... and we... didn't. I did what I had been told, but the horse did not move. Our neighbors in the race were long gone when I finally made the horse move, but not even in a straight line. The horse, utterly uninterested in whatever I told him or commanded, did zig-zag across the field, peed, and stopped to eat grass. At the same time, Mr. Bright started screaming because I was "doing it all wrong," and when I was about to reply to him with what I thought about his behavior, the horse ran. The animal did not gently move or pick up its pace. No, it ran as if a bee had just stung him, and it did not matter what I said or yelled at that magnificent creature: it just carried us along. I had branches hitting my head, it started to rain, and my partner, Mr. Bright, did not seem as cheerful and confident as before. When we arrived at the creeks, the water splashed everywhere, and from then on, I heard a weird "chouf, chouf" for the rest of the trip. I tried to gain control, but it was in vain, and at a certain point on the way, I just convinced myself we would only stop whenever the horse wanted... and so it was. The animal did the whole route as it wished to, and when it saw the green spot where we had started, it suddenly reduced the speed and moved with such gracious movements that no one could understand why we were in such a disgraceful shape. When we stopped, I did not see Mr. Bright. He was not in the little platform behind me. I looked again and saw him on the ground, secured to the back of the chariot, all muddy and bad-tempered. He stood up, furious, and walked towards me, mumbling something (probably not nice) when the organizer of the race came to us, microphone in hand, euphoric first, surprised when he saw the mud monster by my side: "Oh my God, you were awesome! We've never seen such a fast race! How did you do it?" I was about to start laughing, but then I saw the red dot on my shirt, covered in mud. I removed the little sticker and looked at the horse. "Teamwork, I guess," I said, and everyone around started to clap and cheer.

One year one room one me The room is a rectangle with two 10 feet long walls and two 15 feet length walls. There is one window about 7 feet up from the floor on one wall and a sky light right in the middle of the ceiling. There is a door that that has been locked for what seems like forever. I have a twin-size bed, a night table, a small lamp on the night table, 5 changes of clothes, a sink and a toilet like those in a prison cell, one cup a area rug, 12 books, 12 notebooks, 2 pens, and 1 pair of moccasins slippers. There is a TV built into on of the walls but it only comes on three hours a day and if I have done something that is considered to be bad it doesn’t come on at all. About 11 and a half months ago I had gotten a call from a friend asking me to go check on one of their clients. My friend is a social worker and lives about 3 hours from my old home. They had gone on vacation and while away gotten what seemed like a distress call. Since I also use to work in the field of social services I agreed. I had gone to the address and knocked on the door. A smartly dressed middle age woman had answered when I rang the doorbell. I introduced myself and explained that are mutual friend was very concerned about her and had asked me to drop by. The woman sigh and invited me in. She offered me some teas and explained that a year ago she had lost here daughter. I could see the tears staring to well up in her eyes so I accepted her offer and came in. She prepared the tea and explained that her daughter had left home to live with her boyfriend. After they had been together for a while, she had gotten pregnant. When she told him, he had become enraged and shot her. When the police arrived, he had taken his own life. I was feeling a little overwhelmed. The woman had gentle patted my hand. “You know dear she would have been about your age if she had lived.” That was the last thing I remembered. I blacked out. Sometime later I woke up in the god forsaken room. I was sure she had drugged me because I had a killer headache. Of course, I banged on the door. Tried everything I could thing of to open it but no luck. I had yelled to I couldn’t yell anymore. My phone and purse were gone. Everything I had worn had been removed and replaced with one of my new outfits. I had studied the room and when I found the note books made a note of the day and time I had arrived. That how I knew that I had been in here for almost year. Somehow once a day, when I was asleep, food would be brought into the room. At first, I thought that drugs were being but into the food so I stopped eating but I still became sleep. Then I released that some form of sleeping gas was released into to room. I could mark day and night by the window and sky light as well as the seasons. I never heard anything expect when the tv came on. I was always some kind of history or national geographic series. I had read the book a number of times. There was the works of Shakespeare, a bible, works of Edgar Allen Poe, Sherlock Holmes, some Jane Austin, and the rest were books of poetry. God how I wished for a newspaper or a magazine even the national enquire would have been nice just so I could know what was going on in the rest of the world. I had developed an exercise routine to keep myself fit. It also helped me work of my anxiety. Physically exercise in the morning, mediation in the afternoon, and running in place before going to bed. There were so many things I longed for. A hop bath or shower instead of washing up in the sink. Some junk food and candy. I think I might of sold my sold to the devil for a drink. I kept trying to figure out why know one was looking for me. Making up stories of what the woman had said when the did try to find me. I wondered what she had done with my car and other personal belongings. I had developed a theory that she was pretending I was her dead daughter and she was trying to keep me safe. In two more days, it would be exactly one year since this event had occurred. I decided to reread my journals. I was astonished to see how much I had changed; my beginning entries has ben filled with anger and resentment. I had one note book for each month and was coming to end of that last one. I had no idea what would happen when the last one was filled with writing. Would I get more. Or would my lie be ended. I had written a number of entries about that in my more morbid phase. Over the most recent month I had become very reflective of my own life. I had written about what I want to do if I ever got out of this hell hole. Something was different today, The Tv hadn’t come on at its usual time. I knew I had done anything consider bad because I had a whole list of what that was. Yelling, trying to get out or escape, Destroying or damaging things in the room, harming myself. Or not taking care of myself. I started hearing a strange sound like a large truck. I got closer and louder. The I could hear people yelling. I jumped onto the bed and remand very still. I sounded like there was a machine digging. The I saw the door shaking, then a loud crash and the door fell down in to the room. My eyes blinked and filled with tears but I couldn’t speak. Two police officers, one male and one female were standing in the door way. They walked slowly into the room speaking in soothing tones. I can’t for the life of me remember what they said. The gentle helped get up of the bed and walked me out the door. As I looked back, I saw that from the outside the room looked like a bunker with most of it buried in the ground. I was taken over to a waiting ambulance and rushed to a near by hospital. After a thorough exam a psychiatrist came in. He asked how I was doing and said all of my physical test had showed me to be in good health. He explained that my friend had received a letter from the woman who had taken me captive. She explained that she was only doing it to protect from the evils that could befall a woman, much like what had happened to her own daughter. She also explained that she original planned to do all this to my friend. She closed the letter with directions to my location and a suicide note. I became very still and aske the psychiatrist why had no one tried to find me. He told me they did but when they had gone to the woman house, she had told them, “Oh yes lovely lady. She did stop by but told me she was on here way to visit relatives. We tried contacting all of your know relatives and know of them had heard or seen you. When we went back to the lady’s house, she was gone. You friend never gave up looking for you. I took a deep breath and a nurse walking in with a large milk shake, a double whooper, and some onion rings. That when I lost it. I started shaking and sobbing until the gave me a sedative. One year one room and one me.

“So!” Kiernan’s shoulder rocked hard into Imryn as he threw himself down on the bench. “What are the odds that Cyneric actually shoots at the target this year?” Imryn’s retaliatory shove sent his much slighter brother tumbling down to catch himself on his forearm. Not one to take that lying down, Kiernan kicked Imryn’s shin. Imryn pinched his little brother’s ticklish side and barely dodged a fist to his own ribs. A cough from Esme made them both look up at their sister seated a row above them, and her disapproving glower put an end to their wrestling. Such childish play was unbefitting for two grown princes who were third and fourth in line for the throne. At least, as long as they were in public. Everything was fair game in the privacy of their house, and Kiernan’s mischievous grin told Imryn that this wasn’t over. Offering his hand to pull his brother back up, Imryn answered as though there had been no interruption, “I don’t think they would let our brother compete again if he threw the game this year. Even with Aurelia and Lady Isolde vouching for him, they barely let him shoot today.” Kiernan snorted, soothing his elaborately embroidered tunic back into place. “These are games in honor of Lady Isolde,” he said. “Do you really think the Mistress of the Hunt would allow her favorite Hunter to be banned?” “Isolde is not the only immortal present,” Esme murmured. Her dark eyes were fixed on the darker form of Lord Cassander lounging next to his bright brother, Lord Declan. This was the immortal’s first appearance in public since King Eamon’s youth. Most of the people had no memory of him and knew him only from hushed stories around the hearth that warned children not to wander far or the Lord of the Night may snatch them away. The immortal's imprisonment for his crimes against their people would not last forever, the elders warned. Lord Declan favored his brother and would not see him punished long. They had been correct. Lord Cassander watched the proceedings curiously as the archers stepped up to their starting lines. An amused, bemused little smile tugged at his lips. He leaned in, as Imryn watched, to whisper something in his brother’s ear, drawing out a laugh that rang like windchimes across the stadium. It was the perfect picture of a benevolent god indulging his silly little devotees in their efforts to please him as they ran around beneath him. Imryn might even have believed it, if it wasn’t for the shade of grief and fear that darkened his grandfather’s eyes every time Lord Cassander was mentioned. King Eamon had lived his childhood under the unchecked reign of the Dark Emperor. As much as he strove to put on a welcoming show, Imryn sat close enough to the throne to see his trembling hands. “Cyneric will shoot straight for sure, this time,” Kiernan predicted. He, too, had followed Esme’s gaze to Lord Cassander. Turning his head sharply away from the lordly pair, Imryn grinned at his own little brother. “Oh, he always shoots straight,” he said. “It just depends on what he’s aiming for!” Kiernan threw his head back with a golden, tinkling laugh of his own. Esme shook her head in disgust at the both of them and sat up straight as the starting bell rang. In the first few rounds, targets were set close, and the rings of the bullseye were wide. Cyneric had passed these levels before he even reached Imryn’s shoulder; there was no chance he would miss them now. Neither, for that matter, would their cousins Aurelia and Evander. The three of them stood next to each other in the center of the line, commanding all attention as scions of the royal house. Imryn watched the spectators while he waited for the more difficult rounds. The two day Festival of the Hunt was one of their people’s most treasured holidays, and the capital always swelled almost beyond capacity for the celebration. Every venue was filled to maximum capacity. Yet there were empty spaces on the benches. Kiernan sat close enough that the shoulders brushed not because he was shoved against Imryn by other people, but because he wanted to (because he felt safer when he was closer to his big brother). The crowd should be boisterous and rowdy. Last year, Imryn had been called halfway through the contest to try to help contain their enthusiasm as they jostled against one another to point out particularly impressive shots, hooted their approval or hissed jeering boos, and surged to their feet to stomp and pound their fists against their chests. A polite smattering of applause graced the first whistle of arrows through the air. People whispered their delight or discontent into each other’s ears rather than allowing it to burst forth. The reason why was no mystery: even the most chary of the audience couldn’t help but dart discreet glances towards Lord Cassander. Often, their eyes would then drift over to their own king, sat just a row below the immortal. King Eamon’s expression was as serene and jovial, as keen for sport and entertainment, as it was every year. Their people instinctively relaxed at his easy affability. Imryn saw the crow’s-feet at the edges of his grandfather’s eyes deepen, and his foot tap in stress. Eamon may not want to alarm their people, but his apprehension couldn’t be hidden from his closest family. It was so obvious, in fact, that Crown Prince Bellamy, Imryn's father, had insisted upon claiming a spot just a few seats away from both his father and the immortals in the box reserved for royalty. Free-spirited and impatient with court protocol, Bellamy usually preferred to join the crowd and leave his father and siblings to deal with visiting dignitaries alone. The fact that he had stationed himself so close to King Eamon had not gone unnoticed by their people. Many did a double take on catching sight of his resplendent crimson robes among the other, more demurely dressed lords, and they murmured to their neighbors. Bellamy’s sharp eyes followed the same path as Imryn’s across the crowd. Their gazes met briefly, and Imryn saw his own grim understanding of the situation reflected in his father. The bell for the fifth round startled Imryn into glancing back towards the field, surprised at the quick progression of the contest. The first rounds always dragged on to accommodate the children and beginners who wished to participate. The rows of archers had looked full earlier, but clearly fewer people had volunteered than Imryn thought. The real contest started at this point, and the rules of play slightly changed so that each marksman was now allowed only thirty seconds to take their shot. Fast paced and high stakes, the last few rounds were the most anticipated event of the entire festival. The marksmen had waited all year for this chance to prove their prowess, and the crowd always delighted in their feats. Imryn frowned as he noticed a small trickle of people vacating the benches to meet the archers that had failed out of the earlier rounds. Two rows down from where he sat, the parents of one of the few child participants were coaxing their little girl towards the exit even as they praised her performance. “But I don’t want to go!” the child whined as her mother took her hand. “You let me stay and watch last year!” Her father answered in a tone too low for Imryn to hear, relieving her of the small bow and glancing surreptitiously around as he did. His eyes flashed from his little girl to Prince Bellamy, Lord Cassander, and then even up to Imryn. A small, apologetic grimace twisted his face when he caught Imryn’s eyes on him, but he only dipped a shallow bow in Imryn’s direction and set his free hand on his daughter’s back to urge her out faster. Kiernan’s fingers caught the sleeve of Imryn’s robe, hidden from view by the fall of the voluminous fabric. His little brother’s expression was perfectly placid when Imryn glanced at him, but the gesture betrayed his shock. So quickly had the fear that pervaded their grandfather’s childhood returned with the pardon of Lord Cassander. Esme leaned forward to grip Kiernan’s shoulder and, more covertly, to grab the wrist of the hand that was tangled in Imryn’s sleeve. “Cyneric will shoot soon; pay attention,” she said as a cover for the skinship. Tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, Kiernan nodded. His grip on Imryn went slack as Esme sat back again. The sun glinted off of Cyneric’s hair as he lifted his bow confidently. Imryn had braided it this morning, twining a diamond-studded silver chain into his brother’s long blond hair. The Hunter had complained good-naturedly about the extravagance, but he had preened as well, so Imryn assumed Cyneric didn’t truly mind. Watching Lord Cassander shift in the box, he wished he hadn’t added the trinket. Cassander, Imryn had been told, had an appetite for luxury. Cyneric’s shot hit dead center, and he stepped back with a satisfied smirk. Lord Cassander’s attention shifted to the gold circlet on Evander’s head as the other prince took his place. Imryn liked that no better. Two more rounds passed quickly, eliminating most of the remaining competitors. The last archer of the seventh round left the field shaking his head with a chagrined expression as his arrow missed its mark by only a few centimeters. As the contest attendants ran out to adjust the targets again, an impatient tsk cut through the buzz of the audience’s chatter. “Does this little game get no more difficult?” Lord Cassander asked, his voice carrying due to the acoustic design of the box in which he sat. The attendants stopped in their tracks. King Eamon’s hands tightened on the arm of his throne, and Lord Declan frowned as he turned towards the other immortal. “Brother, it takes no little skill to strike a target so far away with any level of accuracy,” Lord Declan protested. The crowd, which had gone silent at Lord Cassander’s interruption, began to rustle with shifting robes and soft murmurs. Lord Cassander waved an impatient hand as he said, “Yes, yes, but have you not grown bored watching repetitions of the same trick? Surely there are better ways to entertain.” The archers remaining on the field looked toward the Mistress of the Hunt for instruction, but Isolde only stared up at Lord Cassander with a clenched jaw. “What’s he doing ?” Kiernan hissed under his breath. “Nothing good,” Esme replied, too loud in the sea of whispers. Those sitting closest to her leaned away as though worried that they would be blamed for the disrespect. “This contest is meant to display skill, not entertain,” Lord Declan said. “Ah, but a true master would be able to adapt their skill to the situation, and this contest only shows competency in one technique,” Lord Cassander argued. A few more of those seated on the ends of the benches slinked out of the arena. “This is a time honored competition, brother,” Lord Declan rebuked, although he cocked his head to the side as though intrigued. “But perhaps there is some truth to your words. What say you, King Eamon?” Gripping his chair with white knuckles, Eamon kept his tone admirably level as he asked, “What do you suggest, Lord Cassander?” A slow smirk curled the immortal’s lips. “What about... moving targets? In my experience, it is significantly more difficult to strike beings that actively attempt to flee.” Eamon’s face went white, Kiernan gasped quietly, and Imryn’s heart missed a beat. Such blatant reference to Lord Cassander’s past deeds surely could not pass without rebuke. Except Lord Declan didn’t seem to catch the insinuation. “The beast hunt is tomorrow, and we have no prey to shoot at,” he objected casually. “Surely there is something that could be used.” Cassander’s gaze flickered down to the attendants, still frozen in the act of moving the targets. Several of them had paused mid-motion with the heavy stand tucked up in their arms so that the bullseye sat in the middle of their chests. “Father--” Bellamy gasped, aware that both his children and his niblings had volunteered to help stage the contest. Whatever his relationship with his brothers, Prince Bellamy would protect their children, to say nothing of his own or his subjects. “Thrushes!” King Eamon exclaimed with only the smallest note of panic in his tone. “Some were netted for the feast tonight. If we are quick, we may yet find a few alive with the cooks.” A flick of his hand sent his personal attendant running even before Lord Cassander’s delighted, “Perfect!” On the field, Lady Isolde called the volunteers back out of the range. Most of them disappeared immediately into the forest that edged the field. Many of the people huddling together on the benches eyed their escape enviously. If the crowd had been subdued and uncertain earlier, they were downright fearful at this twist. Beast hunts for public entertainment were simply not done. Many of their people hunted, but there was something different about a stadium full of people cheering on the slaughter of an animal. Something unsettling. Although Imryn knew it was not uncommon in other kingdoms, it had never been their people’s way. Time stretched as the dumbstruck audience waited for the return of the runner. A vain hope (or was it a dread?) wandered across Imryn’s mind that perhaps all the thrushes would already have been killed. Preparing them took time, and dinner was only a few hours away. The cooks should already have butchered those they were planning to serve. Yet the runner returned, panting and red-faced, with a cage full of flapping birds. A knot loosened in Imryn’s chest, even as a lady a few benches down from Imryn gasped in dismay. Her husband grabbed her hand and hissed a distressed plea for silence. “Give them here.” Lady Isolde took the cage even as she spoke, and shooed the runner away. Raising her voice to be heard through the crowd, the Mistress of the Hunt explained, “We will take this by turns. On the mark of the bell, I will release a bird, and you will have only one chance to shoot at it. Whoever kills their bird wins, even if there are multiple victors.” The five archers left on the field nodded solemnly and then broke ranks. Patting Evander on the back, they encouraged him out first. Evander’s mouth was drawn into a thin, displeased line, but he took his place and raised his bow with steady hands. Lady Isolde reached into the cage and snatched out one of the birds. Assuming that the bird would fly first for the safety of the trees, she had positioned herself across the field from the forest. When the bell rang, she threw the thrush up into the air. The crowd held their breath as the small black dot flapped desperately to get its bearings, darted across the sky, and dove towards the trees. Evander’s arrow flashed towards it just as it started to dip into the forest and went wide. Very wide. The crowd collectively deflated, slumping back from where they had been quite literally on the edge of their seats. A few nervous laughs, born more from relief than from meanness, trembled in the air. Watching his cousin shrug as though abashed, Imryn knew that Evander had not intended to strike the bird. The contest didn’t mean enough to him to outweigh his distaste for the concept of killing for sport. The Huntress who stepped up to take the next shot had no such qualms, and came so close to striking her bird that it squawked in outrage and chittered angrily as it streaked away. The next Hunter missed more spectacularly than Evander, though less purposefully. Each time the whistle blew, the crowd shifted forward with bated breath, and each time the arrow missed, they momentarily relaxed. Even this routine had begun to wane by the time Aurelia stepped up. Three already had missed their mark. Surely no one would be able to meet this challenge. That was until the princess aimed her bow, released her arrow, and clipped the bird’s wing. The collective gasp was deafening. With a terrible screech, the bird dropped from the sky. Its tiny body writhed in the middle of the field until Lady Isolde stalked forward to take it in her hands and snap its neck. Imryn could’ve sworn the crack was audible from where he sat. Kiernan’s face went pale. The lady who had gasped when the birds were brought in burst into silent tears. “Not quite a clean kill, but perhaps a winning shot,” the Lady of the Hunt announced. Dipping her chin in acknowledgement, Aurelia swept across the field to the equipment room. No one stopped her from leaving before the contest was technically over. Cyneric’s turn had come at last, but his attention had strayed. Running his fingers down the silver wood of the bow he had carved with his own hands, the prince stared at Lord Cassander. The immortal met that fiery gaze with amusement and curiosity. His eyes flashed every few moments to the sparkle of the diamonds in Cyneric’s braid with an avaricious gleam, but the young prince had definitely caught the Lord’s notice for his own audacity. A cold stone sank in Imryn’s stomach as he realized that his little brother now had a target drawn on his own back. Stepping up to the mark and nocking his arrow, Cyneric glared into Lord Cassander’s eyes. Only when the bell rang and the bird shot into the air did his gaze finally snap onto his prey. Cyneric’s arrow flew, straight and true, directly into the heart of his target.

“Momma, Momma! Come here and see what I found in the attic!” Shirly was so excited and scared out of her mind, she was practically screaming at her mother, Francis. “Shirly!” Francis started to scream in return and immediately tried to calm herself. “Sweetheart I am working on a very big project. I know you're bored, but do you think while you are in the house you could use inside voices, please?” Francis’s tone had changed from frantic to pleading. Shirly did all she could to calm herself. Her hair was standing on end. She could not decide if she was still excited, or becoming more afraid of what she had found in the attic upstairs. “Okay, okay.” She smoothed her clothes and tried to calm her voice. “Mom, I found some kind of a weird door in the attic upstairs. PLEASE, PLEASE come and see?! I know that you have a deadline this week, but I’m very excited and kind of scared.” Now Shirly was very well known for her outrageous imagination. She was 10 years old and refused to sleep in the dark. She was superstitious. If a broom fell, anywhere, she and Francis would bake cookies for the company that was going to be coming. She also had an intense fascination for the occult. She amused her mother with her conspiracy theories of the government and neighbors. Francis would consider putting an end to Shirly’s over consumption of television and internet occult research. But Francis was a single mother who worked from home and Shirly was an only child. It was a blessing in disguise that she was such a curious child and kept herself so busy with her curiosity and imagination. She was so convincing in her arguments, and bossy, that she had her own league of minions at school. Alas, it was winter break and storming. So, no play dates this week. “Okay Shirly, okay. I need to take a break and make us some lunch anyhow. Let’s go up and see what you think you’ve found up there. I am guessing it would makes no difference if I told you that when I bought this house last year that I went through every single nook and cranny. ... Nope, it does not matter to you in the least.” Francis mused to herself and smiled. She loved her little girl’s love for life so much, it made all their struggles so much easier to tackle. After the words, ‘okay’, left Francis’s mouth Shirly stopped listening. She was on her way up to the third story of the house. At the end of the hall on the second floor there was a heavy, old door that opened to stairs that led to the third story attic. It was a tight staircase, and it creaked a lot and loud. There was no sneaking up there, Shirly had tried more than a few times when they first moved in. Shirly got bored but was good at finding something to entertain herself. Her mother had been adamant about not going up to the attic, no matter how much Shirly begged or tried to sneak up there. Francis felt that the wood was too old and had too much mold. She wasn’t sure about how structurally sound it was. She promised Shirly that in the summer they would update the attic. Shirly would have her own secret clubhouse, or whatever she wanted to call it. Shirly had begun to make so many plans for what she and her friends would do. It might have made things worse for Francis by promising Shirly the space would be hers. Sometimes there was no stopping this child from the thing that she wanted. Especially when it comes to secret, adventures and all of the imaginationing. Francis had finally given in today and let Shirly go up the third-floor attic. She made Shirly promise that if she opened the door to the attic that she would let her work, without a lot of interruptions. No interruptions would be too much for Francis to ask of Shirly. And now here they both were, not even two hours later, with Francis sucked into another adventure. She was hoping that she would be able to go up and take a peek and that would be all. She was hungry, and it was time for lunch after all. She heard the old stairs creak very loud, as Shirly practically stomped her way up. “Momma, where are you? Come on!” Suddenly, Shirly let out the most ear piercing, spine tingling screech Francis had ever heard come out of her little girl. Without a thought she charged up the stairs after her. “SHIRLY?! What?! Talk to me!” She was hysterical. “Shirly, what’s happening?! Are you okay?!” She could feel her blood pressure sky rocketing as she reached to top of the stairs. Her gaze darted frantically from every corner of the attic. She was looking for Shirly. There was nothing in her entire life, or many lifetimes that would have been able to prepare her for what she found. Shirly was sitting on the floor, in the far side of the attic where the huge bay window is. This is the window that won Shirly over when they bought the house. It was magical to her, she had fallen in love with the window, and then the house immediately. There it was. There was a tiny open door on the left wall of the bay window. Francis had known it was there and thought it gone to nowhere, she had thought that it was merely decorative. The door looked to lead directly to the outside yard, only three stories up. Now the door was open, and there was a glowing light. The light looked and felt as if spring could be a light. It was so beautiful. Francis could swear that she saw sparkles in it. “No, that must be dust,” She thought to herself, “but no. Look, there they are. Look at them. It cannot be.” “Mom, fairies. Look, fairies. Can you believe this.” Shirly spoke in such a calm that it broke Francis’s bewilderment. She looked at her daughter, expressionless. There were fairies, in her attic, and they were coming out of a tiny door that seemingly led to nowhere. All the fairies had suddenly stopped dancing around Shirly. They seemed to all be gazing at Francis. It was then that the same calm that had taken over Shirly was now taking over Francis. Neither had felt such calm and happiness in their lifetimes; it was euphoric. The tiny door in the attic on the left wall next to the bay window opened up a fairy portal. They came through the door with slow apprehension and a lot of curiosity. It seemed that when they became aware of Shirly they were immediately at ease, and very, very excited. To Francis it looked like the fairies knew her, like Shirly was a long, lost friend. They were so excited to see the little girl, in their dancing, their tiny bodies started to glow. It had all stopped abruptly when they became aware of Francis. She was now standing, as still as she could, and so very calm. One of the fairies darted to her, and practically stopped and stood on her nose. They all seemed to have their own color of glow, but this one was a pretty peach rose color. The tiny creature looked Francis in the eyes, for what seemed to be a 1o minutes. The fairy placed one tiny hand on Francis’s nose. If the fairy was touching Francis, she could not feel it. Just as abruptly as the fairy darted to her, it shot up, almost through the ceiling. It was so fast it looked like a mere trail of light. It started to fly in circles, and the rest started to follow; they started to swirl around Shirly and Francis. They both felt that they were almost lifted off of the ground in the whirl wind of tiny fairies and light. When mother and daughter thought they were going to fly, the fairies stopped and began again to dance and then sing. The singing sounded like tiny, soft windchimes. As the singing went on, Shirly and Francis began to understand the words. It was hours later that Francis regained her self-awareness in the present. It was night. The sun was long gone, and the stars were out. Shirly was still singing and dancing with their new magical friends. “Shirly, it is way past bedtime. I think It’s time for us to say good night to our friends.” Francis spoke to Shirly as if they had known fairies existed as long as they knew the sun and stars were the same thing. The fairies cried in loving protest, and flurried around Shirly and Francis. They were giving them both a hug good night. Shirly and Francis smiled and held hands as they descended the stair case. .....August that same year.... “Francis! There are so many beautiful butterflies in your garden. Oh my goodness. And bees and dragonflies. Your garden looks like fairies have blessed it with their magic.” Molly, Francis’s sister had come to visit for the last month of summer before school started for Shirly. She was now beginning to think she would have a hard time ever leaving. Francis and Shirly responded in unison, “It is blessed by fairy magic.” They both giggled. It seemed that only the two of them could see the butterflies, bees, and dragonflies for what they really were. Molly giggled with them, completely unaware.