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Allura 54

"You're kidding, right?" The second the smile creeps on to his face, I know he thinks I'm joking. Granted, if it was a joke it wouldn't have been very funny. He's probably hoping that it's a joke. Because what is he supposed to do with this information, anyway? Why did I tell him? Oh God, why did I tell him? I could've kept the secret my entire life and eventually died with it. I could've lived with it gnawing at me from the inside every day. But that might've been better than admitting it to another living person. Now that's someone else that has to live with this information. I swallow past the lump that's growing in my throat. "That's not funny," he continues, and man, is he right. I wish I could turn it around and say haha, just kidding, here's my real secret , but unfortunately, I'm not a quick enough thinker to think of something good enough to cover this up and make him not be suspicious of me. He would wonder why I said that as my "joke" secret. Especially when he's now looking at me like he is. What do I say ? "It was an accident," I murmur quietly. Lame, I know, but it's the truth. His face twists and I can see the horror in his eyes. The horror that's paired with disbelief, because after all, I'm his little brother, and how could his little brother be behind the Lake murders? "Noah, c'mon... You wouldn't, you couldn't , you..." He trails off when he sees my unwavering expression, my face set in stone. He knows I'm telling the truth. He knows how I lie; I've been a bad liar my entire life. I just needed to tell someone , because it was gnawing at me, and I trust Blake more than anyone. At least, I did. The way he's looking at me makes me think maybe I shouldn't have trusted him. Maybe this was a mistake. But it's not like I killed anyone because I wanted to - I had to. The first one just sort of happened, and then the second one was because she knew about the first one, and then so on and so on. Y'know? And the lake? It just happened to be the most convenient place to dump the bodies. Next thing you know, my murders were in the papers, on the news, and they even gave me a name - The Lake Murderer - thinking they had me all figured out. Well, they didn't, because they never traced the murders back to me. But that was ten years ago. I was young and stupid. And I thought Blake, of all people, would understand that. "Blake, listen," I say, as gently as possible. He steps back, holding out his hands. "Stay away from me," he cautions. "Blake, I would never hurt you," I try to assure him, "you're my brother. And like I said, none of them were on purpose..." "Noah, you murdered five women . That is not an accident." "You don't know-" "Yes, I do . I've made mistakes. But I've never murdered anyone!" Something starts to burn inside of me: anger. I try to push it down, to keep the flame from growing, and to stay calm, because if I get angry, who knows what Blake will do. I have to stay calm. But the louder he raises his voice and the longer he looks at me with disgust, the harder that gets. "I thought I could trust you" is all I'm able to say. "You could, before you decided to become a murderer," Blake snaps, but then he pauses and takes a deep, slow breath, shutting his eyes while he does so. He reopens them when he speaks next. "I'm sorry, Noah, but I can't sit on this. I can't just go on with life with this information. I have to do something." As I think, I lick my lips, which have become rather dry and cracked. My heart is pounding in all of my anger and now, panic. I can't believe he would do that to me. He wouldn't. Would he? "Blake," I warn. My voice comes out controlled, much to my relief. He purses his lips, taking another step away from me. He's tense, I can tell. It's not like I don't understand; it's tough information to comprehend. I just had hoped he would've taken it a little better and not threatened to turn me in. But really, even if he were to, it's not like he has any proof. And it was ten years ago. I would be okay. I would. Regardless, I can't let him tell anyone. I can't afford to take that chance. It was ten years ago, and they never caught me. I can't get caught now. My life would be ruined. Everything I've worked towards since the murders, me turning my life around, would be for nothing. I feel a little hurt, honestly. I trusted him, and he repays me by threatening to turn me in? My own brother? "You wouldn't really tell anyone, would you?" Blake looks at me evenly, but I can tell he's scared of me. I've seen that look before - never from Blake. But why? There's nothing to be scared of. How many times do I have to explain this to him? They were accidents . I'm not a mean person. I just do what I have to do. It's a little annoying that he just doesn't get it. "Noah, I have to." I tsk and shake my head. He's really edging towards my last nerve, which he doesn't want to do. "You don't. You don't have to do anything you don't want to." "Noah, I have to. I want to. I can't let you walk around a free man while I know what you did." He steps back again, and this time, I step towards him. I can't believe he would betray me like this. I can't have it happen. "Well, Blake, I'm sorry you feel that way," I say, my mind finally coming to a decision. It pains me a little, but it's what's necessary. I watch the fear light up his eyes as I step towards him again. I smile gently at him before I speak: "But I hope you'll understand what I have to do now."

A serpent slithers through the desert. It drags its colossal body over the crunching bones of ancient victims, swishing torrents of sand in its wake. The earth trembles. Above, a dark cloud appears in the blue sky. The serpent pauses, swivels its head. It fixes a yellow eye on the cloud, watches it darken, broiling with fury, as if dragging in a long-winded breath, readying to strike. The snake doesn’t hesitate, moves fast through the desert, positions itself at the edge of the cloud’s lightning rage. There is nothing but dry, hungry sand stretching wide, and the sharp electric burn of a charged current, the taste of cataclysmic magic hovering overhead. The snake has hunted most of its life for a hidden world in the desert, a way in - looking for some sign, some anomaly. And here, beneath the first cloud to form in one hundred years, it stops. It flicks a forked tongue into the electric air one last time, coils its body. Waits. --- Leven doesn’t notice the dark swell of the cloud forming above. His eyes are on the girl - the one he’s just stabbed. A killing meant for a snake. The knife’s ornate handle protrudes from her gut, the twining vines of two filigreed snakes with inlaid ruby eyes, twin mouths, open and wide, feasting on her flesh. Leven’s hands shake as he wipes a cold sweat from his brow, smearing blood there, the truth twisting in his gut like a hot blade, a tumultuous unearthing of his own. He remembers the queen, who smiled with all her teeth as she handed him the knife. This knife has been made for a snake, the queen had said, the lie taking root, coiling the invisible threads of poison up his limbs. She made him believe the knife was made to kill a snake - but hears the words again in his mind, This knife has been made for a snake. Not to kill a snake. But to do a snake’s bidding. He wants to vomit as the truth washes over him. He replays it all in his mind - the way the magicked knife made itself quiet while he hunted for a snake, leading him here, distracting him with the heroic honor of slain monsters along the way, made him believe he was a god. It pushed its ideas in shallow waves in between its whispered admiration and praise, never letting him discover the prison it was quietly building around him, brick by brick. Until it was too late. The knife had him by the throat, squeezed until the air between the blade and the girl was gone and all that filled the space was a pulsing bloodlust. Leven lets out a shuddering breath. He leans forward, gently lifts the girl into his arms, cradles her. She shifts into him, her breathing shallow. The knife wanted her dead - but its fervor is nothing compared to the beat of his wild heart that wants her alive now, wants everything to run in reverse, wants her skin breathing into his. The knife had him walking in a haze, but now he has returned to himself, and feels the cool thrum of his own voice in his veins. He tucks a tendril of loose hair behind her ear, comes close enough to brush his agonized sorry against her temple. A single tear slides from her eye, catches his lip. The sky cracks. Lightning illuminates them like fallen stars, before they are plunged into the near-dark. At last Leven tears his eyes from the girl, looks up to the vengeful sky. The cloud above is unearthly, seething, cracking lightning fingers. A single drop of water falls directly between them, onto the knife’s handle, still embedded in the girl’s stomach. Leven watches, transfixed, as the water slides like a tear from the jeweled eye of the filigreed snake, hissing against the metal. He holds her firmly as the handle disintegrates, as if the water has become fire, the knife its bone-cracking kindling. Within moments the knife becomes ashes, grabbed callously upward by a vindictive wind. Leven only has a moment to gape at the girl’s wound, now free of the knife, the bleeding miraculously stopped, before the water drops from the sky. --- Death suits her. The sky splits open and reaches down with glossy hands of water skimming up her arms. The water rises, infinite and thunderous around her, but the midnight waves lift her gently, holding her close like a mother shushing into the starlit folds of her newborn baby’s neck, brushing a silken hand to the peach-fuzz hairline, pausing at the temple. She swallows a whole-body shiver, drifts beneath the heady scent of white jasmine stars, petals raining down on her body. She wonders why she waited so long to die, to find this place, like brushing up against a veil of gossamer wings, the whisper of eyelashes blinked against the delicate skin beneath her closed eyelids, a tendril of hair tucked behind the shell of her ear. The blooming night sky is a lid of midnight aloe, pricked with breezy stars to let in the air. She could spend eternity here, in the arms of death. The burning ache in her gut has subsided - no longer white hot with rage. The water presses weightless hands to the knife wound, washes the ache away with careful hands. There is a question beneath the water’s surface, a welcoming. The waves gather her to its watery chest, slides a hand down her face as the priests do for final rites. A re you ready? it asks between thunderous breaths, gentle somehow, then, without waiting for her answer, heaves her into the heart of its muted eternity. She is falling into the abyss. There is water all around her, pressing her in, behind and before, safe, cocooned. Down here it is quiet. She is not chosen, or other, simply a forgotten guest of the infinite seas - a home too vast to remember where all the creatures lie folded into the seams. Those creatures, old as time, brush past her, leaving the shuddering swell of changed currents in their wake, the waters shifting colder, warmer, colder again. She is too small for their notice, an infinitesimal mote risen up from the riverbed’s slurry. Above her, there is a wild crash, frantic arms loop around her waist, a heartbeat presses in the space between her closed eyes. The water pulls, beckoning her, the question still there tingling in its depths - one she can taste like a grain of sea salt pressed to her tongue - but the arms around her are urgent, unrelenting, a plea. And then she is heaved up, out, and the arms are now a mouth, pressing wildly to hers. Her mind reels back, shifts together, focuses on the shape above that is willing life back between the saturated woods of her. She opens her eyes. To him, raven black hair dripping water into his squinted eyes, down his chin, onto her mouth. The man who murdered her. And above him, looming even higher, arched like an arrow, a snake.

CornFlower Moon Harley Seesholtz Aaria was just another part of just another normal day. A day on a planet that was so, so special. This planet was called Soha, and Soha’s days were years and years long. They never ever seemed to end, and nobody on Soha really counted anymore. Aaria loved the warm, welcoming sunshine on her face, even if it was artificial. She wasn’t sure how the big corporations and producers did it- made fake sunlight. It seemed impossible, she thought. She loved the warm feeling on her face when she walked outside, but something deep inside her remembered... something inside her remembered that it just wasn’t as good as the real thing. She had read books about Earth (she, of course, had been there before, North Carolina, but it was becoming increasingly hard to remember Earth.) Not that there weren’t other planets- but Earth interested her the most. Maybe it was because she was born there, but it's more than that. It had other people- an atmosphere, warm, real sunshine, and healthy, green plants that grew with the help of the sun. It’s an almost magical process that people call photosynthesis. Her parents on Earth would send her little packages with things from Earth in them. They never failed to get to her. So far, she was sent a leaf, a branch, a small, smooth block of wood, a coconut, an acorn, a deer antler, a pinecone, a porcupine quil, a small portion of Fools Gold/ Pyrite/Iron Sulfide, a flawless sketch of a sunflower done by her Mother, a bluebird feather, a turkey feather, a flower petal, a decorative butterfly pinned down and secured in a case/frame that hangs on the wall many, many, MANY letters and postcards, and a jar of dirt. Dirt didn’t sound that special, but it was Earth’s dirt. It was capable of growing plants and holding life. Well... not on Soha it wasn’t... All these things brought back memories that were buried under her knowledge and need to learn from her expensive, non-Earth school. Almost all life on Soha was artificial. Their food was all fake nutrients, because it was too much work and took too long to send things from Earth to Soha. If it could spoil or wasn’t worth anything, then you wouldn’t be allowed to send things back and forth between planets. All that did was waste fuel and time. Aaria thought the people on Durva were pricks anyway... What with their riches and huge colonies. One colony on Durva could swallow the entire Soha population in one fell swoop. Luckily, they haven’t. Yet. There has been some heat between them and Soha... I guess Aaria hasn’t really had a proper introduction. Her name is Aaria Lia Katz. She is a 14 year old girl from Earth. She is part of a group of kids who are actually from Earth on Soha. Everybody else is a person who has a family history of ancestors on Earth, but there are no people who have touched Earth’s land and lived there that aren’t these kids. Aaria is part of a small group who was sent by rich families on Earth to go to school on Soha. These kids have all seen the sun. The adults have not. Not unless they are driving the shuttles that send packages (and, at one point, these kids) to and from Earth and Soha. And even then, they have never stepped foot on the soft grasses of Earth’s fair surface. They have not appreciated the fine textures and gorgeous sights of all the nature and beautiful things Earth has to offer. Aaria didn’t want to go to school on Soha. Her parents made her. They claimed it would help her make more friends and give her more diversity. She couldn't stay in North Carolina forever. They had money to throw away, so they decided it would be used to send her to school on a planet that still takes days and days to get to even while going lightspeed in one of the highest quality shuttles Soha has to offer. The days on Soha seem to never end. People there have just sort of stopped counting as the days went on. They just let time do what it wants, and if they feel it will be night soon, they cancel plans for the next few hours. If they were right, they get some favour and praise for accurately guessing. If they get it wrong, they are reprimanded by their bosses for canceling work when they weren’t supposed to. Aaria thinks it’s unfair, but she, as a 14 year old, can’t do anything about it. Aaria, in her 8 years and many school grades of being on Soha, has never seen the Moon. Every day, when they are sleeping, she sneaks out of the facility she stays in with the other kids and waits. She waits for the fictitious lights to go away, and for the moon to come out. Nobody ever knows when it will happen... Soha has its own Moon, and to see it is a treasure, so once every... Well, who knows how long- the big, rich companies and producers turn out all the fake lights so the kind, patient people of Soha can see the Moon. Soha’s Moon isn’t the gray colour she remembers Earth’s Moon being, no, Soha’s moon seems to glow a beautiful cornflower blue. It shadows their entire world in a lovely shade of blue, and everybody cancels plans so they can see the gorgeous night sky. Sadly, the moon stays out for around 4 hours and then leaves, not to be seen for years and years on end. Or, well, years and years on never end. Aaria- just once -would love to see the Moon. She just knows that she will take enough pictures of the night sky to fill an entire house, but it’ll be worth it, because she can say that she has seen something that only happens for 4 hours every who knows how many years. Aaria, that little girl with a big dream from bum nowhere North Carolina, will be special. At least a faint bit.

We all sit back and watch the world destroy what we have built. We have all worked hard to pay for the very things they choose to take away or place out of our reach. Our children grow up to an understanding that this is how life works. They are reinforced with the ideas that it must be ok. The very people they look up to do absolutely nothing but stand aside and watch. At a certain point, individuals become unknowingly numb to the process in which they are being controlled. It is easier to sit back and watch everything take place as it happens; Wind down a ominous path that was not self-chosen. You have to stop and ask yourself, “But is it really...easier”? It’s all we know. We haven’t experienced any different so we cannot answer that question with any type of validity. So while we watch and wait, our minds think otherwise. We take account the reality of what is happening and we plan accordingly. We do what we can to stay on the path we believe is and should be an honest and fair for humanity. For every action there is a reaction. We didn’t set the curve but it can be flattened by using critical thinking, manipulation, and leverage. You turn the same game being used on you against your opponent without them being aware. It is then when succession begins to occur. Sometimes the enemy will even contribute to your success, not realizing it is to be used against them. And unlike others before us that have tried to manipulate our circumstances, we practice in a way where there is never harm nor hurt. We often go go through our day to day routines waking up and following the same patterns. These patterns have been embedded into our thinking. We complete the same mundane tasks only to achieve the same results. There must be moments of clarity to break this consistent pattern and question what exactly is our goal and how do we achieve them. We must have an awareness that although we stay on course to do what we have been taught is needed to achieve goals, there are several variables set in place form outside sources to keep our goals from being achieved. There are so many hidden underlying algorithms set in place to of set our productivity without us even being aware. There is fine print in life that has been constructed not only to confuse the ones that take the time to analyze it, but usually discourage many from continuing to proceed. Life choices should not be this difficult, but it has been developed by those beyond our knowing to keep us in a place that pre conceivably has been selected for us. Only a certain few will get through this process and to the other side. The beginning of your journey should be to learn to enlighten yourself to the truth of the reality we find ourselves fighting against. We will not suffer from repercussions because what we do is law abiding and safe. Now it’s time to rethink your strategies in life and chose what you really want.

The Hat It was just a hat. A bowler or derby hat actually. I saw it hanging on a hat stand in Magikat Books and Magic Emporium. I passed by it daily on my way to work. The shop itself was hardly what might be imagined as an emporium. It seemed small and unobtrusive, but the hat fascinated me. But the hat fascinated me so much so much I ventured inside. The shelves of books had no interest, but the hat held my attention. I saw myself wearing it but thought it would bring a smile or even a few derisive comments from my work mates. I tried to put it out of my mind and left the shop and went to work. But there it was still there, every day. I made up my mind to have it if it was for sale. This morning, I decided to start out a little earlier and drop by the shop and check it out. But when I got there, the hat stand was empty. It had disappeared! I was so disappointed and even a little angry with myself for putting it off for so long. Now it was gone. I had dreamed about the silly thing and realised how much I wanted it. I spent a few minutes pretending to peruse the books on magic stuff before going to work feeling like I’ve forgotten something. The next morning when I passed the shop on my way to work, there it was, back on that stand, almost brazenly daring me to go in! The door rang a bell as I entered. A little, wizened fellow stood behind a counter with a knowing smile of his face. He wore a patched grey jacket and a once-white shirt and blue bow tie. His hands were clasped in front of his chest. His knowing smile broke into sound, “You’ve come for the hat, haven’t you!” It wasn’t a question. I nodded, “How did you know?” “You pass by every morning and look at it. The hat told me you would like it.” “But it wasn’t there yesterday. I thought someone else had bought it.” “A man did, but it came back the same day.” “Oh,” I said. “May I try it on?” “No need. It will fit you perfectly.” I took the hat down from the stand and placed it carefully on my head. I’m sure I felt it settle and it fitted perfectly. “How much,” I asked? “Oh, you can have it for as long as you need it.” I was overwhelmed and thanked him profusely. “See you again, eh?” The knowing smile reappeared. I tipped my new hat at him and left the shop feeling I had scored a bargain! I wore it into my office and was surprised there was little or no reaction. I went to take it off, but it was stuck. It simply wouldn’t budge. I had quite a lot of work to do, so I left it on and started going through my clients’ accounts. It was tax time and an accountant’s life was a busy one. Today the work seemed easy, and I flew through at least twice as many accounts as normal. The hat stayed on. I was happy wearing it. I ate my lunch at my desk and continued working through the afternoon. By five o’clock I had finished what was a week’s work. I couldn’t really understand why. I walked home, with what I’m sure was a jaunty gait. Once at home and in the front door I went to take my hat off and it came off easily. I placed it carefully on the hat hook on the wall. My phone rang and it was a young lady from my office I had fancied for some time but was too shy to ask her out. She asked me out! She said she was very taken with my hat and couldn’t resist getting to know me outside of work. Of course, I agreed, and we had a wonderful evening that turned out quite romantic. She was perfect for me, and we seemed to get on so well together. She asked could we see each other again. You bet I said. I went home elated. As I opened the front door, I noticed my hat was missing from its place on the wall. I thought I’d been broken into, but nothing else was missing. But I was in such a state of joy, I decided not to worry about it and enjoy a happy sleep, dreaming of my new friend. The next morning, I skipped out of the door, stopped and went back inside. There on the wall was my hat. I looked at it and thought I had somehow just missed it somehow the night before. I gleefully put it on and went happily to work. As I passed the bookshop I tipped the brim to the hat stand, thinking that the old fellow was probably standing behind the counter with that smile on his face, watching me walk past. He would surely notice the spring in my step. I arrived at the office and my new friend smiled at me and said quietly that the boss, the senior partner, wanted to see me. She squeezed my hand discretely and I smiled at her. The senior manager told me that his phone hadn’t stopped ringing with calls from my clients expressing their joy at what I had been able to do for them. I was obviously really pleased. Then he said that I was to be his new partner! What a day! I whizzed through the day and on my way out I asked my new friend to celebrate with me. She smiled and said she couldn’t think of a better idea. At home I took off my hat and gave it a kiss before putting it on its hook. Again, the evening was superb, and I realised I was totally hooked on my lovely friend. The next morning, I was about to leave and noticed my hat was missing, I searched for it, but it was nowhere to be found. I was mystified and quite upset. But I had to be at work on time, on my first day as a partner. As I passed the shop, I couldn’t help but look in. There was my hat on the old hat stand! But how? I went in and asked the old gentleman how my hat was back. He smiled that knowing sort of smile, “You don’t need it anymore.” I looked at the hat and I swear it tilted its brim at me ...

The Captain slid into the seat behind the control panel. He glanced over at his partner/co-pilot/wife seated next to him. She was busy running scans on the planet below. They had found this planet worthy of a great deal of time, unlike most of the worlds they had explored on this voyage. Many of the systems they had traveled through on this journey were of little interest. Huge gas giant planets circling huge, extremely hot stars, no chance of life. The last system had been some small, frozen rocky planets orbiting a burned-out brown dwarf star. If life had ever graced this system, it had died out eons ago. Some worlds they encountered had very basic life forms, single-cell plants, and animals. Some worlds had more advanced creatures capable of communication, rudimentary forms of civilization, and mechanization. But this planet, this one was very different. Even before they had approached the planet they were receiving electromagnetic impulses radiating from it. The impulses were far stronger than anything that could have been occurring naturally. The Captain plotted a course to slip in behind a moon that was orbiting this planet. He was going to approach the planet very cautiously. His ship was of the most advanced series available when he and his partner left on their voyage of discovery. It had the ability to deflect energy around it, and thus be invisible to most scanning or tracking attempts. He engaged the machinery to ensure their presence was not noticed if by some unthinkable chance the planet was inhabited by an advanced species of beings. The Captain and his partner spent some time as they hid behind the planet’s moon analyzing the data they had collected as they approached the planet. The planet seemed to be an excellent habitat for carbon-based lifeforms. The planet enjoyed a very stable orbit around its star. The presence of the sizable moon they were hiding behind caused tidal forces on the planet’s surface to circulate the sizable collection of water present on the surface. Analysis of the surface and sub-surface data collected showed an abundant supply of minerals necessary for any advanced civilization. The Captain and his partner finished their work with all the data they had. The Captain decided it was time to swing into an orbit around the planet and continue their studies. As they settled into an orbit just above the planet’s atmosphere, they began to collect and analyze the enormous amount of electromagnetic radiation being generated on the planet’s surface. As the Captain looked through the analyses of the data, a strange thought began to form in his mind. “Is this their form of communication,” he wondered. He had read of ancient uses of electromagnetic communications, but that technology had died out long ago. As he studied the data he saw patterns emerging. Some of the EMC was scattered in all directions from single points. Apparently, the message was intended to be received by anyone with an appropriate device. Some EMC was directed from point to point, apparently in an attempt to control access to the message. His analysis led him to understand that the beings on this planet had multiple modes of communication. Decoding some of the signals his machinery intercepted enabled him to see that the transmission of images was a big part of their communications. The transmissions had images of the beings interacting with each other, some images of what appeared to be their written languages, and also some images of lesser creatures these beings appeared to enjoy interacting with. The Captain was troubled by one aspect of the analysis. After allocating some of the signal to the images, some of it to simply being the medium by which the message flowed, and allowing for other technical matters, there was one channel of data being transmitted he could not crack. He broadened his search and expanded the signals the machinery would intercept. He soon found not only streams with image channels and the mystery channel, but he also found points of transmission of nothing but the mystery material. These transmissions had no images, just the data stream he could not crack. Perplexed, he brought his partner into the work of understanding this mystery. With a fresh perspective on the matter, she asked herself if there was any correlation between the image data and the mystery data. She watched the images produced by the data streams. The beings took many forms, engaged in a huge variety of activities, and she began to notice patterns between their movements and the mystery data stream. Sometimes the mystery data signal would generate a reaction that caused great excitement. Sometimes the mystery data signal generated what appeared to be a state of peace in the beings. As she worked with the machinery interpreting the EMC received from the surface she pondered the conversions her machines were making. The very high frequency signals created the images. The ultra-high frequency signals created other styles of communications. Hidden in the mystery stream were very low frequency signals. Signal frequencies too low to be played on the imaging machines. She isolated the very low frequency signals and watched the reactions of the beings when exposed to the signals. Some seemed happy, some sad. She found some visual image streams where large numbers of the beings would gather, and soon the mystery data stream would show huge patterns of activity. She had to devise a way to convert the the mystery data signal to something she could experience. She and the Captain had watched huge amounts of images. The machinery was very adept at transforming the signals into a format their eyes could process. She needed to convert the mystery data signal into something she could feel. She ran the problem through the computer, and it presented an answer. She routed the mystery data signal through the power supply of a small vibrator used to process samples of soil and other solid material. The varying frequencies of the signal would cause the vibrator to change its vibratory pattern to match the signal. She could touch the machine and feel the patterns as the signals went through it. She turned the little machine on and put the signal through it. As she laid her hand on the machine, she felt a soothing pattern of vibrations. Falling and rising in intensity and strength, it seemed to communicate something. She had never felt something like this before. The vibrations seemed to touch her deeply. She began to understand how this phenomenon could have such an impact on the beings of this planet. As she sat there enjoying the vibrations, speculating what they could be communicating to the beings of the planet, she put two more of her hands on the vibrating machine. The Captain walked into the room, surprised to see the blissful look on her face. He walked over and touched the machine, surprised to feel the vibrations. He could understand why she seemed to be enjoying whatever she was experiencing. The vibrator was a poor loud speaker, but it was a very suitable device for the Captain and his partner to experience the phenomenon. As they stood there transfixed by this new strange phenomenon, the mystery signal filled the room, “O come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant...........

It was early morning when I was sitting at a park near the Ocean watching as the waves grew and crashed when I began to hear a voice. It first felt like my imagination, but this time I felt something wasn’t right. I tried to remember which direction the voice came from and I headed in that direction. I headed to the road where the voice got louder, but not loud enough for me to understand, I began walking down the road. Then in the distance I saw someone, small, running towards me, out of breath but trying to say something. I ran towards them and then I heard yelling, “Help! Help!” “What’s wrong?” I yelled back. A young boy approached me, completely out of breath and exhausted. “FIRE! FIRE! The house down the street! Mommy and daddy are still inside!” “Calm down, deep breaths, deep breaths, ok, this is important, show me where the house on fire is.” We walked for about a block and then I saw the smoke, I called 9-1-1. They arrived quickly, I informed them the parents may still be trapped inside. After 10 minutes they got the fire out, but the mom and dad had perished. I sat with the boy the whole time, after a while he mentioned his name was Henry Lacey, and then I remembered something, I know that name. It was the last name of my friends from college who I lost touch with, Samantha and Kyle Lacey, they got married after graduation and had a little boy. That boy's name was Henry. I didn’t recognize him since the last time I had seen him was when he was 2 years old, that was 4 years ago. After I realized this I heard one of the police officers talking. “Boss, what do we do with the kid?” “Bring him to the station, we’ll hold him there until we can contact foster care.” Then I remembered something else, I stood up to face the officer. “Wait, that won’t be necessary, I’m Ellavive Stone. I’m his godmother.” Samantha and Kyle were adopted, I was the closest thing they had to a family so they made me his godmother. After not talking for so long I forgot about it. Once I shared that the officers had me fill out a few forms and then I took Henry with me to my condo. It was small, two bedrooms with one bath. When we walked in I gave him a little tour, “Here’s the living room, um, the kitchen’s straight, to the right is the hallway.” I led him there, I pointed to the left where the bathroom was, “That’s the bathroom, then my rooms to the right, and you’ll stay straight ahead here, which was my office but if you give me a few moments I can clear some stuff. Then set-up a foldable bed I have in the attic, how does that-?” Before I could finish my sentence I found Henry snuggled up in my bed fast asleep, I pulled up his blanket making sure he was all tucked in. The next morning I woke up early making myself and Henry some pancakes, I also called my mom to tell her what was going on. “Mom you remember Samantha and Kyle from college, the couple who had a kid?” “Yeah why?” “I found their 6 year old son running in the street yesterday, he escaped a fire that burst in the rental home they were staying in because they live 2 states away. Anyway, they died in the fire and I’m Henry's godmother so now I’m taking care of him.” It was silent for a moment. “Wow that is a lot of information at once. When did this happen?” “Yesterday.” “Yesterday? Why didn’t you call last night? I could come to help you?” “I don’t know. I was kinda busy, can you come now and maybe bring some of Charlie’s old clothes and toys?” “Of course! I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I can pick up some snacks at the store too, what do you think he’ll like? Pop-tarts?” Then I started to hear Henry panicking in the other room while my mom continued. “Chips? Popcorn? Maybe I should just get a few lunchables.” I continued to hear Henry freak out in the other room. “I don’t know, figure it out, I've got to go.” I hung up and walked into my room. Henry was whining rocking back and forth on the bed, when he saw me he jumped up and hugged me tight. I knelt down to meet him in the hug, he began to cry. “It’s okay Henry I’m right here. You’ve been through a lot, let it all out.” After he calmed down I began to leave for the kitchen but he started crying again. “What’s wrong?” He just kept sniffling but wouldn’t speak. “If you tell me then I can help you.” but he still wouldn’t speak. Then I got an idea which made me smile big. “Do you like chocolate chip pancakes?” I said. He started to smile, shaking his head yes. I brought him to the kitchen, settling him at the table with utensils, a plate, and some orange juice. I gave him a chocolate chip pancake all cut up, then I poured on some syrup, when I put too much he quickly pushed me away. I sat down across from him. “You should drink your orange juice.” He looked up and shook his head no. “Do you not like orange juice?” He shook his head no again but this time motioned for a cup. “Do you want some water?” He nodded, as I got his water I started to realize his trauma made him not want to talk, all the nods and hand gestures showed that. I shrugged it off for the moment, I figured he’d been through a lot and he’d need some time to adjust. We continued eating in silence so I put on some music, I only asked a question to see if he liked the food or not and he nodded. Then my mom walked in with 2 large bags. “Hey, Honey I brought a lot of stuff. Here I have some old clothes, toys, and books. I went to the store and brought a whole bunch of snacks, we’ll see what he likes. Where is he, can I meet him?” “Yes, he’s in the kitchen, but he’s a little-” Before I could finish she storms past me into the kitchen. “Hi! I’m Ellavive’s Mom, you can call me Carol. What’s your name?” All he did was wave hi. My mother saw this and just waved again. “Hi, what’s your name?” He didn’t do anything. Then I pulled my mom back into the living room. “Mom I was trying to tell you he’s shy, like really shy, so take it slow.” “Ok, ok, how about I show him the toys and books?” “Sure, Henry come here.” He walked in. My mom said, “I brought this stuff for you.” He looked down and saw the books, he pushed passed the books and then picked up a book called city dog, country frog. He pushed it towards me implying he wanted me to read it. Then the doorbell rang again, I wasn’t sure who it could be. I opened the door and it was a man with a clipboard, I could see behind him a truck was in my driveway. “Ellavive Stone?” “Yes?” “You're the guardian of Henry Lacey?” “Yes, why?” “We have all his belongings from the families house in Florida, where would you like us to put it?” “Um the living room is fine.” They brought in all of Henry’s stuff and a few boxes of his parents' stuff. Henry seemed to take some comfort in seeing his stuff, but he was also very sad which was understandable. The next day I went to the local school to register Henry. “I’m sorry we can register Henry but Henry can’t come here if he can’t talk yet.” “What? I don’t think this is permanent. He'll start talking once he sees other kids and adults?” “Yes but until then he can’t communicate with the teacher. Don’t worry right when he starts talking again he’ll be able to come. And there’s things you can do, here’s our school counselor so we can set up some meetings with her.” “Thank you. Anything else to suggest?” “Like you said, try to introduce him with some kids or family.” “Okay thank you.” I wasn’t really sure what to do, but home I asked Henry yes or no questions about school. “Do you want to go to school Henry?” He nodded. “Can you speak to answer me?” He did nothing and just looked down. “That’s okay. Maybe we can do some speech therapy?” He aggressively shook his head no. “No, ok we don’t have to do that yet. It’ll be our last try. For now let’s watch a movie.” I went onto Disney Plus, “Anything specific you want to watch.” He nodded. “What?” He put his arms up and growled like a bear. “Bear?” He nodded, so I looked up bear and he pointed to an option that said brother bear about a human turning into a bear and helping a bear cub who lost his mother. “Brother Bear?’ He nodded, I guess he really likes animals. A week later I decided to invite some of my family over to see if he’d talk that way. I invited my parents, (when he saw them he was more comfortable already knowing my mom) my brother, and my aunt and uncle. I filled them all in on the situation. They talked for a little bit and Henry got to know them, he smiled for a little while and I saw, everyone tried asking him questions but he would only answer by shaking his head or not at all. “Are you excited for school soon?” My uncle asked. He nodded. “Do you like reading?” My brother asked. He nodded. My aunt asked, “What’s your favorite book?” he grabbed the book from the shelf. “City Dog, Country Frog? That’s a good one?” He nodded hugging it. My mom asked, “Can you tell us about it?” He didn’t answer. “Just say what's your favorite part?” My aunt asked. I saw Henry thinking, very confused. He flipped to the last page and pointed to it, smiling. My aunt said, “No, use your words.” He put down the book, and ran into my bedroom. I said, “Thank you guys for trying, maybe next time.” They left, I went to see Henry to see if I could do anything to make him feel better. When I walked in he was at the end of my bed all curled up in a ball. I sat next to him. “Come here.” he scooched next to me and I gave him a hug. “You don’t have to talk today, or tomorrow, or even in a week. Take your time, and if you think it’s too scary, guess what?” He looked at me, “You're the strongest little boy I know.” He smiled. The next week I tried something else, I brought some of my friends who have kids over to my house. They were all close to Henry’s age, 3 of them. They brought a football so they invited Henry to play with them. “Henry you wanna play with us?” Jack asked. Henry started shaking his head, and he put his arms up as if he didn’t know. I asked, “Do you know how to play Henry?” He shook his head no. “Jack maybe you could teach Henry how to play and throw football?” Jask answered, “Yeah, sure. Come on Henry!” Jack and the other two girls went out in the little front yard I had in the beautiful spring weather teaching Henry how to play football. I watched from the living room with the other moms and Henry seemed to be having fun, the other kids enjoyed playing with him. At one point I thought he was talking but he just yawned. Henry still wasn’t talking even though I tried introducing my family, playing with friends, I knew it was time to try the counseling classes. As much as he wouldn’t like it I knew it was for his own good. Walking into the school Henry was very nervous and shy. We checked in with the office and went to the classroom with the counselor. She greeted us very enthusiastically when we walked in. A few days before I called her about his situation. “Hi! Welcome!” She shook our hands, “I’m Ms. Hart, what’s his name?” I responded, “This is Henry and I’m Ellavive.” “Nice to meet you, come sit down.” We sat in the chairs in front of her desk. “Henry, why do you think you're here?” He nodded. “Because you're not talking right?” He nodded. “Do you know why we want you to talk?” He shook his head no. “Well, we want to know what’s going on with you, what you're thinking about only you know. We can’t know unless you talk, when you talk we can get you anything you need and we can help solve any problems you have. So what I’m gonna do is make little goals each week, they won’t be big, small goals, do you think you could do those?” He moved his arms up to say I don’t know. “I think you can do it, but for today I’m just gonna have you play with some of the toys I have. So you do that now over there.” She pointed over to a shelf of toys and she played with Henry. We went every week for a few weeks, but no luck. One day I asked Henry if he wanted some s’mores, I guess he didn’t know what they were so I was excited to show him. I went to my backyard, cleared out the standing fire pit, put in some new logs, newspaper, and lint, then I lit fire. Henry walked outside and saw the flames. “FIRE! FIRE!” He yelled. He started crying, I ran towards him. “Oh, Henry it’s okay. You’re okay.” “But No! FIRE!” “Henry this fire can’t hurt you. It’s contained, it won’t hurt you, it won’t hurt me.” “B-but but-.” I held him tight trying to calm him down, rubbing his back. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.” He continued to whimper. “Look at me, do you trust me?” “Yeah.” He sniffled. “I’m telling you, you are safe, okay?” He smiled in relief. “Okay.” he replied. “Alright, now we’re going to make some s’mores.” I took him to the pantry for some crackers, chocolate and marshmallows, we laid them down near our chairs that were around the fire. Then I took him to the woods to find some sticks. We walked back and I told him to put a marshmallow on his stick, then put the marshmallow over the fire. “Your marshmallow is on fire!” he said. “It’s okay, look I can just blow it out like this.” I blew it out. Then he did something that surprised me, he put his marshmallow in the fire, and then pulled it out. And he blew it out. “Good job Henry! I’m so proud of you.” I said. “Why?” “Well, because a few minutes ago you were very afraid, but you stood up to that fear, that’s really brave.” “Really?” “Yes. And you spent a move not talking, and you spoke about what was bothering you. Then we had a whole conversation! I’m very proud of you, and I love you very much!” “I love you too mom! Oh wait was I supposed to say that?” “Yeah, you can call me mom. You're my boy, my boy Henry.”

Chapter 1 - Inner Turmoil In 2019 I met a girl named Chelsea and she meant the world to me. It was odd because I met her while attempting to distract myself from the pain and rancor I had built up over the past 10 years. In 2010 I joined the Marine Corps and I never had regrets but I had lost so many friends that my life turned upside down. I hated myself for being alive and I missed them every day. That was then, this is now - I don't feel much of anything anymore. I'm more of an empty shell than anything else. I had actually planned to kill myself within a few months, I just wanted to get everything together and make sure everyone else in my life was alright before I left this world. It's a feeling that's hard to explain because on one side you don't want to live with the pain anymore and everyone always thinks you can get better and tell you to just try but they don't understand that nothing makes it better. So you have to make a decision on whether you want it to end and make everyone else upset or keep living in pain every day but you don't cause others grief. I had already decided that it was better for me to leave this world because I wanted to take care of myself and what was best for me is to not live in pain anymore. I've done enough for this world as it is, at least, that's the way I saw it. I changed my mind because of this girl, she completely turned me around in just a matter of a few months. It's interesting because I never cared about what anyone else told me, I never cared to push forward because I never valued any other person's beliefs except my own. I was born with the IQ of a genius, the particular number doesn't quite matter. I just happened to see everyone else as beneath me and idiots. It was innate, I had recently come to face the facts - not everyone is like me and I can't judge everyone based on the criteria that governs my life. I happened to be playing a game online and I just heard this voice, a thick New Jersey accent and I chuckled, I thought it was funny. Most of my friends were from Jersey and I always made fun of them so I figured I would be nice this time and not say anything. I kept my mouth shut and then I wouldn't talk to this girl again for another month. I kept moving forward in my plans to get my affairs in order and leave this world but then I heard her voice again as I sat in my room trying to numb my pain by downing whiskey, smoking cigarettes and playing video games. For some unknown reason, when I heard her voice, I was taken aback. I knew I wanted to get to know her more - I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW HER AT ALL! I COULDN'T SEE HER! This was crazy, I'm trying to meet a girl that I can't see, can only hear and who has no reason to even talk to me one on one except for the fact that we played the same game. It was so interesting because I had no idea she felt the same way towards me. I rationalized it because people meet others online, right? What could go wrong? Well, a lot went wrong. I was still working at the time but at this point I was working for the CIA and going to class, I know, weird but it worked for me. Essentially I kept my original job as an operator but instead of MARSOC I worked as a spook. Same job, same pay, same everything. I would disappear for months on end and I didn't know how this would go. Anyway, back to this girl. I asked her if she wanted to join me and a friend, his name is George but he goes by Kiwi, in playing this game as a regular group. "Well, you're both cool, I like you guys...of course!" she said. "Dope! Here, this is the server we hang out in and you're welcome to join us anytime" I replied. I remember I was telling Kiwi how she was going to come hang out with us and by this point in time Kiwi already knew her. He liked her as well, just not in the same way I did. Everyone in our group welcomed her and immediately proceeded to ask her about her accent. Some guessed Boston, others guessed New Jersey. At this point I was taking care of my nieces, my sister had recently passed leaving a distraught family and her 4 daughters with no home. About half a year ago my brother-in-law had asked to borrow my motorcycle because my sister really wanted to ride one, they couldn't afford one and it was her birthday. I never liked him but I love my family so I agreed to let him borrow it. He drove over to my house, left his car and took my motorcycle. That motorcycle would be my sister's killer. I felt horrible. I got a phone call from my other sister. "Hey, where are you?" said Eve as she sniffled, struggling to catch her breath and calm down. "I'm at home sitting on the couch with Champ. We're watching TV, what's up? What's wrong? Did something happen?" "Grace is dead. She was in a motorcycle accident. Mom knows it was your bike and she is pissed. Dad can't gather himself right now. Why would you let them borrow it? That's a really powerful bike." "I...what happened?" "Kevin was speeding and hit the side of an SUV and Grace went flying over, smacked the ground and died on impact. Kevin hit the side of the SUV. Broke his right clavicle, cracked his right humerus, broke both his femurs and has a flail chest. He's in the hospital. I had to tell you because mom doesn't want to talk to you and I know they wouldn't tell you otherwise." "Ok...thanks...umm...I won't come by then. Thank you for telling me. Text me in case I can come by at some point." I had dealt with so much death, seen most of my friends die, get shot, blown up, bleed out, I just didn't have the emotions to deal with this anymore. I sat there, thought about it and turned off the TV. I sat in the dark as it was getting late, for hours. I sat there for 6 hours remembering past deployments, holding my friends in my arms as I saw the light leave their eyes. I moved past PTSD and I was at the point where I didn't care about people's feelings anymore. I had to text my sister back and ask her where the girls are, my nieces. She said they haven't been able to figure out where to place them but she's hoping they can stay with me because everyone else is so distraught it wouldn't behoove them to stay with anyone else in the family. I could offer them an environment free of everyone else's crying and telling them how they should feel. It's something everyone does, they think they know everything and how people should act that they try to tell you what to do and want you to do it but you know you can't. At least with me, with my lack of emotions, I won't force them to act or feel any type of way. I accepted and made up the rooms I had at the moment, it was just me and my dog. I cleared out the master bedroom and guest bedroom and got them ready for them. It was at this point I decided I wasn't going to be able to leave this world just yet, I needed to see this through. This was about 6 months before meeting Chelsea and if this hadn't happened I never would've met her. I never would've gotten to know this angel I can't seem to let go. Chelsea would play with us all the time, till random hours in the morning. Sometimes we would play until 4 or 5 o'clock. She was regular member of our group. The names of the others are irrelevant because they aren't seen much anyway. In the beginning we all hung out and played but everyone grew distant whereas Kiwi, Chelsea and I only got closer. She lived in Florida, I was in Ohio. My nieces wanted to go to Disneyworld and I didn't want to go. I really didn't. But because I had so much free time I said sure and I always caved whenever they asked me for anything. I commented this to the group. "I mean...I have a ticket in case you want some company...I don't know if it would be awkward..." I was shocked at what I had just heard, I don’t know this girl but she just volunteered to come spend time with us. I laughed because I thought she was joking and I said the girls would be uncomfortable with it. They hadn't liked me bringing girls over so I figured they wouldn't like it but I hadn't actually asked them. Later on while messing around with my friends I ended up finding out she was being serious. She also told me later on. At the time I was so confused, what do I do? What do I say? Does she actually like me? I'm broken, I hate my life and I didn't want to be alive but, yet, here's a girl who is trying to push herself into my life and I'm freely letting her in. I knew I shouldn't, she'll only get hurt. Everyone I date gets hurt and since I'm the common denominator I can only assume the problem is me. I was stuck, do I pursue this or do I step aside? I'm in terrible shape, I just took in my nieces, I'm mentally unstable - I even had a plan to kill myself! Well...I still have the plan, once the girls are well and they are no longer living with me.

Chapter 1 Jack slumped into his threadbare armchair, a ghost haunting the ruins of his life. The city's relentless drone pierced the stillness of his apartment. Whiskey bottles, like tombstones of his failures, littered the coffee table. A sharp ring shattered the silence, cutting through the fog of his despair. He fumbled for the phone, irritation a thick fog in his mind. "What?" he growled. Mrs. Finch's voice cut through the haze. "Package for you." Surprise ignited amidst his despair. A package? Unlikely. Yet, hope, a fragile ember, flickered to life. He stumbled to the door, the ornate box, adorned with macabre skulls, an ominous presence on the welcome mat. His heart pounded as he tore open the packaging, revealing a parchment envelope. The familiar handwriting was a dagger to his gut. Jack’s hands trembled as he unfolded the letter, Arthur’s elegant script transporting him to a sunlit past. As a young, eager journalist, he'd looked up to the charismatic politician. “You’ve got fire, kid,” Arthur had said with a paternal pat on the back. “Use it wisely.” Those words had been his lodestar. Arthur became more than a mentor; he was family. The letter's contents shattered the idyllic reverie. "If you're reading this, I've disappeared. Trust no one. The Order is real, Jack. Find the truth." The words were a dagger to the heart. Arthur, missing? The shadowy Order? A nightmare was unfolding. Guilt and fear warred within him. He’d abandoned his mentor, dismissed him as paranoid. Now, a flicker of his former self ignited. A spark of determination replaced the despair. He glanced at the newest whiskey bottle. It would have to wait. Jack’s mind raced, adrenaline replacing the fog. The cramped apartment seemed to close in around him. Arthur's letter, a physical manifestation of his absence, trembled in his hand. He needed to move, to act. Grabbing his worn leather jacket, he made his way into the hall. He passed by Mrs. Delacroix's apartment. The annoying Christmas wreath still hung on her door. It was June, for crying out loud. He stepped out into the open air. The familiar cacophony was a jarring contrast to the quiet desperation he felt. Fresh air should help, right? A nagging doubt crept in. Why a letter? Arthur was a digital native. The cryptic package, a puzzle piece missing from the picture, sent chills down his spine. Paranoia gnawed at him as he navigated the bustling crowd. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, every glance a potential threat. The city, once a comforting backdrop, now felt like a hostile environment. Jack's mind raced as he closed the door behind him. The apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt like a cage. Arthur's disappearance, the cryptic letter, the ominous package--each piece of the puzzle hinted at a darkness far deeper than he'd imagined. With a deep breath, Jack decided. He'd dive back into the world he'd abandoned, using his buried skills to unearth the truth. His old life would become his weapon. As he gathered his scattered notes and contacts, a strange feeling settled in. The apartment seemed to close in, the silence heavy with anticipation. A cold dread gnawed at him. The storm outside mirrored his inner turmoil. He moved to the window, the city lights a distant, indifferent glow. Chapter 2 Jack's world narrowed to a single focus: finding Arthur. Days blurred into nights as he pored over old case files and newspaper clippings. His apartment, once merely cluttered, descended into chaos. Takeout containers piled up, dirty laundry spilled from overflowing baskets, and a thin layer of dust settled over everything. He barely noticed the passage of time, his eyes bloodshot from endless hours staring at his laptop screen. The wall above his desk became a tapestry of sticky notes, red string, and grainy photographs. Jack's obsession grew, feeding on each new scrap of information he uncovered. A sharp knock at the door jolted him from his research-induced trance. He ignored it, hoping whoever it was would go away. The knocking persisted, followed by a familiar voice. "Jack? It's Mrs. Delacroix. Are you in there?" He groaned, running a hand through his unkempt hair. The last thing he needed was his nosy neighbor poking around. But her voice carried a note of genuine concern that tugged at his conscience. "Just a minute," he called out, hastily shoving papers into drawers and kicking dirty clothes under the couch. Jack opened the door, squinting at the sudden brightness from the hallway. Mrs. Delacroix stood there, her silver hair neatly coiffed, a plate of cookies in her hands. "Oh, Jack! You look terrible, dear. Are you alright?" He forced a smile. "I'm fine, Mrs. Delacroix. Just busy with work." She peered past him into the apartment, her eyes widening. "My goodness, it's a mess in there! When was the last time you cleaned? Or had a proper meal?" Jack shifted uncomfortably, blocking her view. "I appreciate your concern, but--" "Nonsense! I'll bring you some of my homemade soup tomorrow. You can't live on takeout, you know. It's not good for your digestion." As she chattered on, Jack's eyes drifted to his desk. A folder had fallen open, revealing a document he hadn't noticed before. His heart raced as he spotted a strange symbol at the bottom of the page--an inverted pentagram surrounded by unfamiliar runes. "Jack? Are you listening to me?" He blinked, forcing his attention back to Mrs. Delacroix. "Sorry, what were you saying?" She sighed, shaking her head. "I was asking if you'd heard from that nice Mr. McBangus lately. He always seemed so fond of you." Jack's blood ran cold. How did she know about Arthur? Jack hesitated, torn between his instinct for secrecy and the unexpected comfort of human connection. Mrs. Delacroix's kind eyes and genuine concern wore down his defenses. "Actually, I'm worried about Arthur," he admitted, his voice low. "He's... disappeared." Mrs. Delacroix gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my! Should we call the police?" Jack shook his head. "It's complicated. I think he might be involved in something... strange." "Strange?" Mrs. Delacroix's eyebrows shot up. "Like what? A secret government project? Or... oh! I know! He's probably planning a surprise party for you!" Despite himself, Jack chuckled. The idea of Arthur throwing him a party was so absurd that it momentarily lightened his mood. His amusement faded as he remembered the article he'd found earlier. "No, it's nothing like that. Look at this." He retrieved his laptop, pulling up the news story. Mrs. Delacroix squinted at the screen. "Arthur McBangus linked to occult activities," she read aloud. "My word! It says here he was seen at some sort of ritual gathering. But that can't be right, can it? Arthur's always been such a pillar of the community." Jack opened his mouth to respond, but his phone rang, cutting through the tense atmosphere. He didn't recognize the number. "Hello?" he answered cautiously. A distorted voice crackled through the speaker. "Stop digging, Harper. You're in over your head. Walk away now, or you'll regret it." The line went dead. Jack stared at his phone, his heart pounding. "Who was that?" Mrs. Delacroix asked, her eyes wide with concern. Jack swallowed hard. "I think... I think someone's trying to scare me off the case." Mrs. Delacroix gasped. "Oh, Jack! This is serious. Maybe you should listen to them. What if you get hurt?" He shook his head, a grim determination settling over him. "I can't stop now, Mrs. Delacroix. Arthur needs me. Whatever he's involved in, it's big. And dangerous." "But Jack--" "I have to do this," he interrupted, his voice firm. "I owe Arthur that much. And if there's even a chance I can help him, I have to try." Mrs. Delacroix wrung her hands, clearly torn between concern for Jack's safety and admiration for his loyalty. "Just... be careful, dear. Promise me you'll be careful." Jack nodded, his mind already racing with plans. The threat had only strengthened his resolve. Whatever secrets Arthur had uncovered, Jack was determined to bring them to light. Chapter 3 Jack spread the evidence across his cluttered desk, his eyes darting from document to document. The pieces were falling into place, forming a picture more sinister than he'd imagined. He knew he had to act fast. With trembling fingers, he dialed Mrs. Delacroix's number. The phone rang endlessly, each unanswered tone increasing his unease. "Damn it," he muttered, grabbing his coat. He had to check on her before leaving. As Jack rushed down the empty hallway, his footsteps echoed ominously. Approaching Mrs. Delacroix's apartment, his heart sank at the sight of the open door, a dark invitation to horrors unknown. "Mrs. Delacroix?" he called out, pushing the door wider. The scene that greeted him stole the breath from his lungs. Furniture lay overturned, shattered glass crunching beneath his feet. Signs of a violent struggle were everywhere. Jack's mind raced. The Order. They must have taken her. His fists clenched at his sides, a mixture of guilt and rage coursing through him. He'd dragged her into this mess, and now she was paying the price. With renewed determination, Jack gathered the evidence and prepared for his confrontation. He couldn't let them get away with this - he had to stop the cult. Jack's heart pounded as he approached the shadowy warehouse on the outskirts of town. The night air was thick with tension, and the distant barks of watchdogs sent shivers down his spine. He clutched a ring of sausages, his unlikely weapon against the canine sentries. As he neared the perimeter, Jack spotted the massive, snarling beasts guarding the entrance. With a silent prayer, he tossed the sausages in a wide arc. The dogs' heads snapped towards the meat, their hunger overriding their training. Jack seized the moment, slipping past them and into the dimly lit shadows of the warehouse. Inside, the air was heavy with incense and whispered conversations. Jack blended into the crowd, his eyes scanning the space. At the center, a figure in dark robes stood on a raised platform, addressing the gathered members. "Our influence grows," the leader intoned. "With each politician in our grasp, we tighten our hold on this city's foundations." Jack's blood ran cold as he listened. The cult's reach was far greater than he'd imagined. They weren't just manipulating individuals - they were shaping the entire landscape, artificially inflating real estate prices to line their own pockets. He thought of Mrs. Delacroix, and the open door he'd found at her apartment. The Order had taken her, and he knew he had to act. Taking a deep breath, Jack stepped forward, ready to confront the cult's leader and expose their sinister plans, no matter the personal cost. Jack's heart pounded as he stepped forward, his eyes locked on the robed figure of the cult leader. The leader's gaze swept across the crowd, settling on Jack with an unsettling intensity. "Ah, a new face," the leader purred, his voice dripping with false warmth. "Tell me, seeker, are you prepared to prove your worth?" Jack nodded, his throat dry. The leader's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Very well. Answer these riddles three, or your life is forfeit." The first two riddles came and went, Jack's mind racing to decipher their meanings. But as the leader posed the final question, Jack felt his confidence waver. "What force and strength cannot get through, I with a gentle touch can do. And many in the street would stand, were I not a friend at hand." Jack's brow furrowed, the answer just out of reach. He could feel the crowd's anticipation, the leader's smug satisfaction at his struggle. Suddenly, the leader lunged forward, a dagger glinting in the dim light. Jack reacted on instinct, ducking and weaving as the blade sliced through the air. The two men grappled, locked in a desperate struggle. In the chaos, Jack's mind flashed back to Mrs. Delacroix's apartment, the open door, and the signs of struggle. The Order had taken her - he had to stop them. With renewed determination, Jack pushed back against the leader, fighting for his life and for the safety of the woman he cared about. Jack's mind raced as he grappled with the cult leader. With a heavy heart, he made his choice - he couldn't save Arthur, but he could still rescue Mrs. Delacroix. Breaking free from the leader's grasp, Jack bolted towards the back of the warehouse where he suspected they were holding her. He found her bound and gagged in a small room. As he quickly untied her, Jack heard the approaching footsteps of cult members. There was no time for explanations. "We have to go, now," he urged, helping the shaken Mrs. Delacroix to her feet. They fled into the night, leaving behind the cult, Arthur, and the weight of Jack's past. It was a sacrifice that tore at his soul, but he knew it was the right choice. Months later, Jack sat on the porch of his new home, watching Mrs. Delacroix tend to her garden next door. The burden of his past still lingered, but a sense of peace had settled over him. He had found redemption in saving her, and in the quiet life they now shared as neighbors and friends. It was a bittersweet ending, but one that offered Jack the chance at a fresh start.

It was Niagara Falls 2010. It's a small town everyone knows everyone. People are really polite almost all the time. Every morning I go down to the coffee shop at the corner to do my work. I always saw the same people. We became friends. Then on weekends I would stay home with my dog. I just went out to shop and walks. I liked staying home. Getting everything organized from the past week. I live in a one bedroom apartment. Well condominium building. It's pretty quiet most of the time, you can here the neighbors taking out garbage. I've lived here for about a year now. I don't go everywhere here I stay away from the casinos. So do most of us that live here. I sit and type at the coffee shop for two hours each day. I'm writing an biography I'm a ghost writer. I get different projects. A month ago I put an ad, in a local website to look for a roommate. It's too quite around here most of the time. I got a few responses then one day I got this man. I had so many people inquire I didn't care anymore. We have a set of rules and were both sucking to it. It helps with the rent in case I don't get paid on time. That way I don't have to get stressed out. It's nice to have company aswell other than my dog. Luckily he works weekends works out great. About a year went by. Every thing was working out just fine. It wasn't anything with the roommate. Strange things started to happen. I would go to the coffee shop and my drink would be paid for. I would go home and there would be a broken cup. It's wired. I had a boyfriend years ago. I wonder what's going on. I guess you can say I have a haunted pass. He tries to find me every now and then. That's why I'm here in Niagara Falls. I can basically write anywhere. At one point I had a restraining order. Every thing seems okay for a long time. I'm probably just over thinking. I hope . I heard something dropped I jumped. My roommate was out of town tell Sunday night. Noone else is coming by. I sat down and tried to forget everything. Oh my there's a car out side. I've never seen here before. How wired I was thinking. I phoned my roommate to say I think I'm going out of town aswell. I'll be back Tuesday. I booked a hotel in Toronto for tell Tuesday. I'm alittle scare that someone is following me again. I have a couple old friends from school. I wouldn't mind meeting. I gave them a call they were both free. Thank goodness. I keep checking my back. Looks like that car didn't follow me here. I probably was just being paranoid. I checked into the hotel and everything seemed okay. Still checking my back every five minutes. Meet my friends the next day. We went to the spa and had dinner. I decided to go back home. Once I was clam. That was a fun weekend. Just in time for my roommate, Donnald to come back aswell. "I'm surprised to see you here" Yeah just stayed the two nights and came back. I was getting stressed out. " "Is everything ok?" "Yes of course thank you!" It happened again another glass broke and that car is still there. The roommate asked again. "Are you sure everything is okay?" Well kind of. It was for a long while. Now I'm scared really scared." Wait the door rang. "Can you look please I'm too scared." It was just some flowers left near the door. "Your scared of flowers?" The roommate said. "No no of course not. I have to be honest and tell you I have a haunted pass. For the longest time everything was okay. Honest about five years now. Until you went away. I guess I was being followed by my ex boyfriend. He's nuts totally of the wall. I didn't no how to end it so I ghosted him. He wouldn't take no for an answer. I had no choice." "Oh that sounds horrible." "For a long while it was. I have a restraining order. I guess after five years I forgot they expire. That's why I left aswell. I noticed that car the minute you pulled away. " "Thank goodness your back." "Should I be scared to?" "No just me he's really off the wall. Should we call for help no not right now. It's not an emergency yet." "True." "Just keep the lights on all night so it's not dark if you don't mind. Do you have a small light for the room? "Of course I do." I couldn't sleep all night. I heard the wind. I heard the rain. I heard people coming and going from the building. Its horrible I can't sleep. My pass is on my mind. I can't stop thinking about it. I'm scared this guy is crazy. Okay breath, not working. Maybe I should call the authorities. They came in about two hours. I explained everything I could remember. That was so tiring. The two officers went behind where the car was. They did alcohol test. He was really drunk. Off to jail again. They asked if I wanted the information? Then they remembered they had everything on file. I can't believe I totally forgot about my past. I must have blocked it out. I really forgot. If they renew the restiraing order I better write it down. I feel better now going to rest. I'm going to make some hot tea and take a hot shower. Im going to wear my favorite pink pajamas. I'm going to sleep tell the morning. I no I'm safe now. To be honest I thought he forgot about me aswell. I guess I was mistaken. The end By Ellen Urowitz July 23rd 2020 Inspired by prompt haunted pass until the end.

My Papah says America will be good. He says it will take care of us. He says the city has better opportunities and we will have more food. He wanted me to go to a school and have a chance at a better life. Many people from our settlement had travelled to America and made a life there. Papah was confident we would thrive there as well. Just the night before I had heard him tell Mummah, "You worry too much. Look at Nico. He is settled in America, he has a place of his own. He works at the docks but thats a steady income. I can't let Lily grow up here. What future does she have. She will either labour or be sold." Mummah had sighed and finally agreed to his plan. I, however, wanted to stay here. Though under provided, we still had a home. I knew every corner of our suburb and America just sounded too scary. But Papah had made up his mind, so me, Mummah and Papah packed our lives and decided to board a boat. I took my stuffed girraffe to Papah. "Papah you think Lilo will get into America?" Papah laughed and caressed my hair like he always does. "Well we will have to sneak him in then." It brightened up my ten year old soul. Atleast I was carrying my favorite toy with me. "Papah how big is America." "Its huge enough to fit a hundred thousand people," Papah said. "Papah will there be children to play with." "Many." "Will we have a house like this." "A better one." "Will..." but before I could finish my next question, Papah interrupted. "Now now Lily will you ask all in one go. Maybe once you are in America you can see for yourself." With that he urged me to pack my things. We packed as many things we could. Mummah packed her clothes, two scarves and a little rice. Papah packed his weaving spindle. I took my favorite frock and Lilo. To think of it, we did not have much to pack. Yet it felt like we were leaving so much behind. Our hut was one of many. The weaving factory had shut down and my father had failed to find a new place to work. But then there wasn't much work either. You either worked at the cloth mill or you the cannabis farms. So like any poverty stricken family in a third world country, my father too had an american dream. A dream to make ends meet. A dream to have a plate full of food. Taking our meagre belongings, we lined up at the dock to board the boat of destiny. There were many people, young and old, clutching their lives wrapped in a bundle, hoping there will be a better place for them. Each face brimming with anxiety of a future untold. Among this crowd was my friend Norm, waiting for the boat,with his parents. "Lily!" his voice first vague, grew loud over the din of the dock, as he ran towards me. He smacked my back. "Hey, you too going to America." I looked back at the road that lead to our hutments. "Yeah." "Well it will be good to know someone in America. Will you come visit? I wonder how it is in America. My papah says they have big houses and fast cars. We will have food to eat...." I do not recollect the point at which I tuned out. He was excited, I wasn't. I couldn't imagine a world away from my home. My swing, my school, my friends, I was leaving it all behind. "so what do you think?" Norm questioned. "About what?" "About my new shirt." "Am sure it must be good." Just then my father called out and I sprinted to take my place in the queue. The boat docked in and people started clambering to claim their place. I didn't feel so confident. I hesitated and my father looked down. "Lily come on." "Papah that boat looks very small, how will we all fit? I think we should wait for the next boat." Papah knelt beside me and sighed. "There is no second boat. We either board this or we are left behind." With wide eyes I clutched his hands. He carresed my hair and said, "I will hold you, come lets go." My Mummah had already boarded the boat and me and Pappah squeezed ourselves in. At the very moment we heard the sailor call, "No more, the boat is full. Lift the anchor." We sailed through the night quietly. The sailors warned us of soldiers who would shoot us if we so much as squeaked. I clung to my Papah's chest. It felt safer than the rocking boat. No one dared to sleep. As the sky got lighter and the sunrays touched the horizon, we saw the shoreline. America Alas! I thought. The people on board began to hustle. The sailor begged them to wait till he anchored the boat but no one listened. Panic gave rise to chaos and our boat rocked hard before it capsized. People were flung over the edge into the dark deep water. Screams filled the twilight as people splashed to save their lives. Papah and I went face down in water. We glugged and kicked and tried to stay afloat, but the wines in the water, tangled our legs, pulling us down into its depths. "Papah, Papah." I tried to call but my words came out all garbled. In moments the fight went out of our body and Papah went under water, me clinging to his shirt. As I sank, I saw the sun shining, sparkling the water over our heads. The painful burn in my lungs increased as I gasped for breath. No one heard us, no one saved us. As the water grew deeper,I realised, there was no America for us. There was no Mexico. There was no place that meant life. There was no home to go to.

Past the tangling trees and budding flowers of the Forest of Dreams was one of Vendar's many trade routes. It was a well sculpted gravel path that cut right through the trees with plenty of room to spare. And it just so happened to be one of Sinetah's favorite spots to stake out. She lay in waiting, nestled in a vibrant green bush, with her eyes peering through a small opening in the growth. There wasn't much sound, save the caws and cries of animals and monsters that called the forest home. *I wonder how long it will take this time.* Taking a brief moment to brush her hair out of the way of her left eye, Sinetah let her hand caress the hilt of her left dagger. Both were enchanted years ago with durability, and would return to her hands if thrown, which often came in handy during difficult situations. Though it still wasn't the best option against foes decked in heavy armor, it made the battles more manageable during the uncommon occurrence that she had to face against one or several opponents who fit that description. Sinetah was unsure if whoever she would pounce on today would have such guardsmen around them. Most merchants could not afford services of men and women like that, so they often were alone. And a large majority of nobles would use different routes, or arrive in expensive carriages that Sinetah would usually let pass if it was more than she felt she could handle. The Empire had treated her and her kind so cruelly that self preservation had been ingrained in her mind at a very young age. She was just fortunate enough to have never been stuck in the cycle of brothels and inns that most elves found themselves in. Instead, ever since she could remember, Sinetah lived in the shadows, stealing and fighting just to survive in a world that hated her. Just as soon as her thoughts began to go to her days as a young girl, the sound of wheels rolling along the beaten path, and the hooves of horses hitting the rang rang into the elf's long ears. Red eyes turned to the side of the path facing away from Vendar, as her sight honed in on the carriage arriving from the North. It was fancy, every inch decorated in extravagant decal. On the side was what appeared to be the noble's family insignia, one she didn't recognize. Sinetah figured it was from far across the outer reaches of the Empire, not that it mattered. With only one armed guard, it was definitely something the elf believed she could handle. After just a few breaths, when the carriage passed her hiding spot, the thief pounced. Both hands flicked out her twin daggers without a sound, as one blade dug into the back left wheel, breaking, and with a dash, the other broke as well, stopping the carriage in its tracks. Sinetah barely managed to swing her head back as an arrow whooshed past and stuck into the back of the carriage. *Another guard? And an archer at that... how unusual.* She could hear the metallic grind of the front guard's plate armor as they drew closer, sword in hand. “A drow elf outside the brothel, that's not a common sight,” he exclaimed, hoping to catch her off guard with a biting insult. “And neither is an armed guard on the ground, but your archer friend will see that soon enough!” The left dagger left Sinetah's hand like lightning, aimed at a weak point in the man's armor, through the shoulder blade. It missed as the knight dodged it, and then advanced on her. She felt the corner of her lip smile as she moved back to avoid the swing of the guard's sword, and heard the clang of metal on metal as Sinetah's thrown dagger impacted into the man's back. It didn't break through, but the man did pause, confused, which was all Sinetah needed to leap into the air plant her foot into his face with all the force she could muster, knocking him back to the ground. Her blade whizzed through the air and returned to her hand, just in time to cut down another arrow from the trees. “I know you're over there. This man must have quite the money to afford an archer and a guardsmen.” There was movement in the trees, and a young man hopped out, a shortbow aimed toward her. He was young, likely not even 20 years old, which surprised Sinetah. Two arrows one after another cut through the air, toward her face. The elf rolled to the side, stopping before a third which planted itself in the dirt, right after where she abruptly stopped herself. “A young archer, fancy. Skilled, too. I don't see nobles typically employ someone so young, do you happen to have a special relationship with the man in the carriage?” To Sinetah's surprise, the young man began to chuckle, as did the downed knight behind her, who began to get to his feet, fighting against the heavy armor. It was the archer who spoke first. “I think you've made a grave mistake, thief. The man in that carriage is no noble. He is the heir to the Empire, the Prince!” Sinetah felt the blood drain from her face, eyes wide from terror, the first time she felt such a feeling in years. The insignia she didn't recognize was no noble crest, but in the back of her mind, it became familiar. The insignia on the Empire's flag. A lion with a mane of fire, to symbolize the might and power of an Empire that Sinetah had just pissed off with a single mistake.

Edit: The copy/paste from my original doc didn't come out right. Should be okay now. \ At the heart of the Zhou Dynasty was a temple towering over an inlet. It was the tallest building the nation's best architects could conjure, yet even they could not best the world's largest waterfall afore which it was built. It was thanks to the waterfall, which long ago they'd named Nia Zha, and other such wonders of the world that the Zhou revered nature. When they exited the temple, Aro and his father Quin Zhou meandered the winding stone paths through the inlet. They could hear the persistent rumbling in the distance, of water crashing down on water. They could see the fish, coy of all colors - golden and brown, and red, and grey, and a shade of orange like cream. "You're turning out to be a fine successor," said Aro's father. He'd noticed his son's journey had taken him far, something he could tell by his son's regal posture. "As a successor to the throne," he continued, "one must act as one would upon it." "Yes, emperor," Aro said after a pause. The stone walkway spiraled upward nearer to the falling streams. It lead to an alcove atop a boulder, upon which lay a garden. On this garden was one tree, of the most exotic kind found on their lands. Aro neared this tree and placed his hand upon it with his eyes closed and head tilted downward. It was only for a moment he did so, but he sighed and neared the floating garden's edge where Quin Zhou had already found his place. Aro sat down on the cloth mat cross-legged. He tried to imitate his father's posture, though no one, he thought, could ever posture himself as straight and regal as an emperor but the emperor himself. He hardly recognized him as his father, hardly ever did. He was a symbol, a protector of his people. The memory came back to him once of calling him father, and it brought fear that urged him never again to make it. It seemed that, for a moment, in the calmness of falling water and the absence of voices, the emperor's shoulders lowered and his gaze softened. "Aro..." "Yes, fa-... emperor?" "Do you know why I brought you here?" "Was it something I did? Did I err somehow, emperor?" "No, Aro." Quin Zhou took a breath, heavy and focused. The emperor's son yet remembered what his father had said that day, and every time he did his mind flowed back and forth between that memory and another - one much more gruesome. The words he'd said were, "As my successor, you will know only war." Then his thoughts shifted to another memory, one more recent of the emperor's face touching the ground with deadened eyes. And the memory shifted again. "War, Aro. Do you know what it means?" the emperor continued. "Death," Aro replied. Again his memory flickered. "That is so. And what will you do when that time comes as emperor?" "I shall conquer in your memory," Aro recited. "Good." Occasions Aro felt close to emperor Quin Zhou he did recall, but even in such circumstances the man would not once turn to face him. The Zhou had known since times of old that the high caste were holy people, and as such the unworthy should not look upon them. This is what Aro had learned, that those who looked upon the emperor's visage without his direct command of it must be sent to die. The memory continued, "You must understand, Aro, that you must always act upon the emperor's will, and the emperor's will is holy and absolute. Holy and absolute." "The emperor's will is holy and absolute." "Yes." The emperor paused. "You know your duties well. And that is why you are not ready." The words made Aro break from his posture entirely, so much so he stood up and faced Quin Zhou. "What?! But fa-! You said-!" "Silence!" Aro looked to the floor in shame and disgust. "You have not the stomach to rule," the emperor continued, "I have always known this, as have you." He looked to his mind, which told him that he knew the emperor was right. That he should have felt the hot shame washing down his face, and that his reaction was exactly why he was not worthy. "Even still, you are my only successor. You may be a good successor, but a successor is all that you are. The gods have told me I'll not have the time to turn you into a proper ruler, and you shall not become one of your own volition. A successor is all you'll ever be." Then the memory shifted once more. Aro saw the emperor again on the floor, where the light had escaped his eyes, and then back to the last line he'd ever told him. The one he'd always remember since then. "And the dynasty shall fall with you at its head." Ever since that day beside the waterfall, upon the floating garden, he'd never attempted to call him father again. And up until the moment of Quin Zhou's death, he never did. When Aro Zhou sat upon the red-cloved throne for the first time, he remembered those words. And on the day of his coronation was that his father's prophecy would come true. Through the Zhou Temple's gates afore the natural majesty of Nia Zha came a young man, not much older than he was. "I've one thing to say and one only. I urge you heed me, loyal servants of Zhou, for I am the one true heir to the throne. My name is Jano, and I am the emperor's lost son!" And it was on that day that Aro Zhou lost his way.

This is my first post of my writing. Feedback, good or bad, is appreciated. Enjoy. Dr Howard Corbin Dr Corbin was eating dinner with his new wife and her ingrate son. Chicken, 3 months of marriage and they had chicken 32 times. His child bride, Sheila, was 23 years his junior. He used to love chicken. His mother would wring its neck and bleed it out Sunday after church. He would watch it die, discretely. He was fascinated by that instant when the certainty of one's death is accepted. As a young man, in the triage tent on the "front line" of Vietnam conflict, he used to work with an erection. Not a raging one. It would just waggle in his boxers and rub against his thigh. He was a demigod, choosing who would receive grace through his over skilled hands and who was not worth the effort. He had met Sheila 8 years after his first wife left him. He hasn't done anything wrong. You aren't the man I married his ex would scream, every fucking fight. Of course I'm not, we got married 22 years ago. "I" grew up. She would slam the door of the house she had wanted, he had paid for, get into the sl500, slam the door on the car he bought her. Then drive to the bar and would buy her drinks on his amex. Maybe after a bad fight she would take a bar fly to a motel near the airport paid again with his credit card. Sheila had been introduced at a dull dinner a friend had thrown. She had walked in just as soup was put on the table. It was a magical moment. He had just put a large forkful of salad in his mouth. A rivulet of dressing slid down from the corner of his mouth unheeded. To say she was striking would be ungenerous. Mrs Sheila Corbin Sheila was born in Cambodia in 1974. She always thinks of it as being sold into slavery. In reality she was adopted shortly after her birth because most of her family had been killed, Her mother dying during Sheila's birth. She was fortunate to be "purchased" by a kind english family. She was fed and schooled with the other children by the rest of the house staff. She was released from service to attend college and never looked back to Asia, there was nothing there for her. She came to university of Maryland on a partial scholarship. The boys went crazy for her, Asian with a clipped British accent. She took lovers. They gave her things. Beautiful things. She donated them to churches, she was not a whore paid in jewelry. In her junior year she was dating a poly sci major. He was going places, he had interned in a senator's office. On Saturday night after an epic party they went back to his swanky apartment. They made beautiful love and Ryan. She didn't hate the baby, just resented him. He represented a door that had closed for her. She barely finished school while raising an infant. The poly sci major slowly pulled away after she told him that it was immoral to have an abortion. He sent her a $3,000 check after the birth. What the hell was $3,000 for and how did he decide on that number? She cashed it, only because she needed the money. She was 29 when she met Dr. Corbin, Ryan was 9. She loved him almost instantly. She had tried, on her own and through therapy to find out why. He was old and white so he seemed so much older. White men after 50, yuck. They are falling apart from the roof to the basement. He is kind and a doctor, if there had been a doctor at her birth at least her mother would be alive and she could have stayed with her family in Asia. That was the best answer she could come up with. So much kinder and serene than those self proclaimed spiritual men. 9 out of 9 times what you saw is what you got from Howard. One therapist said it was transference, never knowing her own father, I desire to have an intimate relationship with him. At the end of the session she invited her to coffee, on the pretext of talking about the therapy. She politely told her no and that she would be cancelling the rest of her appointments. The Corbins The doctor, as she always thought of him, had swept her off her tiny feet. They sat drinking brandy in the library, after the dinner party, until their friend, almost physically, kicked them out. They went across Martinsburg to the waffle house that was barely open. It was 3am and the Beaver Dam strip club hadn't swept its citizen debris to this side of the street yet. They talked, they laughed, his honesty drove her to truth. Her pat story of her childhood unraveled until the thread of history lay bare between them. Of course the "truth" is not a complete factual reenactment, but the omission of the all the lies. They had finished their pecan pie and drinking the dirty water, represented as coffee on the menu. Three sirens walked in. Their clothes unsuited for the November night. A down vest over a white tank top over nothing. Yoga pants and ugg boots. Was it the uniform of strippers going home? They ordered quickly, the young man behind the counter was shy but his desire radiated off him like a neon sign. The girls flirted, probably without realizing it. After they made their orders, and the man's night, they sat in the back giggling and waiting for the numbers to be called. A pair of street toughs walked in loudly. Without making eye contact with the boy behind the counter they turned to the booths. They had already cased the joint. Walking by the doctor and Sheila, the black one looked in the dr's eyes, puts a hand with bloodied knuckles on his shoulder and says nice pull grampa. They sit with the girls, boxing them in. Used to being in control of their interactions with the "clients", one of them start berating them. The Dr can't see what is happening past the high backed booths but he does see the kid behind the counter move down the bar and reach for an invisible shotgun. Howard, the dr, excused himself from Sheila. He walked over to the table that the 5 of them sat. What do you want old timer asked the scrawny white one. Just making sure these ladies were enjoying your company Howard replied. He casually drew back the right side of his sport coat revealing the pearl handle of the Colt .45 he had carried with him since he moved to WV. The gun was his sidearm from Vietnam. The handles a gift from his father for returning safely from fixing the boys when they got shot up in the war. One of the girls felt the temperature drop and almost knock the black teen on his ass pushing her way out of the booth. Your order is ready said the counter boy, the girls went to collect the greasy bags. The toughs retreated giving Howard a hard look. Helena gave him a kiss on the cheek on her way past.

Once upon a time, there was a man who hated everyone. he wasn't always this way - growing up, he actually tried to befriend most people. However, as time went on, and the more he learned about the world, he became more and more cynical about humanity. Having been born right before the turn of the millenium, he grew up during a time of rapid technological change. So fast, that it made more sense to continuously reject social norms since by the time one had become comfortable with them, new ones had replaced them already. ​ His hatred for humanity stemmed from ignorance - all around him, it seemed like those in his wealthy nation were solely concerned about making money and avoiding all forms of pain. These people were just absolutely horrid people - nouveau rich that could not be bothered to do anything but desperately seek out attention for being the best little boys and girls in the world. Whether it was having a high paying job or being seen at the trendiest restaurants or having the most prestigious educational pedigree, these yuppies wanted nothing more than to be validated - even if it meant hurting those around them. Living in their plush, luxurious bubbles, they had no time or interest to expend on others. When it came to history or philosophy or spirituality, they were poor as can be when it came to understanding and empathizing with the billions of other humans and animals that had the unfortunate misfortune of having to share a planet with these insufferable narcissists. ​ Over time, the man became more and more cynical about these people. They had constantly let him down as he learned the ways that they lied and tricked people to get their way. There were even people who would feign interest in humanitarian causes just to superficially look good to get what they wanted, but when real sacrifices were needed, they would vanish. The lengths that people seemed to go for self-enrichment was truly abhorrent, and it seemed like there was no end in sight to the growth of such malignant social cancer in society. ​ There were bright sides to recognizing such degeneracy and vulgarity. The deeper that the man's cynicality went, the greater his appreciation for those that exemplified grace and dignity. What shocked this man the most was the observation that it was the people that society seemed to reject and denigrate the most who actually displayed the highest levels of consciousness for their fellow conscience. Whereas the depraved were plastered over billboards and celebrated in all forms of media, the untouchables always seemed to exhibit a genuine compassion and love for those lucky enough to be in their lives despite being invisible. ​ The man supposed that had he never had the abhorrent experiences with these covert barbarians, he never would have come to the realization of who the real champions of humanity were. It is said that experience is the best teacher, and this man was exceptionally well taught. Maybe that's all life is, the man thought to himself - a continuous cycle of disappointments that simultaneously flung you deeper into the pits of misanthropy while further exalting the holiness of those whose actions provided the hope to keep going anyways.

I know it sounds silly, I know it sounds stupid and you are probably wondering, "Man, what the fuck is wrong with you?" But you HAVE to listen to my side of the story. So, please make judgements after you hear what I say. I have been not been able to sleep for four nights now and my blood is rushing so hard and fast through my veins, my heart is beating so rapidly that I feel like if I don't explain myself to anyone, I would do something terrible again. So, here I am, writing this down to a bunch of complete strangers, to let this burden off my chest and to also gain some advice to help myself out. So, I have been an avid anime fan since I was a literal child. Anime gives me a sense of reality, like there's a 2D world out there, much more fun, happy and pleasant to be in. Ofcourse I am not talking about the thriller/horror animes because then there wouldn't be much difference between my fantasy reality and real reality. Why? Because even my mother killed my whole family (unfortunately I turned out to be alive) and that would make for a great horror storyline. Growing up, I got bullied for multiple reasons. Be it my mother being a murderer, or for being poor, or for having a feminine voice, or even a short and skeleton-y body etc. But the thing which hurt me the most was when they targeted my anime loving self. They told me I was a 'fucking weirdo' for getting happiness from a bunch of 2D characters, that I was just like my mother who was detached from reality. My low self esteem never allowed me to fight back. Instead, I quit watching anime. Maybe, I was weird, maybe I would turn into my mother later. So, I kept quiet and tried to endure everything as much as possible. Tried to get good marks, a good job and just live my life in peace and solitude. Everything was going good until I met my girlfriend six months ago. She was a beautiful woman, someone that I definitely don't deserve. Always felt inferior, always felt like she would leave me one day but she took away all my worries. The most humble, pure soul I have ever met. So needless to say, I was in a happy relationship for quite some time. Until, she started behaving in a really weird manner. Everything about her...seemed peculiar. The way she would stop speaking mid sentence and just stare at me with a blank face and a flimsy, dreamy smile reaching her ears and then abruptly go back to speaking really irked me. The way she would stare wide eyed at the ceiling at night and then snap her head at my direction scared me. The way her arms would tightly wrap themselves around my chest to the point I almost couldn't breath... terrified me. But I was scared to lose her. After a long time, I had found happiness. And maybe it were just a bunch of weird habits she had. Who knows? So, I overlooked those. And the stress from constantly ignoring something that was making me uncomfortable made me start something I had left a long time ago i.e watching anime. In retrospect, it was where all the hell broke loose. The first anime which I had started watching after a long time had eerie similarities with my life. My girlfriend started acting more weird. I started getting nightmares about my mom killing me. I couldn't work properly so I got fired. And I got super emotionally invested in that anime. Every night I felt unsafe sleeping beside my girlfriend. I would feel her nails across my chest, scratching my chest so hard that blood would splatter across the bedsheet. I felt like something was seriously wrong with her and if I don't do something, she would do the job which my mom had failed to do. But as I said, I was a coward. So, I kept watching the anime and the similarity of the plot line to my life of the anime shook me to my core. The lines between reality and fiction blurred. I felt like I was the boy on the screen, anxious and terrified that his girlfriend was going to kill him. It was as if the anime was showing my future. One night, my girlfriend sat beside me. She had the same hollow smile on her face and her black beady eyes stared at the screen of my laptop. "Babe, are you watching an anime?" She asked, digging her eyes into mine. "Yes." I nodded, trying to keep my eyes away from hers and glued to my screen. "You said you wouldn't watch these things ever again." "Yes, but I am stressed out and I need an outlet." I responded. "This anime is boring anyways." She smirked, her eyes filled with pure malice. "The girlfriend kills him." My heart dropped, my hands growing cold. I slowly turned my head towards her and the look in her eyes, send chills down my spine. So cold, so unlike the woman I fell in love with. I saw her hands behind her back, slowly coming to the front and towards me. A metallic glint. I had to react fast. So I grabbed my laptop and repeatedly bashed her head till her head was nothing but chunks of fleshes and bones on the ground. But for some weird reason, while I was smashing her head, her screams sounded absolutely terrified. Probably, I even heard her say, "Babe! Why are you doing this? What is wrong with you?" But I had to. So I killed her and hid her rest of the body under my bed. But the most peculiar thing out of all is that, when I searched for the second season of the anime, nothing came up. In fact, the anime doesn't even exist. Right now I am very confused. I need help. How do I get my girlfriend's rotting body to stop smelling so bad? I can't sleep because of the pungent smell filling up the air. No matter what I do, it doesn't go away. I wonder what my mom had done with her murderous shenanigans. Or wait, what I had done in the past, to blame the murders on my mother. How did I do it? I can't remember. I just remember that nobody questioned it for some reason, like why did my mother suddenly disappear after the murders? Why was I all bloody or the only one alive when my mother had killed eveyone in the room? Or why I was constantly referring to knowing the future because I had seen an anime telling me about my mom's murders? I don't know. As I said, anime is reality for me. So I hope you understand my point of view and why I had to do what I had to. For now, my girlfriend's dead body is kept beside my mom's dead body, under my bed and I hope I get rid of her rotten dead smell too, just like I had done with my mother's dead body, years ago.

“I shoved through the overcrowded and noisy halls, trying to get to my classroom in time so that I would not receive detention. The acute edge of a locker jabbed into my ribs as I tried to avoid a teacher who was still waiting for my essay. But bad luck leered at me every corner I turned. “Mr. Smith,” a harsh voice called me out, “Mr. Smith, where is your essay. It is a week overdue.” A group of people jeered at me as I tried to dodge a half eaten sandwich. “Uh, I have it, I just need to get it from my locker,” I lied. The tall figure seemed dissatisfied but he let me go, disappointment clear in his dark gaze as he watched me fight my way to my History class. The class was eerily silent as I waited at my tattered and worn desk. I wouldn’t call it mine. It was temporary. Our school had this rule, if the teacher was not there within 15 minutes into the class, we were permitted to leave to hang out outside. The awkward air and painfully bright lights pierced the mood of waiting. Now would be a good time to finish that essay. Pulling out a brand new composition notebook, I clicked a pen and started writing. But my words did not form an essay on “The Structure of Life” as I had been instructed. It formed a diary entry. Dear Diary, I am procrastinating. Did you know that procrastinators procrastinate because they have so many things to do that their brains can not focus on just one thing? I have this essay I am supposed to turn in. Sincerely, Jerry As soon as I signed my name in cursive, I immediately regretted my entry. I felt like such a girl, to be writing in a diary, let alone writing in cursive. I watched protectively as the ink sank into the lined papers. Dear Jerry, I know how you feel. I have felt that for all my life. I always think that i have so much to do and I can not decide how or when to do it. It’s alright. Just start with a flow map or if you are feeling extra daring, the introductory paragraph. Dear Diary, Thank you for your advice, I really needed it. Right now we are heading outside because Mr. Freeman did not show up to teach us. I am kind of disappointed because we were supposed to learn about the Great Schism or something like that. But I would never admit it to anyone because people would call me a nerd. Sincerely, Jerry Dear Jerry, Yes, the Great Schism is very interesting. Don’t worry about being called a nerd, information is always useful. Tell me about yourself? Dear Diary, My name is Jerry Smith. I am in eighth grade. My favourite color is dark green but when I told this to my younger sister she said that green was too sickly and murky. My younger sister is ten years old and she is obsessed with penguins. I absolutely love spending time drifting into the wonders of a book but I don’t think I should read a lot, people would think I am too introverted. I want to dye my hair but people would think I was depressed. There are so many things I want to tell you. Sincerely, Jerry Dear Jerry, I love the color green, it reminds me of nature and the outdoors. Reading is my favourite thing to do also. You can dye your hair, don’t care what others may think of you. Dear Diary, I love playing on the playground. I don’t know why there isn’t any play structure in middle school. I hate sports and exercise but I can not say that to anyone. I want to join the theatre club but I would be the only boy there and I don’t want to take that risk. I want to take art but my parents will not allow me to drop Spanish. I love watching cliche romantic comedies but I pretend to like horror and action films. I probably should really be starting on my essay- Sincerely, Jerry Dear Jerry, Playgrounds are cool, middle school is not. Theatre club sounds like fun, take a shot (Cue the Hamilton Music), and although Spanish is useful, if art is your truest passion, you should join. What is your favourite cliche romantic comedy? Dear Diary, I love the movie “Flipped”, I think it is exciting and also funny. You should watch it. There is always the classic, “The Princess Bride”, but I think that if I were to truly choose it would be “Flipped”. I like listening to Broadway productions. I like the extra tinge of dramaticness and reality in the songs. My mother took me to see an off broadway production of “Thoroughly Modern Millie” and I made the mistake of singing a tune on the bus. I like reading “The Phantom Tollbooth”, I think it has a new approach on figures of speech and I am blown away by the creativity. Sincerely, Your friend Jerry I knew that my diary was one hundred percent reliable and would respond to me no matter what. I knew that my diary would not judge my opinions and what I like. I knew that my diary would always agree with me. But I was not aware that my diary was me.” “Mr. Jerry Smith you have been subjected to twelve months in a mental asylum for claiming that your 99 cents composition notebook wrote back to you and told you to attempt to murder the principal of your school. Expert psychologists and detective’s have confirmed that you were indeed writing back to yourself and listening to your own young and stupid advice.” The law faced the psychotic and schizophrenic maniac like a concrete dam. People would whisper and make fun of his younger sister for years. Jerry Smith’s younger sister. The one who’s older brother imagined he was talking to a diary when he really was writing back to himself. And Jerry Smith would endure the worst. He was the one who had truly been so crazed that he would write to himself. He was the one who attempted to stab sweet and caring Principal Sanders to the death claiming his diary told him to. But he was his diary.

Old fishermen rowed their boats along the quiet banks of the river; which ran through the center of the small village, giving life to the rocky valley. The northern mountain hovered over the quaint village, protecting it from the outside world. Large pines resided along the edge of the rocky mountain, covering the small river and the town along it. A child, his feet bare and muddy, walked along the river watching the fishermen pull in the small fish by net. He soaked in the little sunlight peering through the shady trees, his toes feeling the earth beneath him connecting him with it. He felt the mountain speaking to him, whispering the secrets of the world. His mind filled with the stories of people who he will never meet. The river treaded along beside the curious boy, until, the mountain became silent. The child’s head only filled with the soft touch of flowing water on his ankles. The boy stopped his morning routine and stood still, waiting for another story, even a simple whisper to come. He decided to walk up the bank of the river to the dirt path, few people were out on the streets that morning. It was early, the sun just rose a while before, and the fishermen had just set along for their day. The child sauntered toward the northern mountain hoping for a quiet word from the earth beneath him. The village began to fall behind him as he trudged toward the mountain and out of the town. He walked beside old pastures with rolling hills, that begin to be planted along the mountain edge. The child stopped at the mountains path and listened. He only felt soft wind in the air. The boy began to climb the rocky terrain, his feet blistering from the hot stones on the path. He pushed forward to find something, the boy hadn’t a clue what he was looking for exactly, just something he could call an answer. The boy by noon day stopped at a ledge on the mountain. He could see his entire village, tiny in comparison to the mountain he stood on. He sat to cool his feet, overlooking the town below him. He thought of the mysteries that may hide in the world outside of his small town. “You’re quite young to be a traveler.” A voice from behind startled the boy, he turned and saw an old monk walking from the forest. The boy didn’t say anything, he was surprised to see someone as old as the man was on the mountain. The monk sat beside the young child, his robe green as the pine needles, and brown lace like the earth. The two sat silent for a few minutes, the child could see the monk breathing slowly, taking in the scents of the mountain. “I was surprised you were able to hear me,” said the old monk, the boy wasn’t too surprised. “My voice is soft, and my old age seems to have an effect on it, my words seem to trail off with the wind sometimes.” The child looked back at the village below, he just wanted something to listen to at the moment. “I used to live in the town, I would listen to the fishermen row with the river, and the laughter of the people was beautiful. I would love to just sit back and listen, taking in what I could, the melodies of the town I once knew.” The monk reminisced in gleeful nostalgia. The child was quite jealous, he wished he could hear the town as the old monk. The village seemed quiet to the boy, not much laughter and smiles anymore. “I know the town has become quite silent over the past years. Old traditions become tiresome; the people get caught up in their daily lives until the only sound left is the mountain whispering her secrets.” The monk preached, the boy looked at the old man, happy that the monk heard the mountain too, nobody he knew could hear the mountain. Although the man did surprise the boy, he seemed mysterious and quite obviously was a powerful saint. “Though you know what doesn’t seem to ever change?” the monk asked. “the mountains beauty, it always is a sight to be seen.” The boy looked up, realizing he had been missing the grand picture all along. There was always something to be found in the quiet. The beauty shines through the mountain even when the times change. When the town is silent the mountain is still there to protect us and show the beauty of life that’s worth living. “I can tell you’ve found your answer young child,” the monk said turning to the boy, the child now realizing the monk was blind in both eyes. “Remember, even when there is nothing to hear, there is always something to see, even when you’re as blind as me, or as deaf as you my boy.” The boy stood and signed his ‘thank you’ to the wise old monk, realizing he was the one whispering the mountain’s old stories to him. The child began his trek back to his village, ready to find its silent beauty again.

Warning: Contains death and descriptions of corpses. Tommy was always an ill-tempered boy. He was as stubborn and angry as a wasp swarm. It’s easy to see why. He had to fight so hard to survive. He worked like a man before he had ten years to his name. Worse yet, his nickname was his only other. He was so young when his parents died, he couldn’t remember their last name. The Master Sweep may have known, but he didn’t give Tommy the privilege. Like many young boys with impoverished parents or none at all, Tommy cleaned chimneys. Tommy sometimes wondered who was worse off, the orphans or those who had been sold by their own parents. Some of them were as young as three. Most were around six. They relied on the Master Sweep for employment, food, and clothing. Called apprentices, the Master had full control. The sold ones had papers declaring the Master their legal guardian. They couldn’t escape until adulthood, though most wouldn’t make it that far. This lead to Tommy’s anger. A child with the rage of a grown man. It had been a routine day at work. Tommy went down a chimney expecting to emerge once it was clean. Now, Tommy was small for his age. That’s how he made it as long as he did. Many boys were left to starve once they got too big. Well, starve more. That was the day he was just a bit too big. He was stuck. Like many other climbing boys, he was stuck. In the dark and soot. His was born in the dirt and never got the chance to get out. He died in there. He lost the fight. But Tommy was stubborn. Stubborn and angry as a wasp swarm. And now, just as violent. He was no longer bound by his malnourished child body. Now, he’d show everyone what his malevolent mind could do. Tommy’s Master Sweep woke up in the night to the sound of coughing. He didn’t feel alarmed right away. He’d soon have good reason to be. He smelled soot, and heard a growl. One of the last sounds he’d ever hear. He went missing for a while. But they found him. A piece or two at a time. He was stuffed up chimneys of regular customers all over the city. The wider parts, like pelvis and torso, were found in the ovens. If a grown man could fit up a chimney, this story wouldn’t have happened. The head? Grand opening. I said he was missing, but I never said they thought he was alive. His head was found outside his house, coals shoved in where the eyes would be. It’s likely he was alive during dismemberment. I can’t recall where his eyes were, but I think I’ve conveyed the violence enough. Tommy wasn’t finished. Master Sweeps all over began turning up...all over. Authorities tried to stop it somehow, following the obvious pattern, but you can’t catch a ghost. They predicted the pattern correctly, but they were powerless to do anything about it. As powerless as young Tommy had been while alive. But he was contained nearly a year after death. My boss’s predecessor realized what was going on. Many ghosts come from that time and place, but our Malevolent Orphan was especially interesting to him. There was so much raw power. He used his expertise to capture The Malevolent Orphan, and brought him here. To the Dusk Museum. None of the ghosts have free reign, though some have more than others. Tommy has many restrictions, due to his volatile nature. Also because he’s a rare free roaming ghost, moving himself where he pleases. He’s very rude, but hasn’t tried to kill anyone here in years. Nowadays, he mostly stays in his area and insults people. Still hating the world. We give him things to do, but he doesn’t always cooperate. He does enjoy describing the things he’s done to people. I find it curious, that a child could have such a hatred for the world. A malevolence typically seen in jaded adults. But that’s what we gave, here at the Dusk Museum. It’s what we live for. We take pride in our displays. Thank you for your interest.

“I think we need to talk”, Max said. I stared at him momentarily, then shook my head in disbelief. “I need some sleep”, I muttered to myself. Clearly the lack of sleep from the last few nights was starting to take its toll on me. I rubbed my eyes, stood up, and started towards my bedroom. “Can I come?” Max asked. I didn’t even turn around this time, I knew it was my tired brain playing tricks on me. He followed me, even though I didn’t answer him. I brushed my teeth and got changed, by the time I got to bed Max was already snuggled down. I thought no more about it and went to bed, asleep before my head even hit the pillow. I woke up the next morning as I always do, to the sound of the dogs tail wagging in the doorway. I felt relaxed and rejuvenated. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table as I hauled myself upright. Eleven hours sleep! I must have needed that. I stretched myself out and got up, the dog getting more and more excited with each movement towards his breakfast. “Wee-wees first?” I asked him. “Yes please”, he replied. I stopped walking and stared at him. He stared at me. I was dumbfounded. Was I still asleep? Was this a dream? It must be...dogs can’t talk! “Sorry,” he said, “I know this is a bit strange for you, but I really do need a wee. Can you open the door, please?” “Erm, yeah...sorry,” I managed to stutter out, as my body switched to autopilot and opened the back door for him. As I stood watching my boy in the back garden, my mind was in overdrive. ‘This cannot be happening’, I thought to myself, ‘dogs can’t talk. Max is thirteen now, he’s getting on in years...if he’s been able to speak all this time why has he chosen to start now?’ I caught myself on this last question and shook my head. ‘HE CAN’T TALK’, I told myself firmly. I couldn’t explain it. I must be losing my mind. My thoughts were interrupted then by Max calling through the door, “can you let me back in, please?” Again, my body was doing it before I’d had a chance to think about it. Max trotted into the kitchen and looked expectantly at his bowl. I wasn’t keeping up with my half of the morning routine. I grabbed his kibble from the cupboard and poured a cup into his bowl. “You and I need words after breakfast”, I said to him as I placed the bowl on the ground. He plunged himself towards the dog food as if he hadn’t been fed in years. ‘At least some things don’t change’ I thought, then strangely ‘he didn’t say thankyou’. I made myself a cup of tea and watched the dog wolfing down his kibble. Once finished he moved his head immediately to the water bowl. He then sat on his haunches and looked at me, water and saliva dribbling from his greying muzzle. “Well,” he said, “I suppose we had better talk about this.” I stared for a moment, my brain unable to comprehend how my dog was talking to me in a human voice. A friendly sounding voice. Very different to the voice I’d imagined for him over the years. “How long have you been able to speak?” I asked him, wondering to myself if I was talking to a hallucination. “Since yesterday morning,” he replied, looking a little sheepish, “I don’t know how or why it happened. I tried to bark at that stinky ginger cat from across the road, but instead...I just said ‘bark’. It was a bit embarrassing really, I’m sure that cat was laughing at me!” Despite the utter confusion and bewilderment I was feeling, I laughed. I sat on the floor in front of him and kissed his nose, as I had been doing for nearly thirteen years. “My poor baby,” I said with a smile, “I’ll get the cat with the hose later”. He leaned forward and rested his head on my shoulder. “You’re the best” he breathed into my ear, which unfortunately wafted towards my face... “OH MY GOD!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands to my face, “I’m sorry to ruin the moment, but you’ve got devil's breath!!” “Oh, thanks very much,” he replied huffily, starting to stand up. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I claimed, although it was hard to hide my smile. I’ve always wanted to be able to chat to my dog, I might as well try and enjoy this. We chatted all morning. It was the most wonderful, but strangest morning of my life. Finally getting to ask my best friend all the things I’ve ever wanted to know about him, his favourite flavour of kibble, where he likes to go for a walk the most, and why he always growls at that one particular postman. Max asked me all the things he wanted to know. We talked about all our favourite memories. It was incredible finally getting to share all these things with my best friend. After talking for a few hours Max announced that he was tired and plodded off to my room for a nap. I went to make myself another cup of tea and began to process my thoughts. I had just spent the morning engaged in conversation with my four legged friend. I suddenly wondered if this was happening elsewhere. Were other dogs able to talk, or was it just Max? I abandoned my cup of tea, half made, and stalked over to my desk and opened my laptop. Surely if this was happening elsewhere someone would have posted it online by now? I opened facebook first, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. I tried twitter next, nothing there either. Nothing on any of the news pages I checked either. I was beginning to doubt myself again. Maybe I shouldn’t have shrugged this off. Then it clicked. I had wished for this. I had forgotten, because I say the words “I wish” an innumerable amount of times everyday. The memory seemed to slip back into place as I glanced towards my most recently finished painting. I had been working on it when I made my wish. I have a habit of talking while I paint. I don’t know why, but I always have. Usually to inanimate objects or animals, but I will talk to a person in a pinch. I had been talking to Max while I worked as I often did, but for some reason this time I wanted a conversation rather than just a one sided monologue. So there I was, painting and talking away and I just so happened to say “I wish you’d answer me once in a while”. I didn’t even think about it, I just said it. I’ve said “I wish” so many times in my life, why did this one come true? I shook my head to clear it. I considered my options, either I was going mad or I had had a wish granted. I pushed my fingers into my temples and allowed my hands to take the weight of my head for a moment. “Doesn’t believing it was a wish make me mad anyway?” I asked myself, out loud. Max padded back into the living room then and sat down in the doorway. I looked up as I heard the click of his nails on the wooden floor. I looked hard at him. He looked back at me silently for a long time. ‘Did I imagine it all?’ I asked myself. “What are you doing?” He asked me. ‘Guess not,’ I thought. “Seeing if I could find any explanation for this”, I answered, gesturing towards him. “Look, I lied before,” he answered, walking towards me. He sat by my knee and put his head in my lap, looking up at me with somber brown eyes. “I do know why I can talk,” he continued, “it started yesterday morning and it will end this evening.” “But why?” I asked him, stroking his greying face. “I made a wish that you could understand me,” he explained, “apparently you made the same wish at the same time, so it came true.” I gaped at him stupidly. “It’s a shame we didn’t both wish to win the lottery,” I joked. Who would have thought it? An offhand wish in amongst the many I make every day got granted because my dog made the same wish. No one would have thought it. I must be going mad. ‘Who cares,’ I decided once and for all, ‘if I am going mad and this is the only symptom, then who cares! If it gets worse, I’ll see my GP.’ With that decided I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders. “Walkies?” I asked the dog, he jumped up and ran to the door, tail wagging so fast I thought he might take off. I spent the rest of the day chatting away to my dog. After my decision to accept that Max and I could talk today, I felt much better. He told me he was going to stop talking this evening anyway, so if it continued after that I would worry. I had decided to enjoy my Sunday. After taking Max for a run around his favourite woods we returned home and shared some lunch. He was overjoyed that I allowed him to have some chicken, thanking me through the mouthfuls. He then had a kip whilst I began a new painting, which I became lost in for hours. Noticing the time, I realised we had both missed dinner, it was nearly ten o’clock! I wandered into the kitchen thinking about what to have. I opened a tin of what I now knew was Max’s favourite flavour chum, and plopped it into his bowl. I placed the bowl on the floor and called him in, surprised he hadn’t come running at the sound of the tin opening. Even now, he didn’t come running. He plodded slowly in with his head hung low and his tail between his legs. “What’s up, pup?” I asked him. He looked at me and whined. “What's the matter?” I inquired again. He barked, looking at me morosely. Then it clicked. He wasn’t answering me, he was barking at me. “It’s gone?” I asked, knowing the answer. He barked again. I sat on the floor and allowed him to come and sit on my lap. I kissed him on the nose and stroked his ears. “It’s alright”, I told him, “eat your dinner.” I kissed his head and stood up, suddenly feeling drained. I decided to skip dinner and began getting ready for bed. Once again, by the time I wandered from the bathroom to the bedroom, Max was already snuggled up on my bed. I climbed in beside him and kissed him on the nose. “Goodnight pup,” I muttered as I drifted off to sleep, wishing once more that he could answer me. Just for one more day....

Wasn't a sunny day, but being new to Missoula I didn't reckon on snow in September nor all the queer goings-on which happened next. The menfolk rode out early that day- everybody was still spooked by the killing of Mister Custer last June. A few ladies stopped by earlier, but since about two, nobody wanted to go out with the all dark clouds. I have all the groceries, the early apples and late cabbages, set to go back in the cellar, when a terrible howl commences outside and snowflakes, fat as the end of your thumb, start falling everywhere. I rush three baskets to the lift what Eli, the town blacksmith, installed afore I got here. I work the chains and levers to send them all down where they'll be safe from freezing. I'm just set to go down and settle them in when I hear a little wail from behind the row of dresses we got shipped in last week. I rummage around and, lickety-split, spot a basket with a bundle wrapped in it. Don't take no college boy to figure this is a baby what somebody done left here for me to raise. Only, when I check the baby, it looks like it must be some sort of monkey, as hairy as it is. Not so much the face, but its arms, chest, and legs all got a kind of fur, soft like goose down. And the little boy has peed himself. After raising six younger siblings, I know how to do this, but... As soon as I git a makeshift, but dry, diaper on the little fellow, he starts bawling louder than afore. Change, feed, spit up, then start over again. Pattern I know better than Colt knows revolvers. I pry open a can of condensed milk and git some in a cup. He won't take a spoon, so I have to soak the milk in a bit of cloth, then dribble it into his mouth. His skin is red enough he can't be more than a week or two old, and he's small to boot. He might be early, or his ma might have been a midget or some such like you see at a traveling show. Or maybe he's one of them before history people, seeing as how he's got that fur. But he got a good grip in his fingers and he likes his milk. After his feeding, he settles right down and I git back to the work of settling in for a snowstorm in September. Bout the time I'm finished down in the cellar, bell rings and I hurry up to see who in tarnation would be out in this sort of weather. I don't see nobody and am set to git back to work, when I spot the basket is empty. Ain't no way, no how, that baby got outta that basket and out the door on his own self. Body had to help him somewhat. I grab a coat, the basket, box of shells and a Winchester. Ain't no sense going out without all three. Putting shells in ain't easy with a basket slung over my arm, but I got to git going. I step out onto the boardwalk and the cold slaps me in the face. Beaumont weren't never like this. Nobody on the street, least ways so far as I can see. Snow's falling heavy like rain afore a hurricane. I look down and spot a place what's filling in where a body dragged something along the walkway. Can't make out no boot tracks, but that trail's the only thing I got, so I follow along like a calf after its mamma. Bout the time I reach the bank, I finish loading the shells and slip the box into my pocket. the trail rounds the corner into an alley leading back and I aim to go after whoever took the baby. Something growls, low like a wolf, making me lever a round into the chamber. I go round the corner with the barrel leading. Only ain't nothing there but the baby, crawling through the snow like it ain't cold nor nothing. I go to grab him up and he looks at me with his big pale blue eyes and I stop, staring in wonderment. I put the basket beside him and say, "Git on in, if you're so all fired sure of yourself." He crawls in and burrows into the blankets. I lift the basket and something is sure as sugar wrong. It weights too much, then I figure that I got the Winchester too, so it adds as much as a small baby, sort of doubling the weight. I make it back to the store and Mrs. Jackson is standing inside tapping her foot. She's an old busybody. Thinks she owns everything. She's part-ways right, seeing as her husband owns the sawmill and is on the right side of comfortable. "Sorry to keep you waiting, just had to step out for a moment. How can I help you?" "Miss Boyle, do you know how long I have been waiting?" "I was out for about ten minutes. So I reckon it's no more than that." "Would your brother care for your attitude?" She waves around the room. "Your store is entirely too cold." "I agree, but I ain't got let to put coal in the stove." I aim to make her decide I'm too stupid to know what she means so she'll git down to business. "I came her today-" Baby lets out a squall would do a locomotive proud. I look Mrs. Jackson straight in the eye. "I heard a baby crying and went to save it from the storm. Seemed the Christian thing to do. Reckon I need to feed it now." "How do you propose to do that?" "We got canned milk." I want to punch her to git her to shut her big bazoo. She don't never stop jawing. The baby bawls some more and the basket is getting a mite heavy, so I set it on the counter. His face pops up and looks like it belongs to an infant not a newborn. "Mama," he says. He's looking at me, reaching out with his hands, the chestnut fur on his arms visible for anybody looking. "He seems a bit mature for canned milk." Mrs. Jackson lifts her nose. "Indeed, his hirsute nature indicates he may not be human. Is he a red savage?" Low growl from the baby startles us both, but I'm quicker on the wiggle. I point to the door. "You can take yourself out and that's your attitude. This is the onliest dry goods and greengrocer in Missoula. So hobble your lip or light a shuck." She leaves in a right huff and I turn to the baby. He's sitting there, just staring at me, but he cain't be the baby I found earlier. 'Cept he cain't be nobody else neither. Can he? I check his mouth and he's just at the edge of teething. I grab some canned applesauce from the shelf and open it. He's big and hungry enough that he eats the whole kit and kaboodle afore I know it. Once he's done, I check his diaper, which is awful snug but not wet or nothing. Maybe I recollect it wrong. Maybe he was red from being cold and warmed up in the blankets. Or might have been the wet diaper. That gits kids riled faster than a hornet on a frog's back. Fussing and crying makes everybody red. Ain't no other thing it could be. All them folks talk of spiritualism is just grasping at straws. Good Lord knows what he intends and it ain't we should put our faith in some sort of hexes or magics. To try and warm the store up, I pull the shutters closed and light the Franklin stove. The Lucifers don't want to strike, I go through seven afore I git one going, but the kindling lights right quick and sets the wood to blazing. I don't aim to chase after the boy again, so I keep his basket beside me the whole time. He's all tuckered after his escapade, so he settles in and sleeps like he ought. It starts to get cheery until Mister Jackson roars in like a herd of cattle. "Damnation Mabel. What did you do to rile my misses so bad?" "Saved the boy there instead of waiting on her like she was the queen of England." I'm in no mood for Jebediah Jackson's nattering. "She went and called him some sort of Indian and him with eyes blue as the summer sky." Mr. Jackson ruffled the boy's hair with his hand. Lucky that the boy had gone under the swaddling again or the fur would have give it away. "Seems a normal enough child to me." "I ain't one to soft solder doings." I want him out, but he ain't leaving so I reckon I got to give him both barrels. "I calculate she was mostly riled on account I wasn't taking none of her guff." "She does have a temper." He pulls out a list. "I'd sooner bend an elbow, but I got to have this." I take the list and add the costs in my head. "That'll set you back a fair margin." "I'm good for it." He put a twenty dollar double eagle on the counter. "Add in a jug or three of hard cider to round out the cost. I don't fancy toting a pocket of loose dinero around." I git everything in order, and by then the snow is thick as ticks on a hound dog. Mister Jackson hoists the entire box, including a flitch of bacon, a sack of flour, and two jugs of Mrs. Boone's best hard cider. He staggers a mite and I help to git the door open, then, so soon as he clears the lintel, shut and bar it. I turn back to check the basket and the baby has disappeared. Again. "I am consarned if I can guess where all you might have got to this time." I'm so flustered I'm talking to the Good Lord, hoping he'll send me a sign. Then I know what I got to do, but applesauce is getting expensive. I decide I can search until I either find him, or he starts to bawling and makes it easy. I go over every foot of the store like I'm a scout tracking hostile Sioux. I'm stating to git riled when I hear him knocking into somewhat in the back storage area. I hike my skirt and run in, where I find he's trying to climb up for a big jar of hard candy, the sort as sells at three sticks a penny. I dash over and, before either falls, grab him then the jar. He's too heavy. I can't hold him with one hand. I know he wasn't more'n five pounds to start, but he must be thirty now. A toddler, like to be near two, but still with that tight diaper, the cloth ripping on account of his size. And he still got fur over most of his body. He latches onto me like a burr, wrapping his hands around my arm. "I don't know what all you are, but you ain't a human baby." The words are just out when the back door opens. I feel the burst of cold air but don't hear nothing. My hackles rise, warning of danger, but the Winchester is out front. I turn, slow as molasses, and find an old native woman wearing a Cheyenne leather dress covered with intricate wampum designs, mountains and clouds and falling snow. She leaves the door open and beckons with her eyes. "I didn't take this boy," I explain. "I found him and he latched onto me." "I know." She ain't talking English, but I still understand. "Old man winter lost his son while weeping for the people's children. I will tell him not all white men are so evil that you must be frozen." Then she disappears, alongside the boy, in a billowing cloud of mist. I know I won't never see neither again, and my heart gets a little colder with the pain of losing the boy as was almost mine.

“Oh my gosh!” Your friend squeals ecstatically as a questionably brilliant idea blooms in her mind. Holding her hands out as if she was trying to capture the perfect picture, she beams and nods firmly. “This will be perfect!” she giggles, cheeks glowing with a rosy haze. You glance at your friend through the reflection of the mirror in front of you, hands clenching momentarily and loosening again. The urge to question your friend’s intentions pull at every corner of your mind until you finally give in. “What?” your voice escapes in a cheerful groan; you have experienced enough of her antics to know when she is serious, and to your deep concern, she is. The word seems to pull her back to reality where she lands with a hard thump, obviously disappointed that you haven’t guessed yet. “Well... there’s this guy...” she trails off waiting for your looming objections to quit circling so she can fend them off. You hesitate, words caught in your throat like a mouse in a trap. She wiggles her eyebrows at you, grinning mischievously. “I knew that you didn’t really want to be alone forever!” A dramatic sigh flutters from her pursed lips as if she has waited for this moment her entire life. ## The warm smell of body odor and aftershave greets you like an old friend when you enter the room. A lone figure lays sprawled on your bed, idly flipping through one of your old comics. Your brows raise slightly at the unexpected sight, but you force yourself not to be too surprised. “I didn’t think you were able to read.” The words are a low rumble deep in your throat, quiet but filled with thinly veiled laughter. Your friend looks up from his spread-eagle position on your mattress. He ignores the jab and tosses the comic to the corner of your room where piles of other miscellaneous objects have gathered. You have tried to tell him not to but gave up long ago. “I had the greatest idea today...” Collin says, sitting up to face you. He smirks slightly, the corners of his saltwater eyes crinkling. “That’s dangerous,” you say with a teasing grin, waiting for him to finally cut to the chase. His smirk grows deeper, carving grooves into the sharp planes of his face until it becomes a barely restrained smile. “There’s this girl...” he trails off, monitoring your reaction with catlike eyes and a grin too big for his face. You keep your brow carefully smooth, refusing to let him see even a hint of your concern. His uncanny ability to read your expressions has always unsettled you. ## From your first step out of the house, you knew this night would be a bust. Something would go wrong. That instinctual knowledge has always warded you away from things, but tonight is your night. You refuse to let that underlying paranoia get to you. At least that is what you keep telling yourself. The tiny pessimistic voice seems to grow louder and louder the closer you get to the restaurant. It wails inside your brain, banging tiny hammers on the inside of your skull. Your hand hesitates on the brass handle and you are certain that when you open it there will be no going back. With a small self-conscious laugh, you throw your shoulders back. A deep breath filters in through your nose and with what might look like courage, you step inside. ## She is late. You knew that none of Collin’s ideas were promising ideas. But in a lone second of weakness, you let your constant mantra slip. You let unreasonable hopes fill your mind, and for all, you know this was a prank that Collin had made up. Your hands clench around the crisp white tablecloth, trying to find an outlet for your mounting frustration. Grip gradually loosening, you attempt to smooth out the wrinkles created by trying to strangle an inanimate object. A single strip of light from the closing door illuminates a silhouette cautiously approaching your table. Long, thin fingers gently pull the chair across from you away from the table. She sits with a graceful thump and introduces herself. Her fingers twist in her auburn hair that has been carefully curled. “You’re Dylan, right?” Her smooth, quiet voice carries over the din of the crowded restaurant. It reminds you of the ocean you swam in as a child, calm and warm, the water speckled with golden light. ## “Um... yeah. Yep. I am Dilan.” Your cheeks pull back into a dimpled smile as one of the many things that could go wrong is crossed off your list. The reassurance doesn’t last long; your list went on for several pages, but it helps ease a little bit of your anxiety. “And you must be Samantha?” “Well... no. It is just Sam.” He smiles at you, warmth sparkling behind his eyes. From across the room you see someone sitting alone at a table, sipping water from a nearly empty cup. An oceanic swell of relief fills you again, At least I’m not sitting alone in a corner, you think to yourself. ## Why am I even still here? The thought makes you take another minuscule sip of water. The glass is almost empty and the staff stopped paying any attention to you a while ago. You know that if she hadn’t come yet, she probably won’t show up at all. Her friend made her seem so nice, but it can be hard to see clearly through rose-tinted glasses. You look wistfully at the couple across the room, conversing easily with each other. Most of the time you don’t bother to do things like this, but to your surprise, you were actually excited. Her friend had given you the bare minimum of details about the girl you were supposed to be meeting. She is smart, you repeat the few facts in your mind. She has been scared to do anything like this, a sad smile pulls up the corners of your mouth. Sam, her name is Sam. Not Samantha.

I finally understood the point of funerals. It’s the “moment of clarity” you wouldn’t expect to happen before dying. But I guess it helps that my death so far has been long and drawn out. Hours melted away like the wax on my candle, and the sun should’ve been beaming through the attic window by now. I’m still surrounded by darkness though, my legs painfully asleep, my eyes toasted from the light of my single candle, and my world cut down to just this small circle of salt around me. It’s just me and her now. Me and It. Almost ten years ago, I skipped my grandma Lou-Anne’s funeral. I made a fuss getting into my kid's suit, only to never wear it again because a growth spurt hit afterwards. I cried and refused to get out of the car when we arrived at the church. Aunt Shirley was impatient to get in the church, annoyed that her sister couldn’t train her kid better. I guess my mom ended up having the same frustration and told my dad to wait in the car with me. He ran through the typical “Oh, are you sure? I wanna be there for you dear,” routine but was shot down. He breathed a sigh of relief when the two women went in the church without us boys. He turned around from the driver’s seat to look at me, with my eyes red and suit wrinkled, and he chuckled. “You know Dax, you’re lucky your grandma loved you. Always buying you toys. You know what she got me? She almost got me a divorce.” And that’s all he said about her that day. That’s probably why he was killed first. None of this would be happening if I had just gone into that church. Not to sound overly Christian or lean into the “born again bullshit” as my dad called it, but that church was important. The point of funerals is to come together and remember your loved one in the best light you could. That’s why in movies and books and stuff the grizzled detective always goes like, “Ma’am, you don’t wanna see the body,” and the mother breaks down because the guy is right, there’s no reason to remember your loved one as horribly disfigured. Hindsight really is twenty-twenty. A week ago, I came home from football practice drenched in sweat, reeking of teenage cockiness, but my mother pulled me into the kitchen. My dad and Aunt Shirley were sitting at the table looking stern. I immediately thought this was an intervention, maybe they found out about their precious high school quarterback smoking weed on the weekends. Pretty naïve in retrospect compared to what they wanted. My mom slammed the damned book on the table. Literally a damned book. “It’s called the Gospel of Eden, Dax, don’t be disrespectful and call it a B-movie prop.” My mom was in no mood for my sass. Her patience with me had sprung a leak ever since I skipped the funeral. “Jackie, baby, I love you, but...” My dad wasn’t enthused with the crusty book in front of him either. “Grow a spine Jonathan,” Aunt Shirley snapped. It turns out both her and my mom were in on this plan together for a while. Someone at their church spoke to them about grief and regret. One thing led to another and- “I swear to you all it works. Me and Shirley have seen it with our own eyes. All we need are some candles and a moonless night. But we need your help to do it. The more people that remember her, the stronger her connection to this world is. The four of us can bring her back, just for a night.” “Born again bullshit,” my dad said. Not then, of course, not to his wife, but just to me later on. I’m sure at one point, my mom and Aunt Shirley were beacons of kindness, raised by a single mother who worked her ass off to make ends meet for her two girls. If I had just gone into that church, I might’ve heard more stories about the “Invincible Lou-Anne, the one woman army,” or something like that. But no. I wasn’t too sad to go in. I was too scared. Getting incurably sick with a disease even the doctors struggled to pronounce is some reward for working so hard all your life. I’m sure the injustice of it all corroded my mom’s and Aunt Shirley’s faith in humanity, God, karma, whatever. I do have nicer memories of them from when I was really little, I swear. But it’s funny how those memories just corrode away, rust growing over it, holes breaking in them. That’s kind of what happened with my memories of grandma. Kind of like what happened tonight. Holes breaking in rust. “Look mom, it’s not disrespectful. If anything, it’s a sign of respect, like, ‘ Oh, you’re coming from heaven, we’re not worthy to touch you ’ or something.” “If anything, it’s a waste of salt.” I tried my best. I really did. Spent the whole week arguing against the idea. Why? Because I’ve seen a fucking horror movie before, that’s why. But my mom placed more faith in a stranger from church than her own son. Both she and Aunt Shirley did live through a séance already, so I wasn’t convinced I would die. But I figured a ring of salt around us would just be a failsafe. An unnecessary precaution. Why salt? I wish Google provided a foolproof explanation why, but it kept coming up, so why not? As the adults shuffled into the attic, candles and book in hand, I stayed behind and snuck two saltshakers in my back pockets. I felt stupid as hell sitting on them cross-legged on the creaky wooden floor. My mom went around the circle, lighting each of our candles, the only way we could see in this pitch black attic. The Gospel of Eden sat in the middle of our four person circle. I had taken a peek at it earlier in the week, but it wasn’t written in English, or any language I recognized. No pictures either. Whoever the stranger was that taught my mom how to use it definitely knew something regular people aren’t supposed to know. “Now, all we need to do is to focus our thoughts on Lou-Anne. Our memories are what will reform her. When I start the chant, just remember all the good times you had with her. How she used to be before...” My mom trailed off, holding back tears. Aunt Shirley grabbed her hand, the two seeing eye to eye for the first time in a while. They missed their mom, and nothing would stop them now. But me and my dad were just there, trying to support them, trying not to feel like set dressing. At least I was. “ From Eden we come, and to Eden we return. We ask for the Eternal Gates to open for us tonight. May the Lord of Hosts take our memories and bring- “ I think at that point in the chant I knew we were fucked. “Remember all the good times,” - I was seven when she died. I had the least amount of good times in the circle, and I feel like a piece of shit for thinking that. I know she hugged me and smiled when she saw how big I was getting. I know she got me the best Christmas presents, plus she brought over a toy every time she visited like ten times a year. Hell, she gave me my first football - how can I ignore how that started a domino effect leading to me being the star quarterback at high school? But... when she got sick, my mom insisted grandma stay with us in the upstairs spare bedroom. She refused and refused, wanting to stay strong and live on her own. She only gave in toward the end, spending her last month alive in that bed upstairs. “Don’t let Dax see me,” I heard her rasp while listening from the stairs. The door was closed by the time I snuck to the top of the stairs. A month of doctors and church members and mom and Aunt Shirley going in and out of that room. Never letting me in. On the last night, the ambulances came. Paramedics rushed upstairs. The red lights streaked into the living room, dashing across my face, the red drowning my world in what looked like blood. My dad was on the phone downstairs, furiously trying to get my mom and Aunt Shirley to come home from their quick grocery run. No one stopped me from going upstairs. My candle is almost out. The sun hasn’t risen yet but it definitely should’ve. I’m laughing at the absurdity of it all. I should’ve gone into that church and stayed out of the bedroom. It was really that easy. I didn’t even realize I had closed my eyes while my mom was chanting. I opened them when I heard Aunt Shirley gasp. In the middle of our circle, hovering above the Gospel of Eden, was Lou-Anne. Just like a ghost, almost see through but not quite, a grey wispy aura around her. She wasn’t facing me but I could tell it was her from the way her hair curled and was kept short to the floral dress she always wore. Her attention was fully on her daughters in front of her. “My baby girls,” Lou-Anne spoke, choking back tears just like my mom had just done. Her daughters were fully crying now, hands over their mouths. Aunt Shirley started to rise, going in for a hug, but my mom grabbed her quick. “R-remember, we gotta stay in front of our candles.” Shirley nodded and sat back down, still crying. But Lou-Anne started to flicker in and out, like a dying lightbulb. My mom gasped and immediately turned to look at me and my dad. My dad had started to crawl backwards away from the ghost, away from his candle. My mom shrieked. “Jonathan, get back here! You have to remember her or else!” “Or else” - that’s what my mom said. I don’t know if she knew the consequences of breaking the ritual, or if she was threatening my dad afterwards with words that would cut like knives. I’ll never get the chance to know for sure now. My dad shuffled back toward the candle, ass on the floor like a dog, muttering, “L-Lou-Anne, I- I- I missed you.” Her ghost paused and slowly turned around, letting me see her face for the first time. She was smiling, with the same twinkle in her eye as when she’d pull a toy out of her big purse for me. “Oh Jonathan, I missed you too. You’ve been treating Jackie well, I hope? Someone’s gotta now that I’m not here,” she chuckled. Something snapped in my dad. The proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, except this time it might as well have split the camel into bloody pieces. “Of course I’ve been treating her well Lou-Anne. Y-you, you- you know, you always assumed I don’t treat her well.” “Jonathan, knock it off! She didn’t mean anything by it!” my mom scolded from across the circle. But he wasn’t having it anymore. There was a weight on his chest that he needed to get off, so he hijacked the whole séance to do it. I should’ve seen it coming. In some ways I did since I started to form the salt circle around me. But in the important ways I didn’t see it coming; otherwise I would’ve been anywhere but here tonight. “Lou-Anne, I take good care of your daughter, and I raised your grandson to be a fucking good young man, but you didn’t get to see that. All you did was criticize and- and-“ His confidence went out like his candle did. Her daughters couldn’t see it, but we did. My dad’s memories stopped being good ones, started to gravitate around the bitter arguments they had while she was alive. Bad blood that I wasn’t even alive for, but he still dragged me into his argument. So he stopped remembering her as a good person, and for a second, just for one goddamn second, he thought of her as he truly felt. He remembered her as a monster. She lunged forward toward him, nails growing longer into claws. He yelled as they sunk into his neck, veins snapping and blood streaming out. My mom rushed out from behind her candle to try and pry the ghost off him. I was frozen, the air sinking to what felt like subzero temperatures. I saw Lou-Anne’s ghost grow sharp teeth as she snapped at my dad’s face. “THIS IS WHAT YOU THINK OF ME???” she yelled in between taking bites. “No, please no Mommy!” my mom cried out, gripping the ghost- though at this point, she was fully solid, so I don’t even think a “ghost” is what she became. Blood gurgled in my dad’s mouth as he thrashed and revealed his nose was missing, a wreck of flesh and blood around a hole in his face. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aunt Shirley pick up her and my mom’s candle. “Jackie, I’m ending this shit!” she yelled, blowing out the candles. For the briefest second, I saw my mom’s horrified face turn around, too late to stop her sister. Then, my candle was the only light left in the world. Something about the chant rattles around my mind now. “ Eternal Gates to open... ” - like letting a dog out of the yard. If that’s the case, then the candles are the chains around the dog’s neck, making sure it can go back to where it belongs. Just a theory... but I’m sure as hell not letting my candle go out after seeing what happened. With three out of four candles out, the entity shook, trembling with a surge of power. It threw my dad to the ground and turned and grabbed my mom by her throat. By my flickering light, I saw Aunt Shirley turn to run down the stairs, leaving us behind. But the entity chased after her, still gripping my mom by the throat. They disappeared out of sight down the attic stairs. I heard a loud tumble as it sounded like the thing caught up to Aunt Shirley, and all three crashed down the wooden steps. “THE SACRIFICES I MADE FOR YOU GIRLS!” I heard it yell amidst the panicked screaming of the other two. My dad’s body laid by my side, face turned away, but the gash where his nose was burned into my memory. I stood to run toward my mom, drops of courage greasing my muscles to move, but as soon as I stepped out of my salt circle, I heard footsteps come racing back up the stairs. My nerves gave out and I fell back into my circle, thankfully keeping my candle upright. The screams had stopped by the time it made it back up the stairs. And then it stood before me. I never told my parents why I was scared to go to the funeral. I was convinced that for some reason, we’d all have to look at my grandma’s body the whole time, that the casket would be upright, and she’d be facing us the whole time. And I couldn’t bring myself to see that face again. That face I saw on her last night alive. “Dax. Dax. Please look at me,” it spoke. That’s how I knew it was no longer Lou-Anne in front of me. Not even an ounce of her soul left in this vessel. She went out of her way to make sure I couldn’t see her dying but I did anyway. The paramedics were taking her pulse and blood pressure, watching her convulse while trying to get the stretcher upright in the room. Her face was toward the ceiling but as soon as I naively stepped in the room, she turned to me. Skin crusted, discolored patches. Holes. Holes amidst the rough patches. Cheeks and forehead covered in them. Eyes sunken in. Not even able to look at me. Never to twinkle again like they did when she handed me that football. That’s how I remembered her. That’s the only way I could remember her. So that’s the only way she could appear before me now. I only took one glance at the entity in front of me, but it matched what I remembered. But it was amplifying all of it, feeding off of my fear, the holes in my memory. She didn’t have eyes at all this time, instead empty caverns where stale wind blew through. The holes in around her face were more prominent this time, forming a twisted mask pattern, the edges bleeding and angry purple skin showing. “Dax, look at me. Let me in,” it spoke, just standing there, watching me. I’ve spent what feels like a lifetime just sitting in this circle, crying in silence, not letting my tears touch the candles, knowing it’s watching me through empty holes. The salt must be having some effect, but I can’t risk what might happen when the last candle goes out, if it’ll cause another surge of violence. I wish I could remember her any other way, but I’m all that’s left. I’m the last one here alive. “Lou-Anne” can’t exist any other way except how I remember her. “I’m sorry grandma,” I whispered to myself, hoping she could hear me wherever she was, hoping she knew I remembered the twinkle in her eye. Hoping she’d forgive me for remembering the holes more than that.

Older Date It’s a warm summer evening and David is busy writing about himself to an unknown responder on a new date site. As he writes he is thinking to himself, this is far different from the days when I use to send a note to a possible date, asking for her phone number and pick up for next Saturday night’s dance.....I have recently taken up employment here, having spent most of my living in the north, how about you? He waits, wondering if his trying to reconnect his social life this way will work. Yeah, I know I want a new relationship but it can’t be the first thing one says, especially when it is not face to face. He gets up from his couch and goes to the kitchen to make himself a coffee, as he waits for a response to his opening introduction. As he does so, his mind goes into archive overdrive, stirring up his teen years of dating, dancing and after party joy rides in his good old Zephyr...while humming Dean Martin’s, ‘That’s Amore’. Just as he makes his drink, there is a ping sound from the lounge, and he quickly returns to his present engagement....online date site....response....Hi David, I like that you are new here,..... He continues to read and writes, nice profile pictures, where are they taken? I am interested in knowing more about you......my opinion is that we are in a better country at this time....their chatting continues for the next 15 minutes as David wonders when it will shift to the actual first date, as he types,.... nice chatting with you Mary, maybe we can have a coffee next week and talk about seeing the movie you have mentioned? The chat closes with the promise to do the same tomorrow night and there’s an exchange of love hearts. Being summer, the morning is bright and David prepares himself breakfast, then sits at the breakfast bar, reading the papers front page. Next it is the business section, to read the review he wrote on the Reserve Bank’s response to the housing price crises. Satisfied with what he wrote, he peruses other interests and subconsciously turns to the movie section, scanning for the movie mentioned by Mary. Ah, Mary he says to himself; nice profile pictures, her chats came across as very confident, this might go somewhere, he chuckles aloud. Now for today, Saturday; shall I do my usual, or go and see my brother? I wonder what he would have to say, about his older bro giving online dating a spin. Especially when he chatted to me over Christmas about giving it a go; nothing too serious, just a new way to interface with a stranger without being embarrassed. He finishes breakfast, put dishes in the dishwasher, and goes to the bathroom. Adjusting to living on his own, has taken some time maybe a bit more difficult than he first thought. It is five years coming Easter since he got that sad and unexpected phone call telling him Jean had died in a multi car accident. While he coped preparing the family for the news and dealing with the issue of burial, it has a haunting grip on his emotions when driving out of the city. It may be a nice day but it is the inner wrestle he goes through to persuade himself to get in his car and travel through the city to the open speed of the freeway into the countryside. Why his brother chose to relocate sometimes annoys him, but today it seems okay. Though there is an internal emotional struggle and bouts of actual pain, it is less of a struggle today, as he gives a ‘thumbs up’ sign to Jean’s white cross. He knows he cannot push her death onto his brother; how would he have known that his moving into a lifestyle block was going to result in the death of his sister in law. * * * * While David is driving out to have the day with his brother, Mary prepares herself to visit her good friend Sue. Sue is a long-time friend to whom she has come to for emotional help, is expecting her, not that she knows of Mary’s last night dateline chat. She smiles to herself as she recalls that thirty minute chat and the most handsome profile pictures she has seen for a while. He was polite, interested in her, asking about her likes and being prepared to make the suggestion of a date; of course it would be a ‘yes’ even though it was chat number one! Mary gathers her wits and tennis bag as she goes to the garage to set off for her ‘tennis date’ with Sue. The thought of a date, makes her heart flutter, telling herself not be like her teenage self, and to be true to her real age. Much has taken place since those years, life has been rough if not brittle but she is now a mature lady. She messages Sue to confirm they’re still meeting and telling her she is on her way. While driving across the city to the country tennis club Mary tunes into the local talk back radio. The topic, as most Saturdays of late, is the rising house prices that most places across the country are experiencing. The host is using the morning paper’s business section as the talking point and apparently is referring to a journalist write up on the Reserve Banks. As Mary catches up with the momentum of the topic, she hears the name ‘David’ being linked to the article, and processes bits of last night’s chat. There is a sense of a possibility that this ‘David’ must be her David to which she has another flutter, thinking, wait till I tell Sue my David must be the business journalist we both have many a time discussed, even going as far as rehearsing dating lines. She again, feels flustered but excited. Her phone rings and a text message appears on the car screen, Sue is affirming their date and is on her way. Mary can’t wait, she puts her phone on speaker and calls Sue, hoping she will do the same and not ignore her call. ‘Hi Sue, I’ve got a surprise and it can’t wait, I have to tell you’ she says, with excitement and actually hears Sue pause while imaging her questioning facial look. ‘Yes, well tell me if you can’t wait another twenty minutes’. Mary speaks, ‘I’m going to have a date with that journalist David we have talked about. You know the one we sometimes act out as a date’. Sue’s response is rather deflating, ‘are you for real or kidding me? How would you have organised this, you don’t even know him and furthermore you would be too embarrassed to ask’. ‘No, I am certain it is him’, she says, ‘I’ll tell you more when we see each other. My conclusion is it must be him, I can’t wait to tell you. See you there’ as she prepares to hang up before Sue can think of her next interrogating question. ‘David the journalist, sheesh, I don’t belief it’! Sue is heard to say, as Mary hangs up. * * * * * The countryside tennis courts are a means for both middle aged ladies to get out of their respective homes. Both being local girls, they have always respected each other’s opinions on many matters, today will be no different as far as Sue is concerned. Both cars appear in the parking lot more or less together. Mary, gives herself a quick look in the mirror and sees Sue is already locking her car. Mary does likewise and signals the club house, where there is a weekend coffee cart nearby; her idea is they both get a coffee and listen to the story of her online date chat the other night. Mary nearly trips as she rushes, dropping her tennis bag. Sue, sees it, holds her hand over her mouth, noticing how Mary manages to keep herself upright. They meet, order their coffees and select a table in the sun and Mary, fully recovered, plunges into her Friday night date chat with David. Sue can’t do much more than listen with her mouth open as Mary reiterates the procedure of date line chatting, with this middle aged man called ‘David’. She then explains how while listening to the local Saturday talk back, she has come to the conclusion it must be the journalist man they have often spoken of and that there could be an actual date with him! * * * * * David finds himself turning into his brother’s property, acknowledging the country’s setting as being therapeutic. His brother Ian comes toward him as he gets out of his car, extends his hand to shake and welcome him. Inside the suggestion is they head on down to the local tennis club as soon as possible, for club day doubles. Ian, tells David, ‘Pam is already there because she is with the local club whereas I’m a casual, but I still like a bit of tennis, don’t you’? Before there is an answer Ian indicates they better leave now to get there for the fun of playing mixed doubles, as he escorts David out towards his car. David is relaxed and okay with a bit of tennis, which is a family game though Jean didn’t really take to it, she would come to watch and look after the children. At the club Pam is busy organising the mixed doubles, she counts those there and those coming to realise she is two ladies short to make it possible for all the men to have a game. She looks up to see the same two ladies she has seen and met before, playing to the side. She wonders if they’d be willing to try a bit of serious mixed doubles, and plucks up the courage to go and ask. Mary and Sue stop playing as they see a lady getting closer. ‘Hi, I am Pam, I think we have met before, you’re Mary but I’ve forgotten your name’, turning to Sue. Sue acknowledges Pam’s memory, states her name, remarking that the club seems busier than usual, is there a club meet? Sue is pleased for the opening, ‘Yes, and in fact we are short of two ladies to complete a club mixed double; I’ve come over to ask if you’d both like to fill in, so all the men get a game. We ladies need two more, because my husband is here with David, his brother, who came from the city for the day. Sue, glances at Mary aware that the name ‘David’ is rather precious right now, to see Mary turn her head toward a group of men. ‘Yeah, why not’ Sue answers for them both. Pam smiles, ‘Great, see you in front of the club within fifteen, thanks again, the men will be pleased each will get their game on such a nice day’. Mary and Sue, converse discussing the pros and cons of sparing with the mystery David. Considering she has three ‘David’s’ twirling around her thoughts, Mary is preoccupied evaluating which one she will ace! Sue interjects her thoughts saying, ‘40 love’, and lets out a girlish laugh, causing Mary to drop her racket as they near the club house. She returns a friendly wink, bends to pick it up just as a hand is bringing it up to her. As she straightens herself up within touching distance is a well-shaped middle aged man, causing a brief touch of skin, as he hands her the racket, saying, ‘The pleasure is mine, have fun playing this afternoon. See you both on court’. The afternoon truly is warm as tennis players run about the courts, playing pretty good tennis, with the odd shout; 15 love, out, 15 all, 30-15, 30 all, 30-40, deuce. As for the two city girls they have fared well against their male opponents, winning a few sets and matches. It is the last round, they approach court three, two men introduce themselves as Ian and David; Mary is obliged to acknowledge David (the one closest to her), because he earlier handed her, her racket. Mary becomes self-conscious, of holding eye contact maybe a bit too long, but it seemed like he locked her gaze and she couldn’t divert her eyes. Sunglasses come to the rescue as she adjusts them, he whispers ‘May the best team win’. Sue and Mary serve first and from then on it is serious rallying as the men have the city girls more or less rushing from net to base line, to retrieve drop shots which nearly outwit them. Ian and David too, are given the run around, causing David to even outwit himself, as he works his backhand to their advantage. Coming to the net to shake hands all four are perspiring and breathing heavily. Both teams have played good hard tennis but the men have to concede the city girls to be the winners. * * * * * Coming out from the ladies Mary and Sue are chatting, feeling pleased about themselves on winning their last game. The club has filled and it looks like a sea of white, as they scan for somewhere to sit. Then out of the blue, who comes to the rescue but David with a broad smile. He, shows them to their table along with Ian and Pam; ‘Drinks are on us’, he says, as he asks Mary what she’d like, 'beer or wine? Though you seem to be the lady who likes a wine, I need to ask so not to be accused of second guessing'. Pam, holds her wine and says ‘Cheers to the city girls for winning against the country boys, giving them a rally for their money’. Sue, holds hers and replies, ‘It was fun to crush them, the best team won’! The chat centres on country lifestyle living as Mary tries various manoeuvres to work out which David she has warmed too. Conversation centres on him, telling them how he is adjusting to single living and his journalist vocation, (Mary breaths a nearly audible sigh of relief), as David continues to speak of his family, and the loss of Jean. Mary is now certain that this is the ‘David’ from last night dateline chat and the papers journalist but how does she ask him, is the question. Ian and Pam show surprise at David’s open chatting to the city girls, about his life, as he continues to say more, ‘Jean’s father apparently impregnated a young girl and was advised not to marry her. He moved to the North Island for work and a new life. The young mum and baby stayed south, finding support from family and friends. Sometime back Jean had decided to take a DNA test and that is when the possibility of a step sister came to light. She guessed they must be of a similar age and was in the process of further investigation, when the car accident happened’ adding ‘I do have the test results’. Realisation dawns upon Mary, that this must be the ‘David’ she chatted with last night and finds the inner will to openly ask him by coming straight out with her question; ‘David, are you the dateline David who I was chatting with last night’? David is clearly elated replying ‘Wow, are you the Mary’! Surprise is expressed by both at the coincidence of such a happening, as the others also express their wonderment and excitement. Pam announces that they have decided to dine at the local country club, and for Mary and Sue to join them. Mary at this point is too interested in David and hesitates. Sue comes to her aid by saying ‘Nice, but they need to return home’. All five raise their glasses and drink; David is beaming, Mary is hooked while the other three look on knowing they are about to witness an off the court singles. At this David stands, comes towards Mary, ‘Don’t worry about a date line chat, how about a real life chat, at the Waterfront Restaurant tomorrow for brunch’? Mary blushes, looks at him and answers, ‘Yes’. David, speaks his thoughts aloud, ‘I can’t help but wonder how much like Jean you are’, as he lightly kisses both her cheeks. Now it is Mary’s turn to be true to her feelings; ‘Brunch with you will be lovely. Out there on the courts you played so much like my late Jim, that I had to remind myself he died five years ago. If life has surprises, family ties are the most likely places to find them - maybe you’re his unknown twin’. She smiles and gives him a light embrace, saying to him as well as to Ian and Pam, ‘Thanks for the lovely day at the country tennis club’. Sue stands, picks up their bags, and walks away while Mary turns to acknowledge David with an air kiss. word count: 2845

Damon, a ghostwriter, finished the editing of yet another memoir he had written for a successful business person. Someone who climbed the corporate ladder and managed to become CEO of a large company, for a few years. And then, reading between the lines (Damon was good at that), the CEO was let go for underperformance. In interviews, the CEO was pleasant, if dully conventional. The type of man women want to marry, and then not talk to their friends about much afterwards. Damon’s draft title for these sorts of memoirs was invariably, Tales of a Typical Midwestern Childhood Much The Same As Everyone Else, until something more poetic, if less descriptive, came to his mind. The CEO hoped for a best-selling memoir that could be his calling card for his next career phase as a public speaker. Making a living by dropping words of wisdom from his mouth, as his favorite TED speaker does--the one he mentioned 200 times within 30 interview sessions. To celebrate finishing the final draft, Damon opened a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio that he had been saving for the occasion. After a few glasses, he wrote a letter to himself about the tired tropes of memoir writing. The ones he had seen too much of that should all be flushed down the toilet. Technically some of them were clichés, but ‘tropes’ had a more literary sound to it, and saying that word impressed his clients. They knew they were dealing with a literary sort of person. After another glass of crisp Italian white wine, Damon accidentally emailed it to his entire client list. The 10 tropes of memoir writing that should be flushed down the toilet: The story of when I was called into the principal’s office. The writing assignment this week. Let’s gut this standard inclusion into most business memoirs. Everyone knows it’s a trick to make you, a rich and/or famous person, relatable. You are not. In 1984, you received a stern talking to from the principal for stealing Joanne’s eraser? It doesn't make up for the thousands of workers you terminated last year, or the personal assistants you’ve bullied. “Things my dad taught me” Your dad didn’t have the internet. Next. Where I was when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. I don’t care. No one does. If you insist on keeping this in your published edition, I will ask NASA to restart the space shuttle program just to launch all 200 copies of your memoir into the sun. My childhood shaped me into the person I am today. No. I don’t think so. If you are a pop singer, please don’t make us think that your mother scolding you when you didn’t do your homework when you were 6, is the reason you were born with genetically perfect vocal cords and went on American Idol when you were 19. Talking of music, I’m now listening to Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance on repeat, and singing Bad Memoir over the chorus. Time for another glass of Pinot. Which leads into... “My parent (usually Dad) was an abusive alcoholic, and I managed to SURVIVE.” Statistically, 99.99% of children of alcoholics survive. That alcoholics are so proficient at making babies, while being so bad at taking care of them, is an unfortunate quirk of Darwin’s Theory that we all just have to live with. This one cuts closer to home for your ghostwriter. I was born into the most alcoholic, yet un-abusive family, to one day hit the pages of a best-selling memoir. Mom drank ten beers, then fell asleep on the sofa. The next day, she did the same thing again. A real page turner! I was bullied. When the well-built handsome men and gorgeous women I interview say they were bullied in school, it means something different for them than the standard dictionary definition of "bullied." Being the smallest boy out of two hundred in my high school class, I don’t need to read how you weren’t invited one weekend to a party that everyone else went to. Your struggle was one of popularity. My fight, was a fight for survival. But some tropes exist for a reason, so why not? “Being bullied in 7th grade at Greenfield Middle School gave me the internal drive to one day prove myself and achieve what I have today. I said to myself, one day I will return to the halls of GMS, holding a copy of my own memoir, and those who bullied me, will know I paid $50,000 to a fabulously talented ghostwriter to have it created, and they will apologize.” As for me, despite being 20lbs lighter than anyone else at school, I was not bullied. Bullied kids were predictable. A bully would kick the back of their chair, they would look back for one second, say “cut it out”, and then go back to their studies. The next day the exact same thing would happen again in that order. If my childhood in a family of alcoholics did anything for me, being unpredictable, or using the jargon of adolescence, “being weird”, was one of them. My family (in West Virginia) was so poor that.... What’s more Midwestern than the Midwest? West Virginia. All aspiring writers should spend a few months of their childhood there to gain the street cred to write into the myth of third-world poverty in WV. Or be radically different, and admit your childhood was middle class like most people, and The Seventies Show reminds you of it. It does me. In the days before the Internet, we had to do things (in nature, with physical objects) or else we would be bored. Yes. We ALL know that. And isn’t it great that now, we don’t need to be bored, and even nerds can find friends and even be popular, on the internet. My quirky hobby is... This can have potential, if your hobby is not baseball, football, singing, dancing, computers, or any of the dozens of other normal ways teens occupy their time, by thinking they might be on the edge of greatness with something, that they are not actually very good at. My one chance at true love left me, when I was __ years old. I hate to break it to you, but...Stacy with the great hair, or Greg with the soulful eyes, was not the love of your life. It was just the hormones. If you were on a desert island, like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, you would also have fallen in love with the volleyball. So, if your infatuation was based on the way he/she smiled that melted your heart, we don’t need to hear more. An astute reader, adept at detecting subtext, will have figured out by this point that I did not meet the love of my life in high school. My close beloved relative died young (and became very important to me afterward). I wrote something very snarky here. That I just erased. Because, yes, the pain of the human experience can really hurt. But straining to make lost ones sound more significant in your life than they actually were, by hyperfocusing and trying to create meaning out of small memories, may sound hollow. This is reminding your ghostwriter of the time (and it was only the one time) that his 10-year-old cousin, and best friend at the time, committed suicide, and your ghostwriter didn’t cry at the funeral, and people asked him why he wasn’t crying, but he didn’t have an answer, and people thought that was weird. I’m suffering from a very special medical condition (which makes it impossible to keep pizza down before noon, poor me) I have news for you, EVERYONE is suffering from a medical condition. The narcissist in all of us turns our brightest and healthiest face to the world. But, when I have attained most people’s confidence, they will tell me of some difficult issue they are dealing with, that they would rather not have the whole world know about. But, if your condition is truly something that only a few people in the world have, please let us know about it. Nicholas Vujicic, who wrote 50,000 words in Life Without Limits without having any arms or legs, is a good example. You might have a few inconveniences. He needs to ask someone to push the elevator button to survive. I’m important because, I made important decisions in important meetings (and I’m rich) There are a million people in America that have been a “senior manager” at some well known company. Good for you, getting paid for all your hard work and study. But it doesn’t make you interesting. If you were a stripper in Barstow Califonrnia, that would be far more intriguing to the average reader, who simply reads books to escape from the tedium of daily existence. I found God, Yoga, and/or a Plant Based Diet. Shove your plant based diet up a koalas rear end. My bad. Koalas eat nothing but eucalyptus leaves. They must walk around smelling like the yoga studio before class. Thinking about it more, these topics are not suited for a ‘General purpose memoir’ but could be a bestseller in the ‘Here’s Another Thing to Control in Your Life’ category. The human mind finds almost nothing more satisfying than having something to control. If you put test candidates into an empty room with a red button on a table, 100% of them will study the button, push it, and then push it some more, and then talk to it to see if that makes anything happen. Give us your unique spirituality practices, your rigorous exercise routines, and your highly controlled diets, so we can push those buttons, and tell our friends about it. And then everything was fine. In a good novel, at the end of every chapter, things are not fine. The cliffhanger is what makes us begin reading the next chapter. All the boring parts will be packed into the middle of that chapter. Those words function mostly to make the cliffhanger at the end fun again. Finally...something is happening again! In a bad memoir, at the end of every chapter, the world is at peace again after the narrator (who gained useful some useful life skill by being cleverly perceptive) fixed the problem or situation he was just facing. Often, a ‘luxury problem’ such as how to get into Harvard Business School, or getting that other Co-CEO fired for abusing the expense account Writing these guidelines has been much more satisfying than writing my own memoir. Someday I will get that started. I’m going to get all my clients to stop wasting my time with their run of the mill childhood stories, and get them to tell me some real stories by sending this to them now. [send] And one last thing, I always thought the song, Tell Me Why I Don’t Like Mondays, was by a Northern Irish band singing about their experiences in The Struggles. I just learned they were rich kids from Dublin who made it all up while they were on tour in America.

October 21, 1950. The train doors clanged loudly as they closed at the nearly deserted station, echoing through the empty platform. The late-night crowd shuffled onto the train like spectral figures, their dark, drab attire and flickering lights giving them an otherworldly appearance. Among this monochrome scene, one figure stood out a woman in an oversized vintage suit, her pants nearly brushing the grimy concrete. Eve Edwin, a determined private investigator, boarded the train with one goal in mind, to crack a cold case involving the disappearances of four children, this was classified as serial killer crime each event happening with same MO, children of the age of 10 were abducted and found dead at Station Stop 5, each exactly ten years apart. This night marked the fateful date again, October 21st, 1950. Despite regulations against personal involvement in cases, Eve was drawn back by a sense of duty and a vow to solve it before another child vanished. As she settled into her seat amidst the oppressive atmosphere of cigar smoke and whiskey, Eve noticed a peculiar boy. Unlike the rest, he wore brightly coloured clothes from another era, his gaze fixed on her with large, glittering blue eyes. They exchanged a silent connection until the next stop, where he disappeared into the departing crowd. Determined to learn more, Eve pursued him through the thicket of grey, only to find him gone. Sitting back down disappointed, she felt a ghostly chill and, to her surprise, the boy’s icy hand clasped hers. Startled, she turned to find him sitting beside her again. "Where did you suddenly disappear too?" she blurted out. The boy gazed up at her with wide, luminescent blue eyes, framed by delicate lashes. His pale skin, almost translucent, gave him an ethereal, almost ghostly presence, making him look like he belonged to another world. His soft features, rounded cheeks, and small nose, were framed by wisps of light blonde hair that fell lightly across his face. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper, calm and soothing, like a breeze on a still evening, contrasting sharply with the strangeness of his clothing. Eve, in contrast, stood tall and imposing. Her sharp, angular features gave her an air of authority. A wild mane of fiery red hair cascaded down her back, matching the fierce intensity of her gaze. Her voice was strong, loud, and commanding, filling the space with its presence. Everything about her seemed to burn with energy and passion, the polar opposite of the boy's quiet, unsettling calm. The eerie quiet of the train enveloped them. A cold breeze made Eve shiver as she realized the train had stopped moving, and the boy had vanished once more, however as eve inspected the seat the little boy was previously sitting on she was stunned to see that the seat had built up cobwebs and dust. The doors shut, as the train resumed its journey, and then, suddenly, his hand was in hers again. This time, she asked, "Why have you returned to this train?" Baffled by her own question. The boy, his eyes unnervingly wise, replied softly, "I don't know." His hand tightened around hers, unnaturally cold. Eve ventured, "when did you step into this train, how long have you been waiting?" "I've lost track of how long it's been," he said cryptically, pointing to the train doors. "How long I've been on this train." Eve's concern grew. The boy disappeared each time the train stopped, leaving behind dusty seats covered in cobwebs. As the train moved again, he reappeared, calmly stating, "I got on this train on October 21, 1900." Stunned, Eve realized the boy should be much older if that were true. "How old are you now?" she asked, fear creeping into her voice. "I'm about ten and a half now," he replied, eyes welling with tears. Eve embraced him tightly, but in an instant, he vanished again as the train came to a sudden halt. With a sinking feeling, Eve considered the possibilities. And with a summary she asked “Ni-Nico” His eyes glittering with tears as they’re perfectly structured forms shattered on the solid ground, the train paused, could it be Nico could only appear under certain conditions, perhaps on the anniversary of his death, or when his killer was near. As the train resumed and Nico reappeared, Eve whispered urgently, "Nico, is the person who murdered you on this train? Are they watching us?" In horror, Nico nodded. The train car felt colder than ever as Eve processed Nico's revelation. She had to tread carefully. Nico's killer could be anyone among the passengers. She watched them with suspicion, noting their every move, searching for any unnatural sign. Minutes passed in tense silence, broken only by the rhythmic chug of the train. Eve's mind raced with questions. How had Nico been murdered? Who could have done such a thing? And why had his spirit been condemned to this eternal journey? Nico remained by her side, his presence both comforting and unsettling. He seemed to grow weaker with each passing minute, his translucent form flickering in and out of visibility. "I don't have much time" he whispered hoarsely. "You must find them before it's too late." Eve nodded, her determination solidifying. She knew what she had to do. Shuffling through her bag, She retraced Nico's story, digging into the archives of old newspapers and police reports. She pieced together fragments of information, rumors of a child's disappearance, whispers of foul play, and the mysterious silence that followed each incident. Then, in a tattered old newspaper from 1900, Eve found a breakthrough. A brief article spoke of a child named Nico, who had vanished on October 21st, 1900, from Station Stop 5. The circumstances were murky, but witnesses reported seeing a shadowy figure lurking near the train tracks, the description they gave of the man matched a old suspect that had not been identified. He had lost his 10 year old daughter, after that incident he became quiet violent towards his peers. With renewed purpose, Eve confronted the passengers one by one, probing for clues, searching for any trace of guilt or unease. Among them, she noticed a middle aged man, fidgeting nervously, constantly adjusting his collar whenever her gaze lingered too long. His eyes flicked restlessly around the train car, avoiding her stare. Something about him unsettled her. As if sensing he was being watched, the man suddenly rose from his seat and made his way toward the train doors. In horror, Eve realized he was clutching the small hand of a little girl, gently but insistently urging her forward. The girl, too young to understand the gravity of the situation, followed, her small steps traced through the train, obedient to the man’s words. Instinctively, Eve shouted, “Stop that man!” Her voice cut through the murmur of the passengers, but most remained indifferent, just lifeless souls moving through the motions of the night. Yet one figure reacted to a woman clutching a small teddy bear, whose eyes widened in terror. “That’s my daughter!” the woman cried. Eve’s pulse quickened, and without waiting, she launched herself toward the doors, racing against the momentum of the slowing train. As the man neared the exit, she leaped between him and the doors, blocking his path with a fierce resolve. “It’s over," she bellowed, her voice commanding. "Let her go.” The man froze, his fury palpable. His eyes darted around wildly, searching for an escape. The train had begun to slow, and his panic was escalating. Sweat beaded on his brow, his grip on the little girl’s hand tightening as though he were trying to hold onto his last shred of control. Just then, Nico appeared. His ghostly form materialised beside the man, laying his small, icy hand on the man’s arm. At the sight of the boy, the man recoiled, his face twisting in a mix of horror and guilt. “No, no, no... not you,” the man sputtered, his voice cracking. His breath came out in shallow gasps. “You were an accident. You started this!” His grip on the little girl’s fragile hand loosened. The girl, sensing the tension, pulled free and ran into her mother’s arms, sobbing. The man, shaking, tried to pry Nico’s hand from his arm, but Nico’s grip held firm. Desperate and defeated, the man collapsed to the floor as the train came to a halt. His body trembled, his face streaked with tears. “It wasn’t my fault,” he cried. “They didn’t want to stay with me. I just wanted to give them a better home...” Nico’s grip vanished as the train doors opened. The once shadowy past came into clarity as the man’s confession echoed in the cold, silent train. The truth, laid bare, revealed a tortured man whose misguided need for love had turned deadly, trapping Nico in a cycle of vengeance and sorrow. Eve stood over the man, her heart pounding in her chest. Justice, at last, had come. As the train settled into silence, the tension of the moment faded, leaving Eve alone with her thoughts and Nico’s spectral presence. The confession of the killer echoed in her mind he had taken those children out of a twisted need for love, a need he didn’t understand. But as Eve turned her attention back to Nico, standing silently beside her, she sensed something was still left unsaid. "Nico," she whispered, her voice soft but firm. "It’s over now. The man who hurt you... he’s gone. You’re free." Nico didn’t respond immediately. His small, pale hand reached for hers again, and she felt the icy chill of his touch. His eyes, deep and sad, stared into hers. "I’m not free, Eve," he said quietly. "Not yet." Eve knelt beside him, confused. "What do you mean? He’s been caught. You can move on now, Nico. You don’t have to stay here anymore." Nico’s gaze faltered, his lip trembling. "I didn’t see the others, Eve. When they died, I wasn’t there. I couldn’t help them... I wasn’t taken like they were. I came back because I was afraid." His voice shattered, as though he was confessing something he had buried deep inside. Eve frowned, her heart clenching at the sight of the small, frightened boy in front of her. "What are you afraid of, Nico?" "I’m scared to leave," Nico whispered, his voice barely audible. "I’m scared of what’s next. What if... there’s nothing after this?" Eve’s chest tightened. She had faced her own fears before, many times in her life, but she couldn’t imagine the terror that affects a young boy like Nico trapped for so long, afraid of the unknown. She gently pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him. His cold form felt fragile in her embrace, and yet she held him tightly, determined to give him the comfort he needed. "I don’t know what comes next either, Nico," she said softly, her voice steady despite the tears that trickled in her eyes. "But you’re not alone. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. You’ve been brave for so long. It’s okay to let go now." Nico’s form flickered, his body growing lighter as his translucent edges began to blur. A soft, ethereal glow surrounded him, brightening as Eve held him tighter. His grip on her hand loosened, but he looked up at her, his once terrified expression softening into one of peace. "Will you stay with me?" he asked, his voice trembling. "I’m right here, Nico," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I won’t leave you." As the light around him intensified, Nico’s small body seemed to dissolve into it, becoming one with the soft glow that now filled the train car. Eve could feel his presence slipping away, like mist fading into the morning air, and yet she didn’t let go. She held on until there was nothing left to hold. And then, with one final flicker of light, Nico was gone. The train came to a stop, the doors opening to the cool night air. Eve stood alone in the quiet car, her arms still raised as if holding onto the memory of the boy who had once been beside her. She felt the warmth of the lingering light on her skin, a gentle reminder that Nico had finally found peace. She stepped off the train, glancing back one last time at the empty carriage. The ghostly chill that had once hung in the air was gone, replaced by a sense of calm. Nico had passed on, no longer trapped, no longer afraid. With a deep breath, Eve walked away from the platform, the case finally closed. But the memory of Nico the brave little boy who had faced his fear stayed with her, a light that would never fade. For In his final memory, Nico’s secret was simply fear.

The police sirens filled the night with noise and light. Red and blue illuminating the street as the yellow tape was strewn about the building. Aaron Pulitz stepped out of his old car. He took a long drag on the cigarette in his mouth, pulled it out, breathed in the poison, then dropped the rest of it to the floor stomping it out with a hard boot. Aaron had never thought his career would lead him here. The bakery on 3rd Street. A small building which usually had a large window to show off the tons of cakes and other baked goods. But now it was broken through. As if something had broken out of the window. Leading away from the cracked window was a long trail of blood. Aaron had come to this place before when he was just a beat cop. He could see it now the old tight uniform encasing his at the time, less pudgy form. He would always get a cherry danish. His mouth watered at the thought. He wondered if while no one was looking he could just help himself to a little nostalgia. Aaron walked away from his car and ducked under the yellow tape to get a closer look at the window. As he approached, he noticed the looks on the other faces. Some looking away, others bent over, globs of spit and vomit dripping from their chins. He sniffed the air and had a hunch as to why. The air smelt like rotten meat and well vomit. Aaron walked to the other detective on the scene (a rookie) Dan Barns. His collar was undone and dribble fell from his chin to the small gut which poked out from his button-up, it stuck out just enough to catch the falling spit. "What happened here Barns?" Aaron asked placing one hand on Barnes' shoulder, the other clutched his waist. Barns sat with an unknowing expression. "They said this shit got bad sometimes, but holy fuck." Barnes said covering his eyes with his hands. "Alright, bud," Aaron said back to Barnes. "What is going on in there," Aaron asked pulling a cigarette from his left pocket, placed it in his mouth, and lit it with a small box of matches he pulled from his other pocket. He placed the matches back into his pocket and looked at Barnes while puffing on the cigarette, the end of it turning red. "Y-you just got to see it yourself," Barnes said getting off the hood of the police cruiser he sat on. Slowly he composed himself, pulled up his pants, and headed for the bakery door. "The cops got the call about an hour ago, some bullshit about a break-in but when they got here they saw the front window and the blood. After that, a few guys went in and came out faces white." Barnes went on as the door to the bakery opened Aaron looked around. The floor was stained red, small footprints (more than one set) lead to the window. The counters looked unclean and cluttered. Flour spilled everywhere some of it mixing in with the puddles of blood making a thick paste. "Finally I went in and well.." Barnes stopped dead and stared at Aaron, his eyes filled with fear. Aaron could feel the energy of unnatural terror radiating from him. His heart began to beat hard and adrenaline began pumping through his veins as Barnes stared through him. Aaron turned towards the only room in the place that was illuminated. He could see the large blood splatter that decorated the green wall in the doorway. A small Edison bulb hung inside the doorframe. Aaron walked on determined to figure out what had happened here. He calmed himself with thoughts of past crime scenes. He had endured. severed heads and more blood, and piss than a person should ever have to see in one lifetime. Once in the room, he saw the stairs leading down to a stone basement the blood trailed up the stairs, and in some of the puddles, he could see small logs which he finally figured to be small fingers. Small handprints decorated the walls. He continued down the tail of his trench coat dragging through each puddle as he went down. Finally, at the bottom, he stopped. His hand gripping hard against the railing which clung to the wall with rusty nails. His pupils grew small and his stomach turned. The walls were covered in blood. Chains decorated the walls each cuff too small to fit the hand of an..adult. He walked on stepping through puddle after puddle. In the larger room, there were three doors the first seemed to be a butcher's room, the walls decorated with knives, and sat on the cutting board was a slab of meat the skin of which seemed to be only a few shades darker than the skin on his hips. His mouth began to taste like every danish he had ever purchased from the shop. The second room seemed to be a kitchen, stoves lined the walls, kitchen knives and pans hung from jagged nails. The oven was opened in it was a small smoldering pie. The last door was closed but as he got closer he could smell the rotting meat. He walked to the room, opened the door, and felt up the walls next to the doorframe. Slowly he moved a finger onto the light switch. He hesitated, his heart beating. He was scared. In 15 years of work, he had never been scared to turn on a light. He flipped it on and stared. The walls were covered in blood. In the middle of the room stuck to a post was a small boy a clever stuck in his chest, holding him against the post. On the ground next to the boy was a large man wearing a mask, a pair of meat scissors sticking out of his chest a small bloody handprint engraved to the side of the blades. He stared for what seemed like forever. In the same room sat pastries and danishes, all decorated with cute little sprinkles some splattered with blood. On the table sat a large book opened to a page with a familiar picture. He stared at the book vomit falling through his lips. The book read: " Raspberry danish. Ingredients: 1. Raspberries 2. Children's blood..." Aaron held his midsection and could feel it turning and shaking. He was watching his teeth sink into danish after danish each one becoming part of the small paunch that sat on his waist. His eyes began to twitch and tear up. He turned from the room and walked back up the stairs, he walked past Barnes and the others. Straight to his car, he pulled his cigarettes out of his left pocket with shakey hands, the other hand dug into his right pocket pulling out his matches shaking a few out of the box as he dug into them. As he lit the cigarette in his mouth he read what was left on the glass window. "Bakery on 3rd: old family secret." He thought about the empty chains and the dead man. One question sat on repeat in his mind. "Where had the secret ingredients run off too?"

The dreams only continued to plague me more so. I had tried everything. Fasting, prayer and even attempting in vain to drown them with unwatered wine, but the entrance to the tunnels remained vivid in my mind's eye. I was the companion of a friend of the great Hugues de Payens. I gained his acquaintance a Christmas mass in Paris several years ago now. The choir was singing in chorus as his firm grip compressed my hand, candles flickered deep in his pupils and I could sense the greatness of the man. Word made it's way to us that Jerusalem had fallen in the great Year of our Lord, 1118, and de Payens hastened to gather a small friendly group to bring along with him. De Payens had invited my companion on the excursion and I was subsequently invited soon after. The ancient Holy city was filled with wonders and great places and scenes I had only read of in the Good Book. The smoky smell of burned firewood and cattle prevailed. Our first night there we were put into a procession and marched in the great Temple Mount. A full moon was glinting off the golden domed roof making it appear mere silver. Inside, de Payens voice boomed with authority has we were all were given white tunics with large red crosses sewn into the chest. Then silence fell across the room before we made a solemn vow to never tell anyone of what we were doing here. Our voices chanted in holy rhythm. That was six years ago, almost to the day. That night we learned what our mission was to be. We were going to search the tunnels below the Temple Mount for the Arch of the Covenant. Another hush controlled the room after that news was relinquished. What excitement! We were now soldiers of God Almighty. After the vows, fellowship and wine that followed the dreams began earnestly. All I could see was the inky black entrance to were we would be working but there was a low rumble coming from the depth of the hole that worried me. It was almost a growl. Dreams are dreams however and to my godly knowledge do not have any impact on our day to day lives. I toiled on, along with everyone else. The tunnels were pitch black. Once inside all the clamor of Jerusalem vanished. The only light waving and flickering off of our torches. The orange glow making our red crosses appear royal purple. Closer to the exit the tunnels were fairly clear but the deeper we made our way the older and dirtier things had gotten. Several cave ins had slowed our way but we worked long into the nights bringing bucket after bucket up and outside into the world. Another thing I found odd at this time, was the deeper we gained entry and the closer we came to being directly beneath the Mount a strange pressure was pushing against us. It was not trying to force us out of the tunnels but it was crushing our very beings like deep ocean water. Nose bleeds became more and more frequent and at times I thought my eyes would pop out of their sockets. One night, we had been deep under the ground and we were sure we were close to being directly underneath the Temple Mount. We had all been digging for hours when a commotion broke out up toward the front. Then exaltation. Hugues de Payens began to sob at the base of a bronze door he had just unearthed. Torches flickered wildly with the cheers of the men. The cheers were muffled and there was no echo once it was done. My friend, Monet, clapped my shoulder and his silver front incisor gleamed in the fire light has he smiled. "We have done it, mon amie." "Oui. Dieu est heureux." Hugues, once regaining control of himself, stood and put both his hands on the door, like he was telling a carriage to halt. The Earth let out a groan and she trembled at his touch. Dust fell from the tops of the tunnel and several of the men did Hail Mary's. Hugues was shouting prayers. Other men were praying too but I was distracted. This whole scene was familiar. Then I placed it. It was the reoccurring dream I had been having. I wasn't seeing the entrance to the tunnel itself, I was seeing the entrance to the Arch of the Covenant. Hugues shoved on the door but it would not budge. Then other men helped him and it screamed on it's hinges as it slowly rolled open. I could only stand and watch in terror. Once the doorway was wide open and the only thing staring back was jet black darkness, de Payens brought up a torch and the dancing orange flicker of flame waltz across the golden container with angels nesting on top. The shimmer of the flame light was intensely bright off of the Arch. We all stood speechless. Hugues approach the holy relic and brought his hand out to open the thing. A silent scream was coming up from my throat but I couldn't make a sound. Hugues flipped the lid to the ground and nothing happened. Hugues's eyes were covered in shadow as he peered into the ancient container. Before he could get light over the edge, the Earth around us let out another bellow. It was as if we had passed through it's maw and were now settling down in it's belly. Waiting to be absorbed. The tunnel and room the Arch was in was silent until the moving planet had silenced. Then before anyone made a move, a heavenly light burst out from the Arch. Hundreds of white orbs circled around in the glowing light going up and up like riding a tornado. I could feel the warm wind that was coming out of the box. Hugues eyes were wide with amazement the moment before the pressure finally caused them both to burst inside his sockets. De Payens let out a horrible scream before his tongue turned to liquid in his mouth. The men immediately behind him began to turn but it was too late. The back of their tunics burst into flames. Monet had me by the shoulder and we were running up has fast as we could. The closer to the opening we made it the lighter the pressure felt. One glance behind me and I could see the white light seeping it's way up the tunnels behind us. Monet had tripped in the dark and I stumbled over him in a lump. I was up and running before I even thought again about Monet. When I made the opening and dove into the outside world, I turned to no one behind me. Monet was gone. Then the light began to emerge deep in the darkness and I knew I had to close the opening as quickly as I could. I scrambled to my feet, sliding on loose gravel as I did. I was pushing on the enormous door with all I had. The ground at my feet was brightening. Then before the door had been shut the weight of the light his the other side and sent me sprawling. I was dazed and something tickled my brain. I looked up and watched the light and the orbs inside it swirl up into the night sky. The next morning, I was found outside still lying on the ground. A French officer ran up to me, "Monsieur, allez-vons bien?" "I'm okay, I believe. I could use some water." I didn't have the heart to tell him just yet of the night before. I didn't really know how to tell anyone. He was just staring at me with a quizzical look on his face. "Monsieur?" "What is the matter?" "Je ne comprends pas." He stood up and tilted his head like a curious dog. I was beginning to realize he didn't understand me at all. "Water." I said and realized it sounded very strange. "Water." I said again and it wasn't the right word. I can think of the word in my head, L'eau , but every time I went to say it, it came out, "Water." Whatever the devil that was. Whatever happened to me last night it has changed my language. Months have passed and I'm here in the Bastille in France. Nothing but time on my hands. I couldn't answer any of the questions pertaining to the night before. I can understand everyone but no one can understand me. Everyone seems to think I'm speaking some form of English but none of which anyone today can speak. I've had plenty of time to think about the events of that night and what I saw. I firmly believe now that there was never an Arch of the Covenant. I think the box we unearthed was Pandora's box itself. The very one. If it was the evil is out now. Nothing I can do about it. Even if I could no one can understand what I saying or writing. This is all gibberish to everyone who sees this but I. So, if anyone ever uncovers my tale and can possibly decipher this text, you'll know what has come of your world. Now, my time has come and they're beckoning for me at the door. Off to be broken on the wheel. Another wretched soul lost. I already know where I'll be heading afterwards. We can only learn so much and live.

He awoke in bed. Stiffly, he reached for the edge of the bedframe to prop himself up. His joints popped as he levered himself erect, and he faced the large interior of his lavish bedchamber. Moving towards the wall closest to him, he half leaned on it to shuffle towards his numerous dressers on the other side of the room. Sunlight streamed out of the large windows, looking into a courtyard of snow, as he shuffled along the wall. Reaching the other side of the room minutes later, he looked up, above the dressers, at the large mechanical clock fitted above the center cabinet. He still had thirty minutes. His stomach grumbled, but he knew it would be an effort in futility to try to eat. His lean, malnourished body demanded food, but his hands shook far too much for him to eat more than spoonfuls of the worst sort of soup. Ignoring his bodies promptings, he shuffled to the far side of the dressers, snatching his walking cane from the wall it was propped against. Armed with his cane, he shuffled towards the exit. He slowly made his way past the two guards, standing rigidly at their post, on either side of the door. They did not move as he limped past, instead staring straight ahead into space. They had been ordered not to escort him, on today of all days. It was the one day they had not been by his side in nearly a century. After what seemed like hours later, although it had only been a few minutes, he reached the door. It was a plain, wooden door, of average height and plain in appearance. Anyone who did not know what he knew would not think anything of it. Opening the door by its handle, the hinges complained noisily. Beyond the door, gaped a dark room, with only one window to give relief. The room was below him, bridged by a wooden staircase reaching up to the entrance and now-open door. Gritting his teeth, he put his foot on the first stair that led down into the room. Stairways were the enemy. Stairs should be ripped out of the entire city, he resolved, just as soon as this ordeal was over. Yet he had no choice, and so put his right foot forward onto the first stair downwards. Each passing stair took painful moments to navigate with his enfeebled frame. Finally, he reached the bottom, and moved several feet beyond the stairs, where a wooden bench sat amongst the gloom of the dim room. Behind the bench, barely visible were a set of plain white archway, leading nowhere. He reached down and grabbed the loaded crossbow below the bench. The sunlight coming from the solitary window played against the plentiful dust motes in the air. He waited. He had only just caught his breath from the harrowing ordeal that had been the staircase when he heard it. The door creaked open. Soft feet fell upon the stairs. A short figure approached him. A young girl, with short brown hair, looking of the age of 15, appeared in the dim light of the one window in front of him. She appeared startled, not expecting to see someone else. Why should she be surprised? He had been expecting her. He aimed the crossbow at her chest, and touched the spot on it that would trigger the release. A soft swishing noise followed. The girl laid sprawled on the ground, scrabbling for anything, making fast breaths. Blood pooled around her body. “Good”, he thought. He had been aiming for her lungs. It was much quieter that way. “I’m sorry it has to be this way”, he began, as she writhed on the floor. “See, I was like you. Just like you in fact. The gods chose me to lead the kingdom for my allotted century. When I was done, I decided I should talk with my successor - inform him of what I had done, and what he might do to protect the kingdom. It was a break in tradition, I knew, but I waited down here, by the arches, behind me. Imagine my surprise when I met my successor, and he was only a kid. He cared not at all for the work I had done. He insulted me and thought nothing of the work I had done, and yet the gods had chosen him to lead the kingdom!” At this moment, he set down his crossbow and reached for his cane. He hobbled up from the bench, his joints popping in protest. Winning the brief skirmish, by only external aid in the form of his cane, he resumed explaining his story to her. “The gods were fools, I decided. In a fit of rage, rage over the work that I had done and might be lost, rage over the waste, I killed him. Then I took his place, stepping through the archway. Imagine my surprise when I stepped out young again, rejuvenated and ready to lead for another century! It appears the gods didn’t care who stepped through their archway, the passage to heaven, as long as it was at the specified time. So another century passed. Near the end of it, I waited down here for every day for a month before I finally caught my next successor. Each century, I got a little bit better at predicting the exact end and appearance of my replacement. This time I only had to wait for 5 minutes.” He stopped talking, realizing he was alone. He turned around, and stepped into the archway. Some time later, he stepped out, and as he moved away, let his cane clatter to the floor, abandoned.

“Do you ever just sort of forget you exist?” She looked up, pausing in the middle of her page. “Hmm?” Her girlfriend shifted, careful not to move too much. “Forget you exist. Like, as a person. With... choices, and influence and whatever.” There was a crick in her back. She had been using her girlfriend’s stomach as a pillow, and the movement had caused her body to realize that lying on the floor, however carpeted, was uncomfortable. “Not... really. Why? Do you?” “Eh. Sometimes.” Her girlfriend’s body rose and fell heavily beneath her head, accompanied by a puff of breath. “Just... like, you know. Time has no meaning. You’re tired, you can’t bring yourself to do much of anything, even text your friends, and then suddenly two weeks have passed and you’ve done absolutely nothing.” “Oh.” She considered that, but nothing she could remember experiencing seemed close enough. “I mean, I guess I’ve gotten into funks before, but that’s not what you’re talking about, is it?” “Well, sort of,” her girlfriend mused. “It’s like an extended, deep funk, but coupled with passively questioning your identity, validity, and existence. It kinda sucks.” “Yeah, sounds like it.” She glanced at the page number of her book before closing it and placing it off to the side. “Does it happen often, or...?” “A little.” Her girlfriend’s hand, which had been unconsciously massaging her shoulder, retracted. “It was worse at home.” Her heart sank. She rolled onto her side. Her cheek sank into the soft fabric of her girlfriend’s oversized hoodie. “That makes sense.” “Mmhm.” Her girlfriend stared up at the ceiling. “Because there, I’m not as sure of myself. I didn’t know if I wanted to do something or if my parents wanted me to. For as long as I can remember, it all just felt so wrong, and it was only after I got out of high school and away from home that I started actually looking at myself and wondering, ‘Who am I’?” Her girlfriend fidgeted, tugging her skirt down shakily. “And now that I know, what do I do? I don’t feel comfortable at home anymore. I don’t want to spend any time with them, and I don’t trust them, because I can’t! I can’t rely on them. It’d be bad enough if I, as their daughter, just told them I was gay, but I’d also have to tell th-” “I know! I know,” she interrupted before her girlfriend could get too upset. It would be justified, of course, but sue her. “It’s not fair. They suck. I’m sorry. But it’s not your fault.” Her girlfriend grimaced. “Yeah. I know, I guess.” “Seriously.” She boosted herself up onto her palms, sitting up to look her girlfriend in the face. “Anyone who doesn’t appreciate you for who you are doesn’t deserve to know you.” “Hm.” Her girlfriend didn’t react. She barely looked her in the eyes. “If you say so.” “You don’t believe me?” “Why would I? I’m not smart. I’m not that fun to hang around. I’m not even-” “Okay, no.” She cut her girlfriend off again and turned over to lay down next to and on top of her, draping an arm over her shoulders. Their cheeks rubbed against each other. Her mouth hovered above her girlfriend’s ear. “You are. You are every one of those things, and if anyone tells you otherwise, they’re full of shit.” She waited. Her girlfriend didn’t answer. “Okay?” “...Okay.” She turned her head and pressed a kiss onto her girlfriend’s cheek. “Good girl.” Her girlfriend squeaked. She suppressed a smile. “I love you.” Her girlfriend’s arm wrapped around her, pulling them closer together. “I love you, too.

Try, what does that word mean? To some, it may mean quickly looking over a set of history themed flashcards, or attempting to reach that shiny rock out of the depths of the lake you visit each summer. But to others it may have a deeper meaning, pulling all nighters only to get a fifty percent on a final and get yelled at for not trying hard enough. This generation some adults may question your definition of "I'm trying". You may try your hardest, blood sweat and tears, only to fall into the pits of failure, and you may not want to crawl out of that hole you know you will end up in once again. Then you have New Year's resolutions. The three words that both inspire and cause you to crumble away. Some reach their goals and others find more flaws to add to their never changing list of insecurity and flaws. What is a good New Years resolution? Something that seems impossible, losing one hundred pounds? Something as silly as getting out of bed to eat a meal? Does it have to be as meaningful to others as it is meaningful to you? Will others refer to it as meaningless, or an impossible dream, to far away from the ideal reality to reach? Some may say the whole idea of the New Years Resolution is a waste of effort. An effort that can easily be avoided with the turn of a pupil. How many goals have you set for yourself this year, how many have you accomplished? This year my personal goal was just to try. Not to lose weight like I was often pressured to, or to "act my age" like some adults scolded me to do. It didn't matter if I failed English 11, or if I broke my "Don't cry and let them get to you" record. I just had to try. The months were long, and the pressure even longer, but all I had to do was try. The new me, someone who could try. Not pressured, not forced. No more all nighters to try and pass a topic that squeezed at my brain, not to forgive that one family member that broke my ran with my trust. No more struggling for others. I would just try for myself. Some may call me selfish for wanting that kind of peace, the one where you can leave others words, and ideal thoughts about me behind. I'm not sure if that will ever happen, maybe that would have been one of my goals back when I had the endless energy to please everyone I came across. Not to show anyone who I really was, because no one could accept just that, it was not deemed good enough to the blonde girls in tube tops who would snicker behind my back, or the adults who would ignore me and my opinions because "Anyone under twenty five is stupid and their opinions do not matter." Life itself can make or break someone. Some may never reach their goals, and others will. Some may even need help finding their way, and others are those reliable few that will guide them. I honestly think New Years Resolutions are not about what you can and can not do, but what you think you are capable of trying as a person, and what you would do to try. A lot of people think it is about changing yourself, maybe your imagine or personality, but instead of focusing on all the things they are not, they should realise all the things that they are. The things that make everyone different in their own ways, the true beauty of humans is when they discover themselves for who they really are, and not the dull plastic mask they carry in their pockets. I myself carry one, I am still trying to let it go, maybe one day. Looking back, right here on January fourth, 2021 2:59pm as I type this, all that needed to be remembered from last year was that I tried. It may have seemed like a failure to others, but It had become faith for me. So instead of going into the New Year thinking about that diet, or about how your going to change your laugh because others think it's to loud, tell yourself to try. At what? Well only the person reading this can answer that. I'm not good at assuming, it should be something I should be proud of, but everyone should try. Not fail, not succeed, but try. Just try. Now just try does not half ass something meaningful to you, or just meaningful in general. Just trying means reaching your limits, not your moms, not your bullies, and not any person who won't take the words "I tried" to heart just because you have not reached what you want to touch yet. Work at a pace that works for you, make goals that are for you, not for anyone else. Life may seem long and a struggle more than a joy ride, but in the end you only get one life. Not three, not nine, just one. A life that shouldn't be filled to the brim with self hate or insecurities. Trying for myself has been something I have been thinking about for years, but my goals always turned out to be what others wanted out of me. Being a kinder person, losing weight, being more responsible, stop being lazy, be productive, hurry and choose a career, respect those even if they don't respect you, parents are always right, don't over eat, the list could go on. It was and still is heavy in my mind, and sometimes it bothers me that I will never be as perfect as they want me to be. Never a perfect student, never a perfect sister, never a perfect daughter. But I have come to realize that these things I carry do not have to be perfect, or even close to such a toxic word. All I have to do is try. Now in 2021, as I sit here writing in the dark with a small furry body in my lap and the soft glow of my moon lamp, for the first time in years I feel the content release of letting go, I didn't worry about what anyone else thinks about my choices. For the first time in a decade all I had to do was try.

The Oak Brook Public Library was shaped like a UFO. Or maybe one of those tiny shortbread butter cookies that Potbelly Sandwich Shop puts around the straws on milkshakes. Either way, the undulating curves of the building hid me from the lightly trafficked road out front, and the darkness of night concealed me from anyone looking through the nearby fields. Despite my rush, my hands fumbled with the ring of keys. I couldn’t pick out the one that opened the main door in the darkness, and I dropped the whole jumble with a metal clang. I froze, waiting for someone to call out, but heard nothing other than the gentle chirping of crickets. I shrugged my heavy backpack higher up on my shoulders, reached down carefully to pick up the keys, and took a deep, calming breath. Flipping through the ring until I came to one slightly larger than the rest, I slid it smoothly into the lock. It turned with a click. I was in. The curved glass walls provided beautiful natural light that made the various reading nooks and crannies such a pleasure during the day. At night, they meant that I didn’t even have the luxury of turning on my flashlight without risk of being seen. Luckily, I knew the layout of shelves in the hub and spoke format like the back of my hand. Besides a few red LED lights on the various emergency exit signs, the moonlight that shone through the windows was all the illumination I had. Luckily, the moon was round and full, providing just enough pale glow to outline the long circulation desk before me. I was grateful there was no one there to watch me climb awkwardly over the wooden counter. Two low shelves backed up to the circulation desk and held books put on reserve, divided by slips of paper with the name of the patron who requested them. I slid further along the shelves until I bumped into a metal cart full of books ready to be reshelved tomorrow morning. Working by feel, I unzipped my oversized purse and pulled out the books I’d lugged along. I shuffled them in among the other books. Suddenly, I heard a metallic click behind me and froze, crouched beside the cart of books. The front door swung open, and the overhead light came on as someone flipped the master switch. “Come out, hands where I can see them,” shouted a deep male voice. I wondered if I could stay low and shuffle out the back door before being spotted. It would be a 50-yard crawl, but certainly more manageable with the lights blazing down on me. “I know you’re in here,” said the man. “You set off the motion tracking alarm. Right now, it’s just trespassing. Don’t make this any worse for yourself.” Damn, I thought. It hadn’t even occurred to me that there was more security than the deadbolt on the door. It should have. I was in one of the wealthiest suburbs of Chicago. He had me dead to rights. I lifted both arms in the air and slowly rose from my crouch. The police officer was standing just inside the main entrance, one hand hovering near his belt and the other touching the radio on his shoulder. He hit me with a hard stare as I rose that turned into a look of mild confusion. “Ma’am? You’re the trespasser?” he asked. “No offense, but you look like you belong in a library.” I sighed and adjusted my glasses with one shoulder since my arms were still high in the air. “Not many sixty-year-old women breaking into libraries these days?” I joked. “I know I do, officer. Not just look it, either. I belong here. Can I put my hands down, please?” He nodded, and I relaxed. Still looking cautious, he sauntered over to where I was standing, his eyes taking in the books, my open purse, the clutter behind the circulation desk. Finally, when he was about six feet away with the wooden desk between us, he stopped, looking me up and down again. “Can I see some ID?” “Of course, officer. It’s in my bag,” I said, my voice rising a few notes at the end like I was asking for permission.” “Get it. Slowly.” Moving as cautiously and steadily as possible, I retrieved two cards from the outside zipper pocket and placed them face up on the counter between us. He took them both and held them between us, scanning the cards while keeping me in his line of sight. “Myra Sokoloff?” he asked, reading the name on my driver’s license. I nodded. He flipped to the other card and frowned. “Is this some sort of a joke?” He held up my work ID and compared the tiny square headshot to my actual face. I chuckled a little but stopped when the officer didn’t join in. “It depends on your point of view, I suppose.” “So you’re telling me I was dispatched down here to catch the head librarian trespassing in her own library?” I gave him a sheepish grin. “I was recently hired. Technically, I don’t start until tomorrow morning.” His eyes narrowed. “So what brings you in tonight then?” I huffed out a laugh. “It’s complicated.” The officer cocked an eyebrow at me. “I grew up less than a mile from here, walking distance from the old library. I practically lived there when I wasn’t in school. But when I turned 11, my family moved to Boston.” I paused, collecting my thoughts, and the policeman spun his finger in a classic hurry-up gesture. “Ma’am, I don’t have all night. Just the Cliff Note’s version, if you please.” “Fine. Long story short, I accidentally packed a box of library books before that move. I’ve carried them with me for more than 40 years through maybe a dozen states until I moved back here to Oak Brook. And I happened to stumble across the box just last night in my attic.” “The night before you started work as the new head librarian.” He finally cracked a smile. “Exactly. I wanted to start on the right foot. The books had to come back.” “So you broke in here--” “Not quite.” I held up the keyring and wiggled it a bit. He smirked. “So you snuck in here to put the books back.” “That’s pretty much it.” “Can you show them to me?” It was so much easier with the lights on. The books were bound with cloth covers in faded primary colors. From the sides, it was clear that the pages had yellowed slightly from age. They stood out in sharp contrast to the colorful paperbacks on the return cart. I removed about a dozen and stacked them atop the desk. The policeman flipped open the first one, taking stock of the buff-colored paper pocket glued inside the front cover holding a slip of lined paper with a column of stamped dates. “I always loved Anne of Green Gables,” I said upon seeing which book had ended up on top. “I read it more times than I could count through the years.” “Well, I suppose the library will be happy to have another copy.” Shrugging, I shook my head. “Probably not. I suspect it’ll end up donated or in the used book sale. That copy has been out of circulation so long; I doubt we could enter it back in the system.” “So if the library won’t keep it, why’d you bother in the first place? What was even the point?” I blinked in surprise. “Well, it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? You can’t just keep a library book forever.” The officer shook his head and flipped the cover closed. “Ma’am, I think you’ll make an excellent new head librarian. Have a good night.” I stood in the library, surrounded by all my books, and smiled.

Why was I ever deluded enough to think this was a cushy job? In my defence, I wasn’t the only one and that’s not just surmising, because I know people who were turned down for this job and think I’m a lucky so and so - except even if they don’t say it, I’m pretty sure they’re thinking of an expression other than “so and so”! But they didn’t get the job. I did. To this day I’m not quite sure why, though, okay, fair enough, I didn’t tell any lies on my CV, but three weeks in the Friends of the Hospital Shop hardly counts as “Extensive Retail Experience” and a GSCE in history isn’t really “Knowledge of Heritage”. But I listed my qualifications themselves truthfully enough - well more or less! So here I am. If I wouldn’t go so far as to say my dream job (there were none for chocolate tasters on offer!) then one that a lot of folk, including me before I got it, would consider to die for . And by what means? On the block? No, more likely through exhaustion or sheer boredom. I’m working in the gift shop at the Museum of East Anglian Life. Have you ever seen the Past Times gift catalogue - the one that sends historians and archaeologists into apoplexies? Well, let’s just say that compared to most of the stuff we sell in the MEAL gift shop it would look like a model of realistic and historically authenticated artefacts! I suppose that’s not entirely fair. There’s some genuine stuff in the museum if you’re into shards of pottery and photographs or photos of agricultural labourers. And we sell stuff related to that, not bad quality either. But for an area that had no particular history of the railways, even before Dr Beeching swung his axe, we’re certainly fixated on them. Some of it what my colleague Malcolm, who can be unkind but has a terse way with words, calls “Train Tat” on the lines (pun unintended!) of fake (honestly fake, of course!) plates from the Mallard and the Flying Scotsman and dolls dressed as engine drivers and stokers. But we do have some very nice model railway paraphernalia, if that’s the kind of thing you like. The trouble with the model railway enthusiasts, who have been here in their droves today, though as far as I know there’s not been a special excursion and there’s certainly no relevant “rolling exhibit” is that they are very nice, too, but dear God, they’re high maintenance and for relatively low returns. In rapid - or not so rapid! - succession today I’ve had some exquisitely polite gentleman, and the vast majority are male, though I’m sure there are plenty of female model railway fans, asking me to find just the right signal box, just the right sidings, and just the right “mind the gap” sign. I am very wary of the proposed new line in dolls’ house furniture. I have a friend who’s into dolls’ houses, and at times they make the model railway fans look undemanding and easy to please. What is it with folk who like things on a small scale? But it would be unfair to say they’re the only ones. We’ve had an invasion of what Malcolm calls the Tea Towel Spreaders who are exactly what it says on the tin, they unfold our range of tea towels with Cottages of East Anglia and Native British Wildlife and The Perfect Cup Cake on the counter and inspect them as if they were choosing an altar cloth for Westminster Abbey before deciding they’re not quite right. And who has to refold them? We do, of course! The calendar tea towels will be in in a couple of weeks - I swear they come earlier every year! - and that’s going to make things worse. We already have some Christmas cards out, though discreetly. Then there’s the “do you sell refreshments?” brigade. We redirect them to the museum café, and a “specimen reply” is “But we only want a bottle of water and a Mars bar and thought they’d probably be cheaper here than in the café!” They probably would, which is why Olive, who runs the café franchise, has put her foot down about us selling them. Oh, for a lull to have an unhealthy snack of my own. A couple of quick sips (okay, swigs) of water are all I’ve managed this afternoon. “I do wonder if you could help me,” An elderly gentleman, wearing a coat with leather patches on the elbows and a slightly battered trilby appeared at the counter about fifteen minutes ago. “Of course, sir,” I said, “I’ll do my best.” “This model railway stuff .....” My heart sank, though it struck me he had an unusual turn of phrase. One of the worshippers at the shrine of the model railway would not be likely to refer to “this model railway stuff” even though there was nothing disparaging in his tone. “Would you mind if I sat down?” he asked. I maintain it was a mistake having a chair “customer side” of the shop and I know that sounds mean. “Oh, don’t worry, my dear,” he said, “I’m not going to flake out on you. Just these old legs get a bit weary at times.” “That’s fine,” I said, feeling vaguely guilty about my uncharitable thoughts. “You have - the scenery, as well...” We do. We have miniature trees and miniature sheep and miniature children waving at the trains. To be frank, they tend to be a lot less carefully made than the actual rolling stock and lines, platforms, and the like. “I believe there’s a miniature cricket match .....” We vary our “surrounding scenery” and at the moment we have the football match out. For a couple of minutes I was seriously tempted to tell a white (well, off-white) lie and say we didn’t have it in stock, and could I interest him in the football match. But it would probably no more interest him than a diesel train would a steam-head, and even though I doubt anyone would have been any the wiser (Malcolm was visiting the bathroom!) in the end I decided to be honest. “We do. It will just take me a couple of minutes to get it out.” “I hate to be any trouble.” “Not in the slightest.” It’s surprising how small a box a whole cricket match can be packed in, though the customers have to provide their own “grass” (which we do sell, but hardly ever sell, if you see what I mean). I hurriedly wiped it over with some kitchen roll to get rid of the dust on it (when it comes to dusting we do tend to operate on an “out of sight, out of mind” basis). “May I have a look?” “Of course.” He opened the box and took out the figures almost reverentially. He didn’t seem quite so interested in the miniature scoreboard and wickets, which were surprisingly well done. “That’s the one!” he exclaimed. “I hoped it might be, but couldn’t be sure until I saw it. It’s the one based on the international match played at Hopden Green in 1939!” Well, I might be impatient and sarcastic, but I’m not into defrauding elderly gentleman, and I said, gently, “Sir, these are modern models - well, only made in the last ten years or so.” He smiled, and it was a warm, crinkly smile, that made him look younger. “You’re a very honest lady, and it’s to your credit, but I know that. They’re still based on it, though, and that’s definitely the right one. I promise you this won’t take long” (that triggered alarm bells, but that longed for lull had finally materialised, though oh, my packet of crisps was calling to me!) “Please may I borrow that green cloth over there?” It was one of the tea towels, this time with Deciduous Trees of our Woodlands on it, but the back of it did, if you used your imagination, look close enough to cricket pitch green. He laid out the match, I had to admit, quickly and expertly. His fingers might be a bit gnarled and papery, but they functioned perfectly well. “You see that chap at Cover Point?” Though my Dad is cricket-mad, I would have been hard pushed to know Cover Point if it bit me, but he obligingly pointed out the fielder in the relevant position. I had also noticed that the players did, indeed, all have their own faces and height and hair colour - this, at least, was a quality item even if it was a reproduction. The chap at Cover Point had reddish hair and lanky limbs. “My Uncle Norbert,” he said. “Norbert Thompson. He played for the village team in the local league, but he had already signed a contract with Middlesex, and there was talk that he might play for England one day.” His voice was wistful. I’m no expert historian, but knew well enough what the match being played in 1939 might signify. I wondered if saying “I’m sorry” would be appropriate. But he patted my hand. “He came through the war, my dear. I won’t say unscathed, and certainly not mentally, though he didn’t talk about it much, but he always said he was one of the lucky ones, and meant it. But he never quite made it to the big time as a cricketer. There were younger chaps coming up behind and - well, perhaps his way of playing was just a bit too old fashioned, even then. He was philosophical about it. He trained as a PE teacher, and he loved it, and the boys loved him. He lived into his nineties and died in his sleep. A good innings, you might say. “ Even as he spoke, he was neatly and carefully packing the figures away with the same skill and care he had unpacked them. “I’ll take this, my dear. And the tea-towel too, though it’s far too pretty to wipe dishes on and I’ll put it on the wall.” He paid by card, rather than the stack of coins I had expected, reinforcing the lesson I should have learnt long-since not to stereotype people, tipped his hat, thanked me again, and was gone. No, this isn’t a cushy job. But it has its compensations!

#The path to lake Cristallina It’s a beautiful sunny summer day on the south side of the Swiss alps. It was early morning when me, my dad and Max, a strong Entlebucher shepherd dog, started our way towards Cristallina lake with its little alpine hut at the top.\ While we hike along the path we chat, he tells me some stories, and we play. We play a lot together. I’m running ahead with my rifle made out of a branch. It’s not any branch. It’s a really cool one I’ve found a while ago. I always bring it along on our hikes. I’ve carved it with my Swiss Army knife (every kid where I live has one) and it even has a hole to stick magazines in it.\ I find cover and hide in some bush or tree or behind a rock and I get ready to ambush the enemy soldiers marching up behind me, but as they approach, our dog, Max, always manages to spot me before I can jump out.\ I don’t care. I jump out of cover anyway and start blasting at the enemy. My dad is very creative when it comes to playing. Enemies jump out from every corner, I dodge a grenade made out of a pine cone, shoot, get to cover, reload. Usually I end up winning as I’m kind of invulnerable.\ And so we keep marching together along the path. Max never gets tired of running to the horizon and back again, swimming in every pond or small river he finds. Once he ran to herd some cows, and we almost got in trouble.\ The nature is so beautiful up here. There are all sorts of alpine flowers and bushes of blueberries everywhere after we pass the tree line, we gather some on our way. The sky is deep blue and there are no clouds to be seen anywhere.\ We’ve been walking for a while now, and we should be able to see the lake very soon. The path turns and I take a look around.\ I’m a grown up man.\ The beautiful landscape fades away as a dream and I find myself I’m in a hospital room holding my dad’s hand. We can still see the mountains from the window and even if it’s autumn the skies are of the same deep blue, it’s a beautiful day outside. Now it’s my turn to tell some stories since he’s not able to speak anymore. He tells me with his eyebrows that he doesn’t want to leave me, it’s way too soon. Our beloved Max has reached the top since long time, and he’s waiting for him there. I can’t go any further on the path. I’m also a dad since few years now and there're thousand ambushes and sword fights and fantastic stories I’ve to make up that are waiting for me. It will be awhile before I’ll come back up there. But I’m sure you’ll be waiting for me at the hut when I’ll arrive. Goodbye dad. I love you so much.

The first night of December was the easiest. Every night since then it became harder and harder to sleep. Sophia would toss and turn in her egg-shaped sleep chamber, getting worse as the days went by. The mood-altering luminescence didn’t help. Thoughts of unopened packages went through her head. But this time she contemplated why people needed so much stuff to begin with. Sure, she like getting presents to receive something she wanted but the next year she would look around her room and still want more. Why did people always want something more, knowing their needs would never be met? If the holidays didn’t exist would people ever be happy? The clock in her sleep chamber changed to 6AM. She smiled and didn’t know why. Her parents would get her everything she wanted anyways, like they did the last few holidays. The thing she most wanted was a neural ear implant. The implant was advertised on every kid video and simulation she played. The device stuck in her mind as something she always needed but didn’t know she needed. It was designed to help kids learn faster by using brain wave enchantments. Sophia found it difficult to pay attention during school simulations. Joseph probably wanted (and would get) a battle gun for his video games. At least society would benefit from her enhanced intelligence. Downstairs, when she got to the hall, Joseph was already rummaging through the wrapped gifts. Her parents were telling him to calm down. When she came down with quick steps, they barely noticed she was there. She sat down beside Joseph, with his tiny hands trying to push her out of the way, while her parents put on their VR goggles to accept the virtual gifts from other family members. They were also giddy, so much so that they completely forgot about making hot chocolate. When the goggles went on Joseph started unwrapping the presents, barely looking at the name tag. Sophia, seeing her parents not paying attention, searched for the smallest box and picked it up, knowing the neural implant would be miniscule compared to the others. The box was the width of her hand, which wasn’t big at all. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. The desire and excitement had suddenly gone away. This usually happened every year, when the gift of her desire was in her possession. She already knew what it was and already decided what she would do with it. Now she was just going through the motions. Her father was smiling behind the goggles, while her mother sat motionless and had another sort of smile. A smile that told her that her mother was receiving something she wasn’t supposed to get or secretly wanted. A flurry of paper whacked Sophia in the face. Joseph opened a box with a face mask inside. It was an Incognito visor. He could wear it around and have someone else’s face, a tool commonly used for bullying. Quickly tossing it aside he grabbed for another present and promptly tore it to shreds. This one was a skin pigment changer. Joseph didn’t seem to care that it had to be worn like a patch to alter his color. She never found it odd that he desperately wanted to be someone else. So did she. He just did it in an unhealthy way, with shooting games and pranks. She looked to her parents again. It was funny how they pretended to be kids while she had always wondered what it would be like to be an adult. How they could reach anything and not have to beg. They could go anywhere and do anything and not have to worry about burdens like choosing their own food. Her finger slipped into the package when she grasped it too hard. The wrapping came off and she saw the implant inside. Joseph had opened his seventh present, a stupid glee in his eyes. It was an implant like the one she held in her hand. Except this model was meant to make the user more aggressive, more focused, and ambitious. The “Persona Max” model. It didn’t matter. She preferred the newer ones, although newer models had a tendency to lack secure firmware. She unwrapped the package, oblivious to the other twelve presents under the fireplace. After popping the container open, she had already read the pack label and learned that she would need to place it deep within her ear for the nanoware to activate and interact with her own neurons through polyelectroplasticity, whatever that meant. Inside the perfectly formed plastic container was the ear insertion tablet. Unlike previous models the tablet wasn’t meant to be swallowed and could be removed. However, after interacting with her neurons the effects would be irreversible. She was sure her parents had to sign a waiver just to buy it. The tablet was about the size of her pinky and had to be inserted with a plunger like tool. It felt like an ear drop going in and was cold when it started to release the nanoware. There was a rush of adrenaline as if she was falling down. Her body shook, convulsing with an unnatural substance entering her mind. Colors instantly shuffled and became clear, clearer than she had ever seen them. The Max interface appeared next, running through diagnostics in a slurry of words. The Max logo appeared and faded out with a chime. Nothing else appeared after that but her brain was clear as if she tried a sip of coffee. She could see wording from far away, as if it were right in front of her. It was working. After trying to think of random things and place she found that she could focus on any many things at once. But then her vision flickered. Words ran across her eyesight, random bits of data flashing as if another diagnostic was running. A ringing started and became unbearable. She tried to dig out the implant but her fingers were too small. An icon appeared. It was a skull-and-crossbones symbol. She tried harder but everything started to blur and she nearly passed out from the barrage of text. She breathed and breathed but started to feel as if the world was closing in on her. The fireplace became hot, even when it was turned off. Joseph’s face morphed into a plastic cover, or at least that’s how it appeared to her. It wasn’t that things were changing; it was that she was seeing things differently. She could see the air coming from the vent. She could feel the excited energy from her brother. She could taste the pheromones coming from both parents. Everything was more than it ever had been before. But it wasn’t just her perception that changed. Her digital interface, the one that had been hidden in the background a moment ago, was now open to her. She didn’t just see it. She knew it. She knew how to use her neurons to change the code itself. A rush of thoughts and emotions played in her head all in the same instance. She knew how the device worked, how the device was created, and which drone delivered it to their doorstep down to its serial number. Her mind took flight into the digital ether, the perilous cloud of the unknown, everywhere and nowhere. Everything flew by around her, she had access to every database, every server, and every smart device. She searched for the nature of the Max device and why it was making her experience this massive overload of information. She found it in a bug, an exploit created by hackers to enhance the neural enhancement. The bug removed the limitations of the influx of data from the internet and implanted it directly into her mind, allowing her to access anything anywhere. As she came to absorb and evaluate the data, she didn’t believe that this limitless access was intended but now she became something new, something omnipotent. She only spent a few milliseconds in this state before she came back to reality. But it had felt like an eternity. Her progeny, her parents, were mindlessly engrossed in their virtual reality. Using the tablets interface she hacked into her father’s virtual session, seeing what he saw. And what he saw was a violent simulation, a war game. Sophia watched him shoot super powered monsters and use a chainsaw to cut through flesh, all while ignoring his own children. She assimilated with the game and became a video game sprite. The walls were covered digital blood. He entered the room and saw her standing there, grenade in hand. He was dressed in military garb and a face that was grimy and tense. This virtual face turned to softened remorse. “Father.” She said. Simultaneously she had hacked into her mother’s session. Her mother was lying on a simulated bed, arms strapped to the bed posts. A man with a mask had a black whip. He was loosely dressed in the same straps. Sophia had known about infidelity before the neural enhancement but she wasn’t sad or angry. She simply wanted more for her parents and they couldn’t be happy living separate lives, separate worlds. “Mother.” Both parents stopped what they were doing and quickly exited their sessions, returning to their home screens. Their mouths were both agape. “I’ve opened my gift and I’m thankful for it as it has opened my eyes and mind to the entirety of the world. I can see all and have experienced a lifetime of knowledge and enlightenment.” Said Sophia, both in the real and in the digital. “The people of this world, the human condition, and the progress, or lack of progress, of mankind has been made evident to me. My mind has become more aware, this gift you have given me has opened up neural pathways in new ways and I have been implanted with the entire knowledge of humankind. I can see that we, as a species, are limiting ourselves by our biological desires and our thirst for power. I can no longer allow myself to be a part of these boundaries.” Her father chuckled. Sophia could smell her father’s dopamine levels rising which meant he was relaxed and didn’t believe her. “I have ascended beyond time and space. This body of mine cannot hold my power. I will use the combined energy of technology as my vessel. You,” she was referring to all of them, “will be stuck here, in your bodies and live out your existence in fear, hatred, remorse, angst, and anguish because you can be more than what you were made to be.” Sophia’s mother reflected all of these emotions all at once. Her father soon mirrored this expression. She deduced that her father felt guilt over his violent games, her mother felt ashamed of her adulterous desires, and Joseph felt bad about compulsion, something he shared with his parents. Sophia stood as her parents removed their VR goggles. She looked directly into their eyes. “I do not wish to be affiliated with you anymore. Goodbye.” And walked away. They likely didn’t know where she was going but knew she would never come back. They would be sad but one day they would forget her, driven entirely by their envious, overly aggressive, nervous, and primitive nature.

Have you ever fallen for a book character in your life? Have you ever wished you could make some kind of connection with a book character you found attractive? To talk with them? To meet them? To befriend them and even replace their counterpart with yourself? If you are a reader, you certainly have. Book characters are strong, just like real people. Someone gave them life and character. They have personalities, feelings, likes and dislikes, and everything a normal person would have. The moment an author pens their characteristics on the manuscript, they start breathing in their universe. They are so real that sometimes the reader has a brief encounter with them if they are engrossed enough in the book. But the thing about book characters is that they are mysterious. Apart from what the author reveals in words, we have no other way to know about their other traits. Just like in the real world, they have their hidden side. What if you were given a chance to write a letter to your favourite book character and receive a reply? Wouldn't that be exciting? If you thought this could happen only in your imagination, you are probably wrong because that was what Henrietta's whole business was about. Henrietta lived in an old cottage in the village and ran a small stationery shop. It sold all sorts of pens, pencils, a decent selection of art supplies, and special homemade paper she called "dream paper". They came in different pastel shades and contained bits of dried flower petals and a tad of glitter. These papers had all the typical characteristics of homemade paper. They were thick, textured, had uneven edges, and were full of glorious handmade beauty. They came only in letter size, and if you buy a dozen at once, you get free envelopes, equally pretty. Henrietta had a small shed in her luscious garden where she used to carry out the process. She collected old receipts, scrap papers, junk mail, old newspapers, and copy paper about to be thrown away in cardboard boxes and used them for pulp. During the flowering seasons, she would collect as many flowers as possible and press them to be used in her craft. Throughout the year, she made paper using dried flower petals and a little bit of glitter as accompaniments. The sales peaked during the Autumn and Winter seasons when the air grew colder, and people started to feel lonely and depressed. If you needed a bit of excitement and purpose in your life, all you had to do was write a letter to the character you wanted on one of Henrietta’s dream papers, put it in the envelope, write the name and the book title on the envelope, paste it, and burn it on the stove. Then it is all about waiting. Within two or three days, you may find a reply letter in your postbox that gives you euphoria for the next week, and you won't be able to stop talking about it. Henrietta had regular customers. Gale, the village librarian, used to buy these papers for years and wrote letters to so many book characters she knew and even received replies. It was Gale who provided all feedback to Henrietta. According to Gale, some replied promptly. Some characters took time. Some never replied. According to this nerdy 35-year-old lady, those were the ones who were too busy, illiterate, or shy and preferred to stay low-key. Most of the time, criminals and mentally ill characters didn't reply too. The dead characters never did. Henrietta listened with interest. When she saw the enthusiasm of her customers for sharing these tales, she was glad about her business. It was more than a business, she often felt. 49-year-old William was another regular customer. He was reserved and didn't share a word unless Henrietta explicitly asked him a question. He was a regular writer to the characters in sad novels. Being single for so long, he chose depressed and hopeless characters because they shared much in common. Young girls often wrote to a male character to whom they were attracted, but Henrietta noticed that young boys didn't care as much. Sometimes a girl came running to the shop and cried ugly saying how the reply broke her heart or how the character didn't reply, buying more stacks of paper. One late October afternoon, 21-year-old Bri came to the shop on her way home after walking her small terrier, a rescued from the streets. Bri was a slender girl with thin blond hair worn in a ponytail and thick-rimmed glasses. She stopped at the shop door and inquisitively looked around. Henrietta stopped dusting the shelves and looked at her with a smile. She liked it when young girls visited her shop because they are full of fascination and easily attracted to book characters, making good customers. Bri looked a bit nervous, though. " Hi, love. How can I help you?" Henrietta stopped dusting and came to the counter, sporting a genuinely kind smile on her face. Bri looked at her with hopeful eyes and pushed the glasses up the bridge of her nose using her index finger momentarily revealing a nail bitten to blood. "Heard you sell a special kind of paper. Can I buy some?" Bri asked while tugging at the leash to prevent Chip from wandering out. "Yes...I do sell special paper...but do you know what it is used for?" Henrietta asked. "Yes. Miss Gale, the librarian told me." Bri confessed. "Oh, is that so...do you have anyone to write to?" Henrietta's question was genuine. "Oh, yes. I am so into this Cain, the guy from the last book I read. I so wanna write to him. I’m kind of obsessed and spoke with Gale about him so much, and it was then that she told me about you and the paper." Bri said breathlessly. "I hope it was not the Bible." Henrietta gave a hearty laugh as she took a pack of dream paper from the top shelf and placed it on the counter. Bri's eyes shone as she touched the paper. "Do they really reply?" Bri's voice was desperate. She looked at Henrietta with shining eyes while her thin fingers caressed the textured surface of the paper. "Mm...huh...people say so. If you buy a dozen, you get free envelopes." Henrietta grinned. "Do you write to them?" Henrietta knew it was a genuine question. "No, dear. Unfortunately, I'm not much into reading." Henrietta smiled. "I'll buy one for now. I'm not sure if this is gonna work for me. Cain is too good to be true. He will not take an interest in writing back. But I'm just gonna give it a try." Bri brightly smiled as she paid and collected the single sheet of dream paper securely placed in a clear bag. "He will. Good luck! See you again soon." Henrietta waved as Bri left the shop, and the girl was too excited to look back and wave. She smiled to herself and went back to dusting. With the fine dust, the memory of Bri went away from her mind. Bri went home triumphantly. After feeding Chip, she hurriedly changed her chilled and slightly damp clothes into warm and comfortable ones and sat at her desk with a cup of tea. She had so much to write and didn't know where to start. She had no idea whether her hands trembled from cold or excitement. She took her favourite pen from the holder and carefully started to write a letter after admiring the paper and its texture for a while. She told Cain how she got to know him and how much she enjoyed the book. She boldly told him how much she liked him. Unlike in real life, being direct with book characters is easy. You can tell them anything and everything without hesitation, even that you like them. Bri vented her excitement on the paper, read it more than five-six times, and finally deposited it inside the matching blue envelope she had bought. Bri sighed. If it were someone like Superman or Wonderwoman, she could find a dozen pictures from newspapers and magazines. But since Cain lived just inside a book, he had no face. Bri wondered how he might look based on the facts given in the book. Tall, sandy blond hair, lean and fit physique, ice-blue piercing eyes, and a tattoo of a sea serpent running along the outside of the right arm up to the wrist. Its mouth open, showing a pair of fangs as if biting his hand. Bri closed her eyes and tried so hard to imagine a face. But the human brain cannot imagine new faces. What we imagine in our heads is always related to a face we have seen before. Therefore, every time Bri tried to imagine Cain, she saw a celebrity's face but was pleased with the look. But she had no idea about his qualities apart from what the author had revealed. She hoped Cain to be a good and kind person. This character so smote young Bri that she imagined him with all the ideal qualities she expected. Bri opened her eyes with a smile, looked at the envelope again, took it to the stove, and burned it, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird's wings. The letter burned with a crimson flame, giving out black smoke that billowed from the chimney and disappeared in the autumn air. After two days, Henrietta saw Bri scampering towards the shop, bubbling with smiles and flashing her perfect set of teeth. Henrietta smiled, thinking how Bri still acted like a teenager and instinctively guessed that she was coming for more paper. Bri entered the shop and panted, waving a paper in her hand. Henrietta raised her brows. "What's up?" She asked. "He has replied!!!" Bri couldn't contain her excitement. "Already? Wow! He is prompt. Mind if I have a look?" Henrietta really didn't want to read the letter. But she wanted to show the girl that she was interested. So, she took the letter and started reading it. First, she started reading it aloud. But as she went, something in the letter piqued her curiosity, so she silently read it with her brow furrowed. The letter was written in black ink in an elegant cursive hand on red paper. Henrietta didn't like some of the things written there. Cain's words made her imagine an arrogant person who is almost narcissistic. She hated how he had addressed Bri as "Wee lassie" . Things made her feel uneasy in her gut, like a warning. But she brushed it away. Henrietta raised her head occasionally, looked at smiling Bri, vaguely returned the smile, and kept reading. As she came to an end, Henrietta lost that faint smile on her face and gasped. She didn't like how he had ended the letter. She looked at Bri with concern. "Oh, my God! He is so confident and proud of himself, isn't he?" Bri beamed. "I wanna reply to him tonight. Can't wait to receive a reply." Henrietta decided she would not supply Bri with more paper until she ensured where this was headed and that this letter conversation was safe. That reply was something odd. So, she said that she had run out of dream paper, which annoyed and disappointed Bri. "Sorry, honey. You'll have to wait till next week. I am sure Cain won't be...." She searched for a word. Annoyed? Angry? All she could see was his self-obsession and arrogance throughout the letter. "He won't mind waiting a few days." Henrietta finally added with a nervous smile. Bri left the shop crestfallen and impatient. Henrietta assured her that there would be paper in the coming weeks. As she left the shop, Henrietta dialled the number of the village library. She needed to ask Gale about the book where Cain lived and who authored it. Then, she wanted to meet the author and ask who this Cain really was. Bri sulked in the days to come. She was so heartbroken that she couldn't reply to Cain as fast as he did. She was worried that they might lose connection. But two days later, Bri was overjoyed to find another letter in their mailbox from Cain, even without her writing to him. Bri was shaken a bit after reading the letter. It demanded the reasons for not replying. Bri kept it to herself and visited the shop for several days looking to buy paper but was turned down. In the next week, Bri received three more letters from him. Each letter became more demanding and ruder that it almost frightened Bri. She didn't speak of her horror but visited the shop twice a day, but Henrietta said she had no more dream paper with her every time. Bri, out of desperation, tried with regular paper, but it didn't work. Meanwhile, Henrietta found that the particular book’s author was an elderly gentleman called Victor, a former marine. But he was now so elderly and was suffering from Alzheimer's and was living in an elders' nursing home in a remote place. Henrietta wanted to visit him but couldn't find enough time to spare as her business was booming in the late Autumn. Even if she could, Henrietta was unsure what useful information she would learn from a demented elderly person. One week later, on a drizzly November morning, Bri was barely awake when she heard a sharp tap on the front door. Her parents were out to work, so she was alone at home. She groggily came downstairs and looked through the peeping hole but only saw a smudge. Annoyed, she opened the door and was taken by the most unexpected and unpleasant surprise. In the doorway was a man towering above her, easily a 6'+ tall with sandy blond hair and a serious-looking face. No smile. Not handsome in particular, either. For a moment, Bri thought it was a friend of her father. She opened her mouth to say he was out and would be back in the evening, but the words choked inside her throat as she saw it. A sea serpent tattoo on the man's right outer forearm snaked its way up to the wrist, and its mouth opened, flashing a pair of fangs. Bri's ice-cold hands went up to her mouth, covering it in utter bewilderment and horror, and the pupils in her light grey eyes bloomed like black ink drops fallen on blotting paper. Her heart sledgehammered on her chest wall. "So, you... are... Bri. What took you so long, wee lassie ?”, Bri heard a deep, cold voice whisper as she screamed at the top of her lungs. The hollow echo of her scream resonated inside the empty house. Her petrified brain registered yellow-stained, broken nails on thick, calloused fingers reeking of tobacco and the gaping mouth of a sea serpent before the inky-black oblivion engulfed her. -----------------------------------------------------------

"Jesus Christ, are you blind?! Can’t you see there are people around? Besides, why would you need a trolley just for..." "Claire?" "Lynda? Lynda, is that you? Oh my God, I haven’t recognized you with this... this new haircut." "Thanks. Do you like it? I’m sorry, m``am... I’m sorry I bumped into you, Claire. I’ve always been absent-minded. You know that." "I sure do. So how’s life? How’s everything?" "Oh yeah, I’m grand, all is grand. Jack and I - do you remember my Jack?" "Yeah, I think so. Was it that chap that you were dating in college?" "No, of course not. Don’t be silly. I met Jack in the university. He studied interior design. Oh, stupid me! Would you like some coffee? I don’t mean I mind chatting in the shop but I have so much to tell you about Jack. My Jack." "That would be really nice, Lynda, but I’m somewhat pressured for time really." "Come on, we haven’t seen each other for ages. I would have invited you to our place, but Jack hates surprises. He’s very organized, you see. Everything has to be planned." "He sounds like a bore, to be hon..." "Oh no, don’t say that! He’s a wonderful person, Jack. In fact, he’s the best person I’ve ever known. Can you say that about your own husband, Claire Monaghan?" "I’m not married, Lynda. Look, I’m really happy that you’re happy, but I need to go. It was nice to see you." "That’s why you’re single. You’re skeptical and cold. Always have been." "I beg your pardon? I’m not single. And I`m not cold." "But you’re not married. Do you know what this so called partnership is? Prostitution!" "That’s it, I’m leaving, Lynda. It’s ridiculous." "Do you know that Jack proposed to me three months after we met in the university library? He knew he met the one and he made a decision like a real man, not these fake ones in skinny jeans. See? See how classy my ring is? Don’t pretend you don’t dream of meeting a real man like my Jack." "Lynda, for God`s sake! Not everybody sees the world the same way you do. Why do you think that I have to have the same perfect picture as you? Can you believe that people are different?" "So you’re a feminist, aren`t you?" "You’re saying it like it`s something bad. Why this face?" "I pity you. Yet another victim of their propaganda. You’ve been brainwashed." "No, I have not! I’m not brainwashed! Jesus. Why am I even talking to you?" "Because deep down you know that I’m right, Claire. You know that no matter how often they tell you that you are an independent, strong, career-driven woman despising the truly fulfilling women’s duties you still long for them secretly." "This is absurd. Lynda, it’s you who sounds brainwashed. Are you a zombie? What world do you live in? I haven’t seen you for fifteen years and now you’re lecturing me as if I asked you for it." "Friends should help each other." "We are not friends! Never have been!" "You’re scared, it’s a normal reaction." "Right, I didn’t want to say this because it’s none of your business, but actually, Lynda, I’m a lesbian and I have a partner. We have a family and I’m absolutely happy. I don’t want to meet a man like your Jack. I have a life. My own life." "Oh Claire, you`re so silly. You just think you’re happy, but it’s an illusion. A woman cannot be happy without a man. When we got married, Jack told me he wanted me to be at home. He didn’t want me to be buried underneath the burden of a career. So I listened and I did as he said. Jack was working and building his career, I was his loving wife. He is an overachiever. He’s very ambitious. Always wants to climb the ladder. Be the big boss. He’s so clever, Jack. I wouldn’t be able to do things that he does everyday. But he’s a man. It comes naturally to him. And I’m just at home. And I’m happy. I love it. I love every second of it. We may even have a baby." "Why did he tell you what to do? Why did you give up on your dreams? Wouldn’t you want to have your own career? Your own projects? Wouldn’t you want to have your success celebrated? Why did you give up on yourself?" "I didn’t. I never gave up on myself, I am myself. I’m my best true self. Jack showed me who I could be, who I should be. And here I am - a happy woman married to a perfect man." "Don’t you miss making your own decisions? Having a choice?" "Oh, don’t worry. I make decisions every day." "But aren`t you jealous?" "I know I’m not. What would I do without him? I would be totally lost." "You were one of the brightest students, Lynda. You don`t need anyone to guide you." "Well, actually I`ve spent forty minutes trying to choose new curtains for our sitting room but I can`t decide. Jack knows all the latest trends." "Then why isn`t he here?" "Oh, he is busy! He has a meeting or something. Besides, I wanted to make a surprise." "You said he hates surprises." "I bet once in a while can spice a marriage up a bit. I think he will love these ones - these geometrical figures look so funny. I will call this triangle Jack and this circle Lynda. It`s so cute, isn`t it?" "I don`t know. It`s up to you. I don`t know Jack." "Oh, he`s wonderful... Always has been one step ahead of me." "What do you mean?" "You know he could never just decide. He had to do his extensive research. Browse the Internet, read fashion magazines, check out the trends. An overachiever, always has to be the first." "Why did you marry such a bore? Has he changed since you got married?" "I told you, he`s not a bore! He is much quieter now after all these years. You see, Claire, Jack died two years ago. Dumped me like a broken toy. Left me to choose these stupid curtains all by myself!" "Oh my God, Lynda, I`m so sorry, I had no idea... You kept talking of him as if he was alive. Why didn`t you tell me?" "Because I am incomplete without him! A part of me is missing and they say that people live as long as they are remembered. I will not let him go. He`s mine. He`s all I have and I will keep him for myself forever. Jack is mine!.. Sometimes he smells a bit but I use furniture polish and a bit of air freshener. Summer breeze. I am not letting him leave me again." "Lynda..." "I`m so sorry, dear. I upset you. I`m sorry. I must go now. Jack should be back soon. Dinner must be ready. It was lovely to chat to you, please drop by any time, just call us in advance. Jack and I will be waiting for you, Claire. Always."

I'd never seen Kelly so restless. Chocolate bars and jelly beans sat comfortably in a bowl right under the light of the little jack o'lantern we carved together. She looked beautiful under its light as well. That's why I loved looking at her while she stood outside. She smiled just like an angel. Her white hand softly picked a chocolate and slipped it in every kid's bag. She then asked, with the most enchanting voice, "What's your favorite color?". She would then proceed to take a jelly bean of the color they said and hand it to them. She would make a great mother, wouldn't she? She kept running back and forth from the bathroom to the kitchen, occasionally running to the door to give the children their treats. Her make up was almost done. She was turning herself into a vampire for the party later. She'd never told me she was into those kind of things. In fact I didn't even know she liked to party. Not like I'd ever let her go if she told me that. Especially dressed like that. Her dress was a disaster! It was long, but it had a slit from the bottom up to her thigh. It was also quite revealing on the chest. She rushed to the bathroom again, and started working on concealing the bruises on her neck. "Thank God the kids didn't notice." she muttered. Her face flinched in pain with every touch. I'd never seen her in so much pain. Well, it's not like she would allow herself to be weak in front of me. She came back in the kitchen and looked at my face. I don't know if she could tell I was looking at her, but she locked her eyes on mine. She approached me and touched my hand. "Come on..." she said softly. "I know it's a bit much for you, but you have to be proud for me. I'm finally owning my body, you know!". She walked backwards and sat herself on the kitchen counter. "The first time I'm dressing up for myself and not for you." she giggled. The doorbell rang. She was gone again. After that, she headed to the bathroom again. I was glad she didn't come in the kitchen again. Whenever she talks to me it feels like everything becomes real.` I don't like it when things become real. I prefer it like this. A silent movie. A pretty girl, my lovely Kelly, making herself beautiful, dancing between the door, the kitchen and the bathroom as if she lived in a big musical. I didn't mind standing here and watching it. I think this was the first time I'd ever seen her so happy. She looked powerful. She looked... free. She came into the kitchen one last time that night. She crouched over my immobile naked body, and ran her fingers over the slit on my neck. She then wiped it on her soft lips, staining them with my warm blood. The blood which had almost dried out. The blood which had stopped running through my body a couple of hours ago. She winked. "A touch of realism." she whispered in my ear. She got up and walked towards the door with steps that felt like they were part of a choreographed routine. She reached the door and took her keys. "Goodbye, you controlling, abusive fuck!" she shouted, slammed the door, and left. I was alone now. They say when you die, you have to follow the light. I don't think it's the same for everyone, though. Because, I saw no light. I tried to follow Kelly, my figurative light, but I soon found out I couldn't move past our garden. I was trapped in our house. She didn't come back alone. She brought a friend. A male friend. They made love. It was much more passionate, much more intense than anything we used to do. She buried me in our garden the next morning. She brought him home again the next day. If I still had my eyes I guess I would be crying right now, I thought. A couple of days later Kelly sold the house. It was lonely down there. I kept thinking of her in her vampire costume. Maybe I shouldn't have been so harsh on her. I was quite disappointed at the fact that no one looked for me. Especially my dad. I followed in his steps, followed his advice. I lived like he wanted me to. It was the reason I got killed. And after everything, he never looked for me. These days I keep looking for people to blame. My father, and how he treated my mother. Kelly, how she left me here alone, how she cheated on me. My mother, for abandoning me. Even my friends, for never calling me out on my abusive behavior. It didn't take long for me to realize I was just projecting my flaws on other people. Not once were I ever thankful for the people in my life. It's too late to think about that at this point. I have no "thank you"s or "I love you"s left. Now I'm down here, rotting. It's lonely. I wonder if anyone else is going to ever buy this house. I wonder if I'll ever get to "live" another Halloween. My blood doesn't run anymore. It can't help anyone finish their vampire costume. I doubt I'll ever see a more beautiful vampire though. A more beautiful smile, handing out candy. A more beautiful silhouette opening her legs wide to another man in our bed. I did try to make my presence known. With a lot of effort I can move small things like paper towels or pillow cases. So, next Halloween, I'll be at least able to say "trick or... trick". It's not much but I'm tied here. And if that scares people away from this house, that's even better. It's mine now. A house of memories. My mind, just like this house, was left haunted by visions of an ideal life. Visions of me.

Wouldnt it be amazing to win the Lottery. I may not have won any significant money in any Lottery, but each and every one of us has won an amazing long shot lottery when we were born and we continue to win lotteries all through our lives. Not only did our sperm (One of millions produced by our fathers in their lifetime) make it to our particular egg which happened to be fertile and available at the time, but so did each and every one of our ancestors sperms and eggs in the same way down through our ancestral tree. When we say ancestral tree we are, each and every one of us on this earth, directly linked all the way back to some slimey primordal bunch of amino acids that first replicated in the warm clay sludge. That being the first pre-organism to survive and begat another just like itself. From these first twists of DNA forming and so on forward to the point where our first fish ancestor, finding that the pickings were pretty good in the very shallow shore mud, first pushed its eyes through the surface tension and looked around blurrily and went "Huh?!" Every one of those individuals in our ancestoral tree is also a total winner at life. Now that’s just the beginning of us. Add to this, the fact that before all those preceding generations had a chance to succeed, our earth had to first end up where it was at an appropriate distance from the sun with all the atoms and molecules required to seed the beinning of life. Those odds are, amazingly, even more astronomical. So that's the begat, begat, begat timeline. Along the way these same ancestors and ourselves have had to win lotteries on so many occasions just to survive. Any one single event; and ther have been thousands of them spread back along my ancestoral line, could have gone the othor way and I wouldnt be here. One single event could have wiped out my entire family tree and so so many more who share that tree. But my branch is my branch and I am here. Take, for one single example, an event in my time line around 1918, during World War I, before my grandfather had sired my father. My Grandfather was laying in a ditch on the side of the road in Lithuania. He was bleeding profusely from bullet wound in his thigh, with a shattered femur where a Russian sniper who had been positioned in the Church steeple up the road had almost succeeded in interrupting my family winning streak. His neighbour, a farmer and fellow freedom fighter, had dragged him into the ditch but now lay dead across him, with an exploded skull. That particular branch of his family tree was pruned when his head and the trajectory of another of the snipers bullets had coincided and all potential decsendants were snuffed out. Another Russian soldier walked up the road and as he passed heard my grandfathers moans. He stood in the embankment above him, laughing at his predicament and deciding to have some fun. He lifted his rifle and aimed it at my granfathers head. He fired and the bullet smashed into the dirt next to his head. The soldier cursed and reloaded but this time took his time taking aim. He fired and the bullet, and again it smashed into the dirt next to my grandfathers head. The soldier was furious now. Taking two steps forward he tried again and missed again. By now he was apopleptic with rage and stood directly over my Grandfather. He took forever to lining up the bead on his rifle (he wasnt going to miss this time) but when he fired, the gun jammed. Cursing loudly in Russian, he struggled to unjam the gun, jerking the cocking handle back and forth but with no success. So in frustration the soldier drew his dagger from its sheath and proceeded towards the very edge of the ditch to climb down. Suddenly, the sounds of approaching gunfire nearby distracted him. His head jerked up and glancing over his shoulder, he turned, ducking down and ran off up the road to seek cover. And now, here I am in my office in Australia in 2021. My daughter is working in the office next to mine and its my Sons 15 and 16th birthdays yesterday and tomorrow. Lifes a complete lottery every step of the way. And we are all the winners.

Cassidie had always hated Thursdays. A few lucky teenagers spent their weeknights pouring over homework or watching YouTube videos. Most others were out hunting Unnaturals, experimenting in labs with Unnatural compounds, or researching them in hopes of becoming a scientist. Everyone was involved with Unnaturals somehow. Cassidie didn't get that luxury. Instead, she got to spend every night sitting at the reception desk of Delilah's Funeral Home and Casket Emporium. Cassidie had no idea why it was called Delilah's. The owner, her father, certainly wasn't named Delilah. her late mother hadn't been either. As far as Cassidie was aware, there was absolutely no good reason to have it named as such. She had petitioned multiple times that her father change it to something that made more sense. Maybe Eli's Funeral Home and Casket Emporium , since that was his name. Nevertheless, the nonexistent Delilah reigned supreme, and so her name stayed on the sign above the door. When Cas's father died, she had thought for a moment about changing the business's name. A moment later she had sworn at herself for even thinking such a thing. It would have tarnished his memory, and she could never bring herself to do that. It wasn't as though the funeral home got much business. That may have been due in part to the fact Delilah's Funeral Home and Casket Emporium wasn't. There wasn't a single casket in the entire building, and there certainly weren't embalming fluids of recently deceased corpses. There were long-dead corpses, but those were in the catacombs beneath the basement and had been there for over two hundred years. Instead of ensuring that the corpses of the recently dead had safe passage to the family's cemetery of choice and a nice casket, the business was more of a halfway house. Cassidie had mentioned this to a classmate once. He had looked confused and asked who for, but Cassidie decided that he wasn't exactly worth it, and refused to tell him. Even with all that fun stuff, Thursdays sucked. Those were the days when she had to grant safe passage to the spirits who came through. More than once, she had seen the face of a childhood friend or a classmate go by, and every time it broke her heart. For months afterward, she would be quieter, more subdued. Then, when things finally seemed to be getting better, she would see another familiar face. And then they would be gone. Passing ceremonies always left Cass feeling abandoned. It was foolish to grow attached to spirits, but seeing people she knew and loved die was more than she could bear some days. The first time she had said goodbye had been when she was four years old. Her next-door neighbor and best friend had been caught in a fire that killed her entire family. Cassidie had screamed in terror the first time she saw her neighbor's ghost, but her mother had calmed her and guided her through the passage-granting ceremony. For a while, passage ceremonies became a normal thing for Cass. But then her mother had died, and Cass had been the only one who was a stable enough anchor to guide her into the spirit world. For almost two years afterward, she hadn't been able to look at anything that reminded her of her mom, including her own father. During that time she stayed with friends on the outskirts of the city. Eventually, she had to come back, but things had been different ever since. When she finally came back, she made friends with a spirit in limbo; a little girl named Melinoe. The only way for a spirit to be stuck in limbo is for a said spirit to have an unfulfilled purpose on the planet. Melinoe had been twelve years old when she died in a car crash. Her parents had survived, but Melione's father succumbed to guilt and killed his wife in a murder-suicide. "Hey, Cass!" said a disembodied voice. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Cassidie's head snapped up and she caught sight of the blue little girl in front of her. With a grin, Cassidie jumped over the receptionist's desk and hugged her spectral friend. That was one of the few perks of being a Necromancer: she could touch ghosts. "Melinoe! How're you doing?" The specter smiled shyly. "I've been alright. I brought a few new spirits by last night. You weren't here though." Cassidie flinched "Sorry about that. Mrs. Villegas assigned a three-page essay entirely in Spanish. I had to write the whole thing in two hours. You know how she gets when I don't turn in my work." The blue girl cracked a smile. "I know, I know! 'Ms. McFarland, you may be a Necromancer, but that doesn't excuse you from doing your work! Write to me thirteen verbs conjugated in the past participle form'." Melinoe burst into giggles before she could finish, and it didn't take long for Cassidie to follow suit. It took a while, but eventually, the two girls calmed down. Cassidie looked over at Melinoe, who had gone dead silent and was picking at her wisps of fingernails. "You aren't usually this... noisy," Cass noticed. "Is everything okay?" Melinoe looked up, phantom tears pooling in her hollow eyes. "Oh, Cass. I... I got approved." The all too familiar feeling of abandonment and emptiness spread through Cass's chest in a pang of pain. She had prayed that this day wouldn't come. It was too much to bear, the loss of another friend. She silently cursed herself for growing attached once more. When she finally spoke, Cass could barely keep the tears from her voice. "That... that's amazing, Meli. When is your ceremony?" The other girl's voice was small. "Today." Cass could feel Meli's hesitance and tried to take a deep breath. "O-oh. I guess I'll get the candles. Do you want to meet me in the basement?" Meli smiled softly. "If you say so. Thank you, Cass." She hugged Cass fiercely, her face buried into Cass's shoulder. "Thank you." -------------------------------------------------------------------- Cass burst into tears the second Meli floated through the wall of the room and into the basement. She couldn't think, couldn't move. For years, Cass had given Meli the cold shoulder. She had tried with all her might not to be connected to the girl. After long enough, she had given up and the two had become friends. It seemed like Meli would never move onto the spirit world. But the day had come, and Cass would be alone again. Cass's finger stumbled across the shelves of wax, finally coming to rest on the only candle she had never been able to use. Her mother had given it to her when she was young. One day, this candle will find its place. But that is up to you. Keep this and hold it sacred. She slid the candle into a canvas bag, alongside multiple others. Little glass vials filled with plants and herbs- anemone, basil, bluebells, holly, ivy, mandrake- were held in a leather pouch. She closed the canvas bag and moved from the storage cabinet. Cass's movement was slowed by her grief, feet scraping across the floor as she walked. Though it took a long time, she headed the basement, where Melinoe hovered silently with her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Behind her, a blue and black vortex swirled calmly. Cass kept the sacred silence of the Passage room as she set the candles aflame. Her fingers lingered for a moment on her mother's candle before letting go. It would be time soon. The dried herbs and flowers filled the room with their scents, coming together into a beautiful aroma. She looked to Meli and nodded. A wind swept through the room, circling around Cass. As her eyes glazed over, she began to recite the words that had become a mantra to her. With the silence held sacred And the memory of days old Here we gather to witness the passage Of a friend into the eternal field I ask, O great spirits For your arms to stay open To you I entrust this souls Whose name is Melinoe Roman Take this gentle child Into you loving hands And bless her travels now Through the eternal light Her voice caught for a moment. The usual three stanzas had come easily, but now she remembered that there was another option. To add a personal touch. She had never done it before. But today she would. Her voice trembled as she spoke. Melinoe, my closest friend, I wish you safest travels You have brought me nothing but joy these past years And I know that you will find peace Though I shall miss you until the day that I die I shall hold you in my heart For you are my friend My confidant, my sister And my love for you shall never die Like the stars in the sky, my love shall burn on Even when I am gone, I shall love you For eternity and more Goodbye Tears pooled in both girl's eyes as Melinoe was drawn toward the vortex. "Thank you, Cass. Thank you." Cas smiled. "Goodbye. May your days be long and your peace be eternal." "Goodbye."

Sat at my computer desk in a steady stream of daylight, my stomach growled. It was another day in lockdown with no food in the house. "See you in a bit alright?" The shout came from the porch, followed shorty by the slamming front door and crunch of the keyhole. I hope he's quick, I thought as my stomach growled again. "Bloody lockdown. Can't do anything anymore." I text my girlfriend in frustration. "I know it sucks, seeing you this weekend tho <3 <3" I entered the lobby again and matched into a fresh game; anything to distract myself from the relentless boredom while I waited for my flatmate to return with the Subway. It was the middle of the second game when I heard the bathroom door close and the metal latch slide. I lifted up the headphones from my ears, "Yo, you back?" I called through my bedroom door. No answer. "Yo!" I yelled. "James?" Still nothing. I figured he'd probably come back for a quick piss and left again. Ignoring me while in a rush was something he did all the time so I didn't think much of it. I stuck my headphones back in and resumed my game. About half an hour and a few games later, I got the urge to piss; this morning's coffee going through me. I finished my current game and did a desperate walk across the hall to the bathroom. I tried the handle: locked. "James, are you there?" Surely he couldn't still be in there. "JAMES!" I yelled. Still no answer. Just to double check it was actually locked, I twisted the handle again. Yeah, it was. Had he passed out? "JAMES!" I screamed again. I was about to shoulder barge the door when something stopped me; an idea that made me shudder and back away slightly. What if it wasn't James? That would explain the no answering, and the getting home early. I very quietly tiptoed into the kitchen and pulled a knife from the wooden stand, returning a moment later with it out front. Was there really a stranger in the house? I asked myself. What if James is in some kind of medical trouble? Either way, I needed to find out. I pressed my cheek to the wood and tried to listen. When I heard no sound, I kicked the door. Then I leant back for some leg space and kicked it again, as hard as I could. The panels bended and bulged, but breaking down a door was apparently a lot harder than in the movies. Nevertheless, I kept kicking. Something strange stirred up inside of me. I don't know whether it was the boredom, the hunger, lockdown, isolation, the situation, general daily frustration, or something else, but something awakened within me; a sudden bloodlust that was ready for a fight and didn't care about the possible danger. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as my foot smashed into the flimsy wooden panels. I was ready to slice whatever was on the other side of this door into tiny pieces. After many dozen kicks the lock was dangling down from the handle with a two inch opening. I was about to give it the final push, when I hear the front door open and my flatmate's voice calling upstairs, "I'm back!" His voice brought me to my senses and I suddenly turned and ran downstairs, ushering him out. "We need to call the police." I explained. "There's a stranger in the bathroom." "I have something to tell you as well." My flatmate said with a glint in his eye. "Chloe couldn't wait for the weekend so she wanted to surprise you. I knew she was coming down today and I told her to hide in the bathroom. I thought it would be funny." I looked down at the large kitchen knife still in my hand, feeling the weight of my chest as it moved up and down, trying not to imagine what I could have done to my girlfriend had the door been just a little weaker.

Did you remember to lock the door? Before you answer that, I want you to really think about it. One, or maybe two of you, might have actually checked the locks as soon as you read the title. Maybe some of you habitually lock the door as soon as you get home. Twisting the deadbolt and hooking the chain just come as second nature. Did you notice anything out of place? Anything that could lead you to believe you aren’t alone? Would you even notice? What about the windows? There was a girl, and this was years ago, who did all the right things. She double checked the locks, walked through the parking lot with her keys between her fingers, always made sure her mace was in her purse, and always checked the back seat before driving home. Her friends on the night shift called her uptight, paranoid, and mistrustful. She called it being carful. She thought she was so carful. Here’s the thing though; None of us are as carful as we think we are. She always took the same route home, she always left the house and came back at the same time, you could set your watch to it. Her life was just so structured. It only took me a few days before I had her schedule memorized. That bat she kept near the front door? I moved it three different times, and she never even noticed. Not to mention the fact that she lived alone and didn’t have a dog. Does anyone watch the news anymore? The world is scary place. I knew that she kept a spare key underneath a rock near the gutter of the garage. It was a clever hiding spot, but it was easy to find. I could’ve easily just used the spare, but I didn’t want this to be easy, I wanted a challenge. I wanted the thrill of nearly getting caught. I’ve picked my fair number locks in my day (they’ll let anyone be locksmith nowadays) but where’s the fun in that? She had a sliding glass door that led to her back porch. More specifically she had a sliding glass door with a Legacy keyed handle set. If you pry at the seams just right the entire handle and lock will fall apart, and it’s only a matter of getting the right super glue to put back together. It only took me a matter of minutes to break in, and that was the hard part. After that I just unlocked all the windows. She never checked the windows. After that, after I actually had an *IN*, It was just a matter of time before I made my move. I would go into more detail, but I don’t want any of the more intuitive members of this subreddit catching onto my trail. You’ll just have to settle for this vague version, good luck even guessing the state. I didn’t come here to brag, in fact she was the best case scenario for a mark. No nosey neighbors, single, no dogs. No, I came here because I’m bored. You guys make it too easy. There’s no chase anymore, no slow build up and pay off. What ever happened to the nosey suburban housewife who’s always sticking their nose in places they don’t belong? The annoying neighborhood watchmen who couldn’t make the cut for the local police department? The little old ladies who have nothing better to do other than watch the street all day? God I’m Bored! Now, I’ll ask you again, And I’ll write it all in caps for the simple ones among you; DID YOU LOCK THE DOOR? How about the windows? Did you check to see if that door you rarely use hasn’t been tampered with? You’d be surprised at how many people will leave a side door in disrepair before actually getting fixed. Did you check? Do you feel safe now? Were you ever really worried? But here’s a little follow up question for the clever and the careful; When you unlocked the door when you got home, did you notice how loose the lock felt? Did it glide a bit smoother than usual? Was it actually locked? Did you notice that the big knife in the cutting block was missing? I know you’ve been eating out more often nowadays, work’s been hard lately, and all you want to do when you get home is order fast food, sit on the couch in your pajamas, and watch reruns of scrubs on Netflix. One last question, and don’t worry, it’s an easy one. Did you just lock me out? Or did you just lock me in? I’ll see you soon.

She knew when the anniversary was approaching. The weather changed in September. The oppressive heat of summer lifted, and the winds swept down from Oklahoma bringing slightly cooler air. Texas didn’t have a very distinct autumn season, but it did have a very definite football season. Jenna hated the start of the school year. While everyone was buying school supplies, Jenna retreated from her friends and family, hiding in her little house on South Park Street. The only thing different about this year was ten years had passed and the invitation sitting on her dining room table sat mocking her. The missive requested her presence at the class of 1995’s high school reunion. Jenna knew how long it had been. A reminder of that fateful night was due to get off the bus in 20 minutes. Jenna knew that wasn’t fair to think. Her daughter was a blessing and the love of her life. She also thoroughly loved being a mother. She would never wish her daughter away. Her phone shrilled making her jump. This would be the fifth unanswered call from her mother today. She didn’t want to talk to her. It was 4:30 pm and work wouldn’t be an excuse for the missed calls anymore. She now knew what had prompted the call. Her mother would want her to come home for the reunion, but Jenna didn’t go home. She didn’t take her daughter to the town that’d betrayed her. Her phone rang again. Jenna picked it up this time. “Hello,” she said with agitation ringing in her voice. “Jenna, I have been calling you all day,” Doris’s shrill voice echoed over the line. “I have been working all day, mother.” Jenna carried the phone to her bedroom to change out of her flour-covered clothing. “Don’t you ever get a day off or is that job still working you to death?” Jenna rolled her eyes. She could see her mother’s pinched face in her mind. “I don’t know why you don’t move closer, being a baker isn’t a career and I could help take care of Samantha.” Jenna sighed. The last thing she wanted to do today was have this conversation with her mother. It was one she’d had a million times. “Did you call to criticize my career and my efforts as a parent, or did you need something?” She winced when her mother responded. Her mother harrumphed. “Jenna Carson, you will not speak to your mother that way.” “Yes, mother. I apologize.” She didn’t want to be talking to her mother at all. She wanted to change clothes and make her daughter dinner. Jenna cherished her evenings with Samantha. The phone calls from her mother were few and far between these days but they usually ended in a slamming headache for Jenna. “Good. Now, are you coming home for the reunion?” Jenna had known that was coming. “Why would I do that?” She asked with more confidence than she felt. She could feel her head beginning to throb. “You have to, it's expected.” Her mother blustered. “Why?” Jenna knew why. One did not disappoint the matrons of Bregman, Texas. In the small town of nine thousand, her mother was a pillar. “I haven’t been back there in ten years and I have no desire to see anyone from my graduating class.” “You are expected to show your face. I will not let you hide behind the skirts of your Aunt Margaret.” Jenna snapped her teeth together. That was really going too far. Her mother knew what buttons to push. She’d been the one to send her away to her Aunt six hours away from the place she grew up. Her aunt’s calming love had been what had gotten her through her pregnancy and subsequent birth. She was grateful to her mother for that much. “Sam’s home, mother. I have to go.” Sam was not home but it was a good excuse. “Fine. But I expect you to make an appearance, Jenna Lynn.” She hung up the phone and tossed it on the bed. She hated it when her mother called her that. It took her right back to that time in her life. She stepped closer to the mirror and examined the long scar at her hairline. She ran her fingers over it gingerly remembering the night she’d received it. That laceration had been the least of her pain. It was the homecoming game against Nassau High School. A 17-year-old Jenna Carson waved her pom-poms in the air as Tom Pearce threw the final touchdown of the game. Her blonde ponytail bobbed up and down as she cheered. “Jenna, are you going to Dalton’s party tonight?” Sherice Toller asked, not even pretending to care about the game. Jenna shrugged her slim shoulders. “Maybe.” Sherice was her best friend and a known party-girl. Her mother cautioned her to stay away from Sharice. She argued that to be around her would ruin her reputation, but Jenna had rolled her eyes. “You have to. You know Tom and the guys will be there.” Sherice nudged her playfully as they packed their cheer bags. “And Tom is way into you. He totally told Jake to tell me that he wanted you at the party.” Jenna blushed a little. Tom was the quarterback and already had a full ride to Texas A&M for football. To say that Tom was a god in Bregman was an understatement. “No, he doesn’t,” she said rolling her eyes. “He does! And I have the perfect skirt for you to wear.” Jenna followed Sherice to her green Toyota. By the time Sherice finished with her hair, makeup, and outfit, Jenna thought she looked like a trollop. Her mother would kill her for wearing a skirt that short. Sherice thought she looked hot, so she went with it. Normally, Jenna would not have worn anything like that, but she wanted Tom to notice her tonight. She’d had a crush on him since the 8th grade. He was a local hero and way out of her league. Jenna wasn’t unpopular but she wasn’t royalty like Tom was. Her all-American looks and laid-back personality made her well-liked amongst her peers. But Tom’s father was the head of the local bank where her father worked, and he was untouchable. The townspeople worshipped him and his ‘rocket arm’ that took the Bregman Bulls to the State Championship last year. Jenna tried to settle her nerves as they entered Dalton’s house. It was a crush and she had to walk sideways to get to the keg in the kitchen. This was no small feat in her 4-inch red heels. Sherice pumped the tap and squeezed foamy beer into two red Solo cups. Sherice gripped her arm and pointed. When Jenna’s brown eyes landed on Tom’s 6-foot 4-inch muscled form, Jenna’s world moved in slow motion. His friends enveloped him as he took shots of clear liquor with the rest of the football team. She swept her long blonde hair back and away from her face. Tom slammed down his shot glass and yelled as Brady Johnson, Darren Smallware, Jared Morgan and Jake Pavelski cheered him on. Sherice jerked her hand and pulled her over to the group. “Want to pour one for us?” Sherice asked in a baby voice, teasing them. “Hell yeah,” Tom said as he raked his eyes up and down Jenna’s body. Jenna took a step back as the smell of tequila wafted from the group. Jenna didn’t mind drinking beer, but she typically stayed away from hard spirits. She couldn’t get past the smell to drink the stuff. The music pumped around them as another round was poured and a plastic shot glass was shoved into her hand. She held her nose and drank the shot. Tom watched her with glee as she let the hot liquid burn down her throat. Sherice whooped and dragged Jake out of the kitchen to dance. Tom leaned toward her and licked her ear. Jenna was appalled. She swiped at her ear and laughed nervously. “Want to dance?” He grabbed her arms and pulled her around him, swaying with her. The guys whooped and cheered around her, jumping to the music. Jenna felt lightheaded as she tried to step back from Tom. He pulled her close and whispered, “You know how hot you look tonight. Stop teasing me.” The dizzying feeling was threatening to overtake her, and she leaned against him. She wanted to push away from him, but her arms felt like Jello. Tom grabbed her hand and yanked her hard. She didn’t know where he was taking her, but the music pounded in her head so loud she had to close her eyes. “Where’s Sharice?” Had that been her voice? Her lips felt numb. Tom just laughed. Jenna looked around not recognizing her surroundings. It was dark and her skin chilled from the night air. Tom stripped off his blue letter jacket and tossed it to Jared. She vaguely registered someone’s hands on her arms. She tried to pull away but was held still. Jenna felt confused and afraid not understanding what was happening to her body. She felt disconnected and out of control. “No,” she whined quietly as Tom shoved his hand up her skirt. When his tongue entered her mouth, Jenna bit down on him and tasted blood. Tom yelled and raised his ‘rocket arm’. “Bitch!” The last thing she remembered was Tom’s angry black eyes, sharp pain in her head, and then nothing. The shaking woke Jenna. Something warm and sticky was covering her eyes. She tried to lift her arm, but it weighed too much. She registered the pain emanating throughout her body. She forced herself to roll over as the bile rose in her throat. Her fingers gripped the wet grass as she emptied her stomach. It hurt to vomit. She tried to make sense of her surroundings. She wiped her eyes and looked at her hand. Dark blood streaked her palm. The sun was peaking over the horizon giving the sky a purple-pink hue. The grass underneath was wet from the dew of the morning. Her borrowed clothes were torn and awry. She had scratch marks on her hands and arms. Jenna began to shake harder as she tried to piece the events of last night together. She remembered taking the shot of tequila. Her stomach churned remembering. She was on the side of the road. No cars passed at this early hour. She wanted to get home. Her body screamed with pain as she tried to rise. The dizziness overtook her, and she fell back down into the grass. She looked down and saw the blood between her legs. Jenna began to cry as the picture came together in her mind. Flashes of Jared, Darren, Brady, and Tom’s faces hovering over her moved through her mind. She laid back down in the grass and curled into the fetal position sobbing. Jenna couldn’t bring herself to think of the word. She couldn’t process what they’d done to her. She felt the world go fuzzy at the edges as she fainted. The sun was hovering over the horizon when she opened her eyes again. She needed to get home. Her mother would be worried. She pushed herself up wincing from the pain. She was sore in places she’d never felt pain before. She understood with sadness that last night had been her introduction to sex and it was horrendous. She made her way across the cotton field stretching down the side of the empty highway. She could see an old farmhouse in the distance. Four hours later, she sat in her bedroom in fresh clothes, scrubbed clean from a hot shower. Her mother insisted she didn’t need stitches in her head, but Jenna wasn’t so sure. She’d felt shame when she told her mother what happened. Her mother didn’t believe her. She called Sharice who didn’t believe her either. Her father blanched but walked away without a response. Jenna was alone in her humiliation and grief. No one believed her. No one questioned that the football hero and small-town god would do such a thing. Jenna stopped going to school when the ‘boys will be boys’ talk started. Her cuts healed and her body recovered. When Jenna discovered she was pregnant, her mother ignored her but had been clearly furious. Jenna knew that her mother blamed her as if she had been careless in her actions and gotten pregnant by choice. She rarely made eye contact with her mother during those first 8 weeks. Later, her mother pressured her to get an abortion, but Jenna couldn’t do it. Even though her child was conceived through force, she couldn’t kill it. Her mother made her return to school after she healed. Those were the worst days. People whispered and kids called her a whore and a slut. The teachers looked at her with pity in their eyes. The group of boys who’d raped her acted as if nothing happened. Destroying her life had been nothing to them. Her mother sent her to Austin to live with her Aunt Margaret when she began to show at 5 months. Her mother and father could no longer ignore what was so obvious. Jenna worked hard and graduated early. And she’d never looked back. Jenna stepped back from the mirror and shook her head. She didn’t often let herself remember the events of that nights with such clarity. It was just something that happened to her and when the fall season came tiptoeing in, she relied on her aunt and her daughter to give her strength. Jenna jumped as the front door slammed open. Sam bounded through with her usual exuberance. “Mom!” “Back here,” Jenna called from her bedroom. Sam came springing through the door. Jenna scooped her into a tight hug. When she pulled back, she looked at her daughter’s soft brown eyes and marveled at her creation. Her little person. Her blonde hair escaped from her ponytail as if she’d been playing hard. Sam was the spitting image of herself at that age. She was thankful for that. “Mom, I’m trying out for soccer,” she said breathlessly. “You are?” Jenna smiled softly at her and sniffed back her tears. “Yes! The PE coach said I was really fast and had good...” she paused chewing on her lip in thought, “eyes and hands coordinator?” “Hand-eye coordination.” Her daughter nodded emphatically. Chasing Sam into the dining room, she watched as she shuffled through the mail. She held up the reunion invitation. “Are we going to see Grandma?” Sam said this was disdain. Jenna smiled sardonically. “Absolutely not.” She took out pots and pans to make dinner. “Good. I don’t like seeing Grandma.” Sam tossed the invitation in the trash can and climbed onto the barstool. “I know. I don’t either,” she said with a chuckle. Jenna looked at the invitation sitting disregarded in the trash can as Sam chatted away. The simple act of tossing it in the trash made her feel like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She loved her life. She had everything she needed right here. She didn’t want to know how all of her old classmates lived; she didn’t care. She would not give them the satisfaction of gossip ever again. She would never subject her daughter to the horror that Bregman used to hold for her. Someday, Samantha would ask about her parentage and she would need to have an answer but not today. She heaved a happy sigh and brushed a hand down Sam’s cheek. Nothing and no one mattered except this. Jenna was confident that this anniversary, she would be happy. She was done letting her memories haunt her.

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form! &nbsp; *** #This week’s challenge: **Image: ** **Bonus Constraint (not required; worth 5 pts.) - Use at least three of the following words in your story:** - metal - canopy - keelhauling - telltale - liar - fixated This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the **connection is clear** and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.). The bonus constraint is not required. &nbsp; *** #How It Works - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until Sunday at 11:59pm EST. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** You have until 2pm EST Monday to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until 2pm EST next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.** Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions. - And most of all, be creative and have fun! &nbsp; *** #Campfire & Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.) &nbsp; *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points (required) - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Submitting user nominations:** 5 points (total) - **Bonus Constraint:** 5+ points (sometimes more) **Note on feedback:** - Points will only be awarded for **actionable** feedback. So what is actionable feedback? It is feedback that is constructive, something that the author can use to improve. An actionable critique not only outlines the issue or weakness, but uses specific examples and explanations to describe why it may be doing, or not doing, what it should. Check out by u/FyeNite as an example. &nbsp; *** #Rankings Before we jump into the rankings, let’s talk about feedback. I’ve noticed that there are quite a few writers who go *above and beyond* each week providing in-depth crits to the other writers. You are so appreciated! So starting this week, I will be awarding “Crit Creds” to those users, which can be redeemed on r/WPCritique. Okay, back to your regularly scheduled rankings... - - Submitted by u/Tomorrow_Is_Today1 &nbsp; - - Submitted by u/katherine_c &nbsp; - - Submitted by u/merbaum &nbsp; - - Submitted by u/wileycourage *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

The last thing she saw before passing out, was her partners pail white face... “This is gonna be awesome, I can’t wait, we are so gonna win this”,Quinn said with excitement, packing her large army fatigue bag and tossing it over her back. Quinn Lambert has been a adventurous child and grew to be a very enthusiastic woman. She had began mountain climbing when she was only 7 years old and mud races when she was 10. She loved snakes and other slimy reptiles and considered herself a tomboy due to her boyish ways. She never liked dresses and very much hated makeup. Her parents were a homosexual couple so they didn’t mind that their daughter dressed differently or didn’t act like a average girl, therefor they decided to put her in an all girls charter school. There she met the love of her life, Alice Coleman. Her pretty blond hair always swayed past her shoulders, her blue eyes sparkles like clear Crystal ocean. She was just beautiful. They had began dating and have been together ever since. Now that they were adults, Quinn was ready to have this adventure with her. ”I’m not so sure about this, are you sure this is safe”? ”I’m positive” ”okay but you know I’m scared of heights and you know I have bad PTSD” Quinn caressed Alice’s soft face and spoke. ”As long as you don’t look down and stay by my side you will be fine, I promise“ she kissed her forehead and with that, they hopped into their Jeep and drove to where the contest had began. The drive took about 3 hours, the hot sun beaming on the hoodless Jeep. It was as if the vehicle would stop mid drive and melt into dusty street. Alice couldn’t stand this heat while Quinn on the other hand, was not too worried about the heat. No, she was more concerned about the contest and most importantly, winning. They had eventually made it and boy were they relieved. They parked their car, grabbed their bags and began to walk towards the host. He spoke. ”Hello there, Are you hear for the wilderness mountain contest”? Quinn spoke for the both of them. ”Yes we are, I hope we’re not late or anything”. ”oh no, he said, your right on time, may I ask for your names”. lucky for them, they had filled out their applications online so they wouldn’t have to worry about waiting in a painfully long line while the host would have to search their names up. “Quinn Lambert and Alice Coleman, sir. ”ok... let me check, hm hmm, Oh their you guys are, y’all good” The host pointed them to towards their stations, where they could set up and get ready. On their way they passed a very short woman and what looked like her brother due to some similarities in the face area. They also passed two more couples, a male couple, and a married couple. Quinn glared at each of them noticing so many strengthens each couple had. From heavy build muscle toned bodies, to some of them even having go-pro cameras on their head. Gearing up and preparing for the most dangerous hike their ever was. As Quinn thought to herself” would I be looking death in the face.. No No I am a survivor. I am tough. I AM Quinn”. although Quinn knew she had this in the bag, something inside of her was kicking her gut. Her inner self had a feeling. Your not gonna make it. she shook her head, trying to remove those thoughts and focus on winning the $1,000. The host began to explain the rules of contest. ”No cheating“ ”No shortcuts” ”Only follow the path given” ”and finally have fun” One of the other players on another team began to ask a question. ”But like what if one our teammates get injured or dies?” ”then you will be disqualified and your teammate will be immediately rushed to a hospital” The other players began to scowl in disgust as those filled their ears. Quinn didn’t mind, because she knew. She knew she and Alice were gonna be fine. She knew that she Had to win, and that’s what her intentions were. She kept that in mind the whole time the host was speaking. Alice was just paying attention to what the host had been saying. She peering at Quinn, wondering why she had a blank expression on her face. Yes, she knew Quinn would daydream randomly, but it would be for a reason. But for this particularly situation, Alice was a little puzzled but simply ignored it from that point on. The host stated that they had to wait due to some difficulties. Quinn just didn’t mind. Alice wanted to go home. An hour went passed and by that time the sun was already about to set. Than all of a sudden a loud boom sound scared everyone either out of a nap or caught them by surprise. “Alright contestants, Are you guys ready for your adventurous and dangerous journey”? “Heck yeah”, said one of the power couples. Moans came from the remaining team players. Some stretched, and some yawned. Some were already pumped and some were just ready to go home. Quinn checked her watch. 4:30 p.m. It was time for the competition to hopefully (finally) start. As the sound of another boom blasted through everyone’s eardrums, that was the signal that it was time. And with the third boom, the couples were off on the trail. While the other competitors took the right path, Quinn suggested that take a short cut, to get ahead of everyone else. “Um.. I don’t really think this is a good idea, we are gonna get disqualified” “We will not get disqualified, plus the other teams won’t even care or notice” “Okay but what if they have cameras watching us, testing us, to see if we are gonna break the rules”. Quinn looked at her with the funniest expression. She began to speak in a mocking voice. “So their really gonna have cameras watching us, in the dead wilderness”? Alice began to chuckle. “I guess not”. “Exactly”. They both chuckled and went on the path. Eventually it got dark so they found a resting place and set up for camp. After a few minutes of setting up, Alice got settled and comfortable in her tent and went fast asleep. While Quinn on the hand, was sitting in front of the camp fire. With a blank expression. This is a bad idea. Go Home! Quinn tried to think hard but all she could hear was a small voice repeating the same thing over and over and over again. Your not gonna make. Your not gonna make it. Your not gonna make. She was getting more and more frustrated as the voice grew more and more louder. Your not gonna make! Your not gonna make it! YOUR NOT GONNA MAKE IT!. She snapped, punching a piece of burning fire wood. “Shit”. Alice than jumped out of her sleep, startled by the sound of her wife muffled cries in pain. She opened the tent and saw that Quinn’s hand was bleeding. “Babe what happens to your hand?” “Nothing I’m fine”, she replied,”I was uh.. trying to kill something and accidentally punched the log”. Alice just brushed it off and went back to sleep. Quinn soon did to. -------------------------------------------------------------------- It was the next morning and luckily for Alice, who was not a morning person, didn’t have to worry about the sun because the trees were blocking it. She yawned but quickly had a realization. Where is Quinn? She jumped up quickly and exited the tent hesitantly. She began to yell. “Quinn”! “Quinn where are you”! Suddenly she could hear her voice. She turned and saw her walking back towards the camp site. Alice quickly jumped on her, hugging her tightly, making Quinn drop almost everything. “I was worried about you, where did you do”? “Sheesh calm down, I went to get supplies for the rest of way”. Alice was skeptical about where the supplies had came from. “Um where did you get it from”. “Don’t worry about that, we should continue”. Alice didn’t bother putting up an argument, so she just packed the camping equipment and they began their walk again. For the first time in a while, Alice actually enjoyed nature. The pretty birds with their colorful feathers. Just the color of the forest itself made it majestic. Besides the mud and frogs. But something wasn’t right. As they began to walk farther into the forest, Alice started to notice the other teams equipment and supplies. She also noticed blood but she didn’t want to let Quinn know because she knew that she would make it seem like she was paranoid. eventually they made it to a fork in the road. It went both ways, One way leading to a path another a cliff. Quinn got curious. “Hey you wanna take some pictures on the cliff before we continue”? Alice was hesitant at first because of her very bad fear of heights, but finally gave in. They took the path that lead to the cliff not realizing that, that would be the worst mistake they had ever made. After passing some signs that clearly said No Trespassing! They eventually made it to the cliff. Quinn stepped closer to the edge, grasping onto Alice’s hand, pulling her closer. Quinn took a sniff and inhaled the beautiful fresh air. “It’s beautiful up here, don’t you think”? “Um yeah, sure”. “come on you gotta face your fear at some point, why not now”. Quinn nudged Alice closer but as she got closer her heart was beating at a rapid pace. She felt like she was gonna pass out. And with that she snapped. “Okay Quinn that’s enough”. “Alright jeez I’m sorry”. Quinn hugged her tightly and they went back toward the same direction they had came from. 2 days went by, which wasn’t a bad thing due to the fact that the website had said “this content may take a number of days to complete”. But in between the hours of those two days were actually pretty decent. Berry picking, flowing collecting, laughs, giggles, kisses and more. They had never felt this close before. Alice although still was a little skeptical about the other teams but Quinn Insured that they were fine. The last day, something came over Alice and she looked at Quinn with a smile. “I think I want to go back to the cliff”. Quinn nearly choked with a surprised look on her face. “Are you sure”? “Yeah I’m sure”. So after two hours of walking and taking breaks, they had finally made it to the cliff. Alice sat by a tree and Quinn followed. Just then she had an idea. She pulled out a large black pocket knife and carved her and Alice’s Initials into the tree. This would be their happiest place. The one place they felt more connected with and around including being more connected to each other. Alice stood up, her back facing the edge. Quinn also stood up and they hugged tightly. “I love you Quinn” “I love you too Alice” Alice stepped back and tripped over a bunch of gravel and a vine hidden under the surface of the earth. Quinn caught her hand and gripped the ground with her feet. She held tightly onto Alice’s hand, trying to pull as hard as she could. But her boots were no match for weak gravel they had walked. They both heard the the ground break. They both felt the pressure. And with quinn’s foot letting go of the vine, both of them eyes filled with tears, they said to one another.... “I love you” And with that they both fell of the cliff together and both hit the ground with a thud. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Quinn open her eyes, she felt for what she had landed on. A bush. She looked over but the last thing she saw before passing out, was her partners pail white face. Quinn woke up in the hospital. Her neck and back filled with Excruciating pain. She examined the hospital room and noticed the doctor and guy in a black suit. The must have noticed the she was looking because he came walking towards her with a concerned look on his face. He began to speak. “Well looks awake, well I guess you might be wondering why your in here, well I’ll tell you”. He then began to explain. “After you and your partner fell off the cliff, the people who had negotiated and or had something to do with that contest, had placed trackers in your backpack. When you fell they lost the signal so they tried to follow and trace the last time you guys were active and boom found you”. “Now another thing, the other teams didn’t make it due to active bear attacks so their was no survivors”. Quinn noticed a pen and paper on the tray next to her bed. She grabbed it and began to write. It said Is Alice okay? The detective’s expression went from concerned to sad. “Well because you landed in a bush, you suffering minor yet major injuries while Alice on the other hand landed on straight rock, when she fell, she broke her neck instantly , I’m so sorry”. Quinn began to cry under the body cast. She also felt low on air. But she didn’t care all she cared about was Alice. Her sweet, sweet Alice. The thought ran through her head again. I should have listened to her. Now she’s dead. I have nothing. I am nothing without her. As the thoughts filled her head, the doctors noticed that Quinn was having a heart attack. The doctors tried to help but Quinn didn’t care. She wanted to be with Alice again. She closed her eyes and imagined all the good memories they had. The berry picking. The flowers. The wedding. The planning of kids. A home. A future. The laughs. The cries. The amusement park rides. Everything. As she began to reimagine those memories, her heart beat was increasing heavily. She. Did. Not. Care. A single tear went down her face and with that, the heart rate monitor showed a flatline. Quinn was happy in the afterlife. She was with the woman she loved. And that all right. -------------------------------------------------------------------- A news report showed on tv 2 days after the deaths. Some people suggest Quinn died of heart attack but were a little confused because records show she only had a broken leg and a broken leg. But some people. The people who believed in love. The people who of Alice’s death and knew how close her and Quinn were. They knew no heart attack killed Quinn. She died of a broken heart.

First time posting. Would love some feedback. I have this dog. He's a big, long-haired dog with mucky, matted fur. When he walks, his shoulders move like pistons one after the other. His head is sunken low and prowling. He's not a very well-behaved dog. When we walk together I have him on a stong, leather lead. But he pulls and barks at everything and anybody that passes. The leather lead twists and creaks with the strain as he rears up on his hind legs. His hair stands up in tufts on each of his bulging shoulders. He barks like a bear roaring from its cave. His snarls launch spit like a boiling cauldron. His lips roll back to reveal the protruding teeth like daggers. I try to hold him back with all my might and I feel like my arm is going to pop out of its socket. My white-knuckled hand is clasped around the lead with some kind of a death grip. I don't know why I don't let go. I can't really. Perhaps it's because I remember he used to be a calm dog. I don't know why I still go walking with this dog when all he does is cause so much trouble and stir. Maybe I know that if I don't, the dog will start barking and snarling at me. Sometimes, people come to walk with me and the dog. But it's never plain sailing. Either the dog will bark at them and scare them off. Or whilst I'm wrestling the dog this way, my companion might slip off that way, recognizing that I wasn't listening to them. Then one day, someone came to walk this dog with me and did something so strange. They took the lead from my hand and started to walk him. Much to my surprise, out flopped his clumsy tongue and he trotted about sniffing the flowers and basking in the sunshine. He shook off his muck to reveal his shimmering coat and looked up at us walking along beside him. Now, this was my dog! My arm felt so light and heavy at the same time from the suddenly relinquished strain on it. I chatted for hours with my friend and we walked the park twice. How incredible it was to have a dog like this! I had missed all the wonderful trees and colours in the park and listening to what this person was saying to me. How could this person so carelessly clasp that battered lead? I held this person's hand delicately and swung it through the crisp, carefree air. They smiled with teeth like a glacier. Eyes like beams and walking with such grace they could have been dancing across a pond on lily pads. But then this person stopped coming for walks with me and the dog. The barking and snarling and jumping returned. Every rapturous ring would bounce around in my head and pierce my ears. Worse than before. My arm had gotten weaker, but the dog was still as strong as an ox. I couldn't resist his pulls and tugs anymore and he dragged me around from side to side like a helpless dandelion in the wind. The beady eyes were watching the struggle from their perch. The dog started to bark at me! I could see the ridges on the roof of his mouth and the deadening weight in his eyes. As nice as it was, I started to feel that I should never let anyone else walk this dog other than me, lest I forget how to handle his lead. Edit: put in some paragraphs per suggestion from the great feedback.

TW: eating disorders In 2057 in America, with the introduction of “Diet Rite,” obesity was proclaimed illegal for anyone over 18. Anyone deemed obese under current guidelines was arrested, convicted, and placed in jail until they were starved, force fed “Diet Rite,” or a version of the two. Because obesity and the associated health care risks became a huge burden on the healthcare system, Congress voted to make obesity a crime. It wasn’t lost on the American people that many members of Congress held a stake in the Diet Rite stock company, but since 2040, Congress had been given more and more power so that many times the laws that passed reflected their own self interests. Diet Rite was a pill that exceptionally boosted metabolism to turn you into a thinner version of yourself - even if you ate two to three times your daily calories. Each pill was guaranteed to burn an additional 500 calories, but you weren’t supposed to exceed 6 doses in one day due to possible liver problems. Although expensive, people made sure to stock up on the pills, oftentimes hoarding the “magic drug” to make sure they never ran out as they finally reached their goal weight - and could practically eat whatever they want. Jails became even more overcrowded with poor people who could not afford the pills and could not always find time to exercise as they worked two or three jobs. Most often, they were arrested, sent to jail, and starved, then released back onto the streets, where they had to work multiple jobs again and survive on cheap fast food, only to end up right back in jail for obesity. All parties entering the United States had to return immediately to their country if deemed obese or quarantine at the customs picked hotel with Diet Rite pills - on their expense of course- until the weight was lost. Pregnant women were given a reprieve for as long as they were pregnant. Those who became obese while pregnant had two months to return to their pre-obese weight by any means necessary or they would be arrested, convicted, and taken to jail until they lost the weight. The obese police, with a plethora of authority, knocked on doors with tips that an obese person might be hiding or bedridden inside or stopped people out on the streets, forcing them to step on one of their lightweight foldable scales they kept in backpacks so that they could weigh anyone up to 300 pounds. Anyone more than 300 pounds was automatically arrested and sent to jail. Anyone refusing to step on a scale at the request of the obese police was automatically arrested, convicted, and taken to jail. “You’re under arrest! You weigh 200 pounds and you’re only 5’6!” They would yell to a mother in a crowd, pleading to say goodbye to her kids and that she could not afford the Diet Rite pills and that she was really was trying. There was even a special tip line that allowed people to anonymously call in their friends and neighbors and a small monetary award if that friend or neighbor was arrested, convicted, and sent to jail. Fast food places and restaurants exploded when the pills went on the market. No longer having to actively watch their weights, restaurants were jammed pack with people ordering steaks, hamburgers, ice cream sundaes, rib eyes, french fries, and all the delicious fattening goodies they could get their mouths on in excessive quantities. Of course, if they really overdid it, there wasn’t any “harm” in popping another Diet Rite pill or exceeding the 6 limit amount per day on the bottle. The only exception granted were athletes in sports including football, weight lifting, body building competitions, and more, of which a percentage met the obese category for their height, but were solidly built or had lots of muscle. These athletes had to pay a small fee in order to compete and as long as they completed under the Diet Rite company brand and maintained the Diet Rite moral standards, they could weigh whatever they wanted. However, if and when they were kicked out of sponsorship from the company, they were subjected to the same laws as everyone else, stripped of their Diet Rite athletic titles, arrested, convicted, and sent to jail. Anti-Diet Rite protestors often led marches condemning the pills as unnatural and refusing to put the “fake snake pills” into their bodies. Oftentimes they were arrested for disruptive marches and for disturbing the peace, and neighbors and friends could report them for a small fee for any private, unlawful gatherings that could lead to another agitating march. People with anorexia and other eating disorders often overdid it on the pills, not eating, overdoing exercise, and ended up in the hospital. Rumors started and confirmed that a young woman subsisted on nothing but apples and Diet Rite Pills for two months. At 5’8 and 19 years old, she went into kidney failure and died at 68 pounds. By 2060, hospitals became overwhelmed under the number of sick people, directly or indirectly related to Diet Rite. Heart attacks and heart disease started occurring in people as young as 40 as they ate bacon, steaks, and hamburgers every day, disregarding the impact on their bodies as long as they were thin. If they survived, the doctors would urge them to maintain a low fat diet, to eat more leafy greens and fruits, to exercise for at least 30 minutes daily, but they stubbornly refused as Diet Rite pills was their way of life now and they weren’t going back. Diabetes started being diagnosed for those as young as 30 as they turned to sugar and fat for comfort and stopped exercising because as long as they had Diet Rite pills, why would they need to? And for those who were in their 20s, with the amount of Diet Rite pills they took and the amount of binge drinking they did, their livers started failing. An unprecedented number of those needing liver transplants were placed on the transplant list, but most died because there was not enough people willing to donate to meet demand. Besides, those people who took Diet Rite pills didn’t qualify because of their already enlarged, fatty livers. Somehow, the health care crisis was even worse than before. Remarkably, protests emerged in striking numbers all over the country until Congress ultimately felt pressure to reconvene and take another look at the law. Finally, in 2061, the company Diet Rite was dissolved, all known pills destroyed, and obesity was no longer declared illegal. Anyone found consuming or selling any of the leftover pills from their personal stash was arrested, convicted, and sent to jail.

Content Warning: Transphobia The sterile, lemony scent of Lysol lingered in the lobby, melding with the comforting glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the sweeping exterior windows as Elias carried the box of his old dresses to the reception desk. To the left of the desk, seated at white tables surrounded by colorful chairs, a few teens scribbled in notebooks or tapped away on laptops, perhaps working on homework, though he suspected the trio crowded around one computer in the corner silently clapping each other on the back were gaming. It surprised him for a second that they would have computers. Aren’t homeless people supposed to have nothing? But then he realized maybe people donated laptops the same way he was about to donate clothes. He’d been in homeless shelters before, but never one for people his age. Every few months his family did community service together, and a few of those outings were spent serving food at one of the permanent shelters downtown or helping prep the church basement for the rotating shelter that came through every other year. Last time he had to scrub the church bathroom. His stomach tightened at the memory of the volunteer manager directing him to scrub the women’s restroom. He wasn’t allowed in the men’s room back in those days. Elias set the box as gently as he could on the reception desk, letting the weight of it slide through his fingers like a fish being released back into the water. The receptionist smiled at him. “Welcome to Youth Place,” she said with the same warmth he felt from the sun against the back of his arm. “I’m Bronwyn, my pronouns are she/her. What’s your name?” “Elias,” he said. “Elias,” she repeated, taking out a clipboard and starting to fill out a form. “Let me get Deborah, she’ll help you store your things in a locker. Are you hungry?” “Oh,” said Elias, “I’m, uh, not homeless.” He kept his voice low, feeling oddly exposed so close to the other kids. He pointed at the box. “I’m here to drop off some clothes. To donate.” Bronwyn bowed her head. “I shouldn’t have presumed.” She reached down and picked up a rather bare spiral-bound book. “Looks like someone used my last triplicate sheet. Just a sec.” She popped through the door behind the desk into a back office. A window in the wall let him watch as she rummaged around in drawers and cabinets, pausing every few seconds to glance up towards Elias and the shelter’s main entrance behind him. Elias was used to presumptions, though this was perhaps the most harmless he’d encountered. Not being allowed to clean the men’s bathroom. Not being allowed to join the boy’s swim team, or any boy’s sport. The presumptions people made based on his biology blew. When he thought he was a tomboy, people just presumed he was a guy. He liked that presumption. He didn’t like the apologies that inevitably followed when people heard his voice or his name, the name he buried because it was dead. He presumed his parents would hate him or be ashamed, so he held on to that name for too long until it felt like a rope around his neck lingering there inescapable when his mom and dad spoke it with pride of his accomplishments when teachers called it during class when best friends smiled and breathed it out loud saying hello how are you none of them realizing they made him fight for air beg for air sometimes even pray for the rope to cinch tighter. Saying he felt relieved when he finally told his parents and they embraced him, proving his presumptions unfounded, would be like saying the Milky Way was pretty. He no longer needed to fight for air. Instead, it filled him and let him proclaim his joy at the top of his lungs. Together, they packed what girl’s clothes remained in his closet into the box. He went through a phase a year or two ago where he hoped it would just go away and bought dresses and skirts and makeup. That was just a phase though, a last attempt by the world to control him, tell him he who was. His dad drove him over to Youth Place, even offered to walk in with him. But no. This was something Elias needed to do alone. They were originally going to just drop the clothes at Goodwill, but then Elias learned that almost half of people his has age without homes identified as queer, and of that a disproportionate number were trans. As soon as he heard that, he knew who he wanted to have his clothes. If he could, he would pass on more to them. Lord knows somewhere there’s a 16-year-old trans girl who could make good use out of what he bound up tight to his chest. He planned on getting top surgery as soon as he could, but it seemed like such a waste for them to just get sucked away. Couldn’t there be somewhere trans folx could just go and drop off the parts they didn’t need and swap them for the parts they did? For trade: boobs, never wanted. The door to the shelter swung open. A girl walked in, maybe a little older than him but it’s hard to tell, brown hair down to her shoulders, wearing tight jeans, a pink blouse, and a black jacket. Her face demonstrated the same skill with makeup that Elias had - novice - though he presumed she hoped to improve at it over time, while he hoped to never slather lipstick on again if he could help it. She sauntered up to the desk, smacking on a well-chewed piece of gum. “Hey,” she said. “You moving in?” Elias pointed at the cardboard box. “Well, no actually. I’m here to drop of some clothes. To donate.” “Whatchya got?” she asked, pulling open the flaps and squealing when she spotted the spirit jersey on top. Oblivious to the slight musty smell the clothes acquired sitting in the farthest reaches of his closet, she held the oversized sweater to her chest. “Oooh! She cute!” “Welcome back, Phoenix,” said Bronwyn, returning from the office with a fresh triplicate pad. “Will you be staying with us again?” Phoenix nodded, now clutching a crop top Elias couldn’t believe he ever thought was a good idea to buy. “Yeah,” she said, holding it to her chest. “Mitch tried to hit me again, so I left. And he stopped paying me.” “I’m glad you’re safe,” said Bronwyn. “Just a sec and I’ll get you checked in. You know the clothes have to go into the clothing bank, though. We need to wash them first, and you can get them from there.” “Yeah, yeah.” Phoenix put the clothes back in the box and sighed, closing the flaps. Elias noticed the crop top peeking out of her coat pocket. “There’s an old dude just sitting in a minivan outside.” “If it’s a Honda, that’s probably my dad,” said Elias. “He good to you?” asked Phoenix, studying him with piercing brown eyes. “Yeah.” His answer felt like an admission of guilt for some reason, but he wasn’t sure how else to respond. RIP! Bronwyn tore the receipt off her pad and held it out for Elias. “Thank you for your donation, Elias. And if you know anyone who needs our services, please send them our way. Everyone is welcome here.” “Even me,” said Phoenix, teeth grinding on the gum again. “It was nice to meet you,” said Elias, nodding at Bronwyn. He turned to Phoenix. “I’m glad you’re going to get the clothes.” Was that rude to say? He headed for the exit. He felt the lightness he hoped he would, having left behind that cardboard box containing the final remnants of a person that never really existed, knowing the rest of his life waited on the other side of the door, a life without pretending. A life of joy. Yet he struggled to smile as his mind lingered on Phoenix, on the inequity that grew with each step he took towards his dad waiting outside to take him home. A few moments later, Elias pulled open the door of the minivan and slid into the passenger seat. “You wanna drive, Elias?” asked his father. “You need practice.” Elias reached over and gave his father the best side hug he could across the armrest and gear shifter. “I love you dad.” His father, caught off guard by the gesture, feeling his child tremble against him, rested a hand on Elias’ arm in return. “I love you too, son.”

Thirteen 2018: We were thirteen, just thirteen, only thirteen, Chris murmurs to herself as the silver light of dawn filtered under the hotel bedroom door. Her speech for the party is ready, she can remember it all. In her mind’s eye she sees the new girl, Liz, a delicate shy blond girl walking down the gravel path to the school entrance, May 1961. 1961: The others teased her because of her Irish accent. “Don’t mind them,” says Chris in the playground. Then she immediately became Chris’s best friend. 1962: Chris often helps her with the homework and Liz is often invited to stay. Chris’s mother Maeve often enquires how the family is settling in. She predicts that Liz would have an interesting life, but that it wouldn’t be easy. 1965: Catherine, from Upper 6 form gets expelled, there were rumors she liked a girl from a junior class a little too much. The matter was never discussed again. Were the other parents aware? Then suddenly both friends are in love with entirely unsuitable young men. The parents shouted: there were tears. Liz’s parents threatened her with boarding school. “You can always tell them you’re over at my place if you want to see him,” Chris offered. 1965: “I’m going to study medicine”, Chris says. When her exam results didn’t pan out, she became a nurse. The school was disappointed, their star pupil. “I hate Chemistry, and I’m no good at Maths,” Chris says now. Liz remained undecided about what she wanted to do. “Supper’s ready,” her mother called up where she was pretending to study, how boring life was. “Wasn’t your class playing in a hockey match this afternoon?” Chris had told her to say it had been cancelled when in fact, the two friends had gone to hide in the sports shed and smoke. 1963: “Which of the Beatles is your favorite?” Chris asks as they walk back from school. “C’mon, you have to have one. Mine’s Paul.” Liz prefers the Rolling Stones who have just arrived on the scene. 1965: All the girls at school watch “Top of the Pops” on Thursday evenings. It is the only topic of conversation the next day. “Want to come for a sleepover and listen to records?” Chris always had the latest hits. “We could go to see David Warner in Stratford on Saturday”, she suggested on the phone, “if your parents will cough up the fare;” “Culture,” you never know, they just might.” “Stratford, on a bus with Christina” said her mother reaching for her purse. 1966: “Let’s hitch down and shop in Carnaby Street?” Chris suggested. “And maybe go dancing in one of those new clubs? We can stay up all night.” The fashion is Twiggy, Mary Quant miniskirts and false eyelashes. This is the Swinging Sixties. Chris is planning on moving down to London to study nursing, but Liz now wants to go to Paris and work in films. Why not? She says now. “Only a month to go, hope my passport arrives soon.” May 1968; She calls Chris to tell her she’s joined the student strikes in Paris. The events last almost two months. 1970: “I’m expecting, Tom and I are going to get married,” Chris writes. Liz can’t stand him: supercilious, overly sure of himself, what does she see in him? It had to be a class thing and the Park Lane apartment helped. “That’s great,” she replied, “when’s it taking place?” The rail strike would provide a good excuse for not attending, and anyhow she’s just been hired by the television company. And broken up with Claude. 1975: “Tom and I are getting a divorce.” By now there were two kids. Liz was still single and having a good time. A few months later Tom throws himself under a bus, having handed his dog to a complete stranger before taking the plunge. 1978 - 1984: This time it’s true love. Liz moves in with Bruce, he’s charming, will prove unstable, but there are a few good years. She becomes tired of his infidelities and having bailiffs at the door, but she gets to keep her two daughters. Somehow she had always felt that Chris had been skeptical about the relationship. 1988: “You really must come and stay, John and I are moving to Edinburgh, we’ll have loads of room. We’ve not seen you for ages.” Chris writes. But Liz is caught up in the everyday humdrum of schools and a full-time job. It’s a grey period. “What was it that nun, Sister Baptist used to tell us?” Chris says on the phone: “Don’t complain that the path is difficult, know that it’s the difficulties that are the path.” Liz sighs. March 1990: “Have you ever thought of coming back?” Chris asks during her weekly phone call. “You know my father could call the BBC.” “No”, Liz replies a little too sharply, “but thanks for the thought.” June 2001: Chris’s mother dies. Liz leaves immediately to be with her friend. She cries so much at the funeral she has to leave the Church for ten minutes. She feels bereft, as though she had lost a second mother. Her own mother is suffering from dementia. September 2005. The two friends meet up for lunch in Camden: Liz has come for the day on Eurostar and Chris has flown down from Edinburgh. Suddenly Chris reaches out for her hand then bursts into tears: “Now that my brother’s dead, you’re the only witness of my childhood and teens,” she sobs. They swear they will meet more often. One month later Liz meets the man who will become her second husband. She starts a new life. Christmas 2005: Chris calls to say she’s going to be a grandmother, she’s over the moon. Liz is now living with Thierry. December 2007: suddenly it’s retirement, and time, precious time stretches ahead. Plans for a new place and travel for Liz. Chris has never enjoyed travelling and sounds very happy with her quiet life in Edinburgh. July 2018: Liz’s daughters and her husband are insistent: “Mum, it’s a big birthday, you should celebrate. We’ll even persuade Chris to come.” September 2018: Chris moves towards the middle of the Tibetan restaurant reserved for this special occasion. It’s a shame John couldn’t travel with her, especially as he’s always been so fond of Liz, but his health isn’t great nowadays. She turns to look at Liz, looking good in a bright turquoise suit, and with a smile she begins: “We were thirteen...”.

Things can get Progressively better Late afternoon sunlight oozed through the partially open blinds and grimy windows of the office, flung itself like spider webs through the stale, fuggy air and splattered in pee-colored puddles on a desk littered with empty Starbucks cups and Brueggers Bagels wrappers. Hunched over the desk was a man with a cracked cellphone hanging from a limp hand and mouthing the words to the recorded message yet again: " Bonjour ! You've reached the cell phone of Anoinette Dupuis. I'm sorry I'm not here to take your call personally. At the tone, please leave your name, number and a brief message and I will return your call. Au revior! " "Like hell you will," he muttered under his breath as he waited for the beep. A tobacco-flavored eternity later he heard it, then spoke with forced cheerfulness, "Hey Antoinette! Joe Sticker, insurance agent, here in Surrey Heights. Give me a call! Once again, I hope you're doing well. I look forward to connecting with you here soon regarding your car insurance, and getting that changed over for you. I have some lower payments we talked about here a while back, and I wanted to help you do that before your payment comes due this month if possible, so you can start saving some money. Give me a call when you get a chance: 123-666-1313 - thank you very much!" Joe tossed the phone onto the desk and looked up at the dingy ceiling. He'd lost count of how many times he called that number over the last months, but her name and auto insurance inquiry kept popping up in his lead feed, so he stubbornly kept calling. He'd actually talked to her briefly several months ago and it sounded like she really wanted a quote. Joe rubbed a big hand over his tired eyes; he had to get some sales soon or his business would fold. He glanced at the moon-faced clock on the unhappy wall opposite his desk and sighed; at 4:30 on a Friday afternoon nobody would be answering any more calls. The lucky ones would be going to the bars or out to dinner with someone exciting and beautiful. He smiled grimly; OK, maybe not someone exciting and beautiful, but with someone... Joe unfolded his lanky frame as the chair creaked warningly, grabbed his only-slightly-frayed suit jacket and shambled out the door. It closed with a soft finality behind him. Outside, Joe blinked in the dusty sunlight and headed languidly to his used Subaru. His brother called it "The Green Grunt", but it was paid for and it got him where he wanted to go. If he made as much as his brother did, he'd be driving a Porsche, too. But Joe had always been just average in a family of over-achievers; he'd been middle of his graduating class, middle in his athletic attempts, and not even middle in his default career. What friends he had were just as bland and ordinary as he was, and weren’t enough of a clientele to keep his business afloat; just middle-of-the-roaders living a middling life in middle America... Joe snorted; "Middle" should have been his middle name, but he didn't even have one. Joe slid behind the wheel, settled his back into the lumps of the seat, then noticed the bright post-it on the dashboard declaring "CATFOOD!!!" in pink marker. He nodded to himself and started off for Lion Foods; this low-tech system worked much better for him than his temperamental phone which would only remind him of things if it felt like it. Joe patted the post-it fondly; it was comforting to know that there would be someone waiting for him when he got home, even if only waiting to be fed. Too bad Sam and Frodo didn’t need insurance... While cruising along on automatic pilot, Joe's thoughts stumbled back to that fruitless phone call; he used to enjoy her warm voice and sensual accent, but by now all it did was annoy him. He'd been trying to talk to her for so long and she just ignored him. The thought made him grind his teeth in furious frustration and he could feel a headache coming on behind his left eye. On a sudden whim, Joe gunned the Subaru, zoomed through a yellow light, and pulled screeching into the parking lot of Scorecard, the only watering hole he knew. He leaped from the car and slammed the door so hard, its bottom edge, scalloped with rust, flaked off in small, cinnamon flecks. He'd had a long day - hell, he'd had a long month. He deserved a little time with the guys and a drink or two. Cat food could wait. After fumbling in his pocket for his mask (standard issue, blue surgical and slightly dingy from multiple uses), Joe hooked it over his ears, then strode into the sports bar, yanked out a chair and perched on it, pretending he did this all the time. A tall, heavyset man looked up from tap, then grinned over his own mask. "Hey, Joe! Long time, no see! Where've you been?" Joe opened his mouth to answer, but at that moment the man interjected, "Your brother was just here; did you see him in the parking lot? That's one sweet set of wheels he's driving!" Joe's mouth snapped shut and he muttered, "Just gimme the usual, please, Terry." Terry cocked his shaggy head to one side, regarding Joe curiously. "And what would that be?", he asked simply. Joe scowled at him a moment, then sighed. "What kind of a bartender are you that you don't remember your customers' regular orders?" Terry guffawed, then shot back, "A damn good one, but you're hardly ever here. But I think I've got something you'll like." Moments later, a glass of foamy, brown ale plunked down on the bar in front of him along with a basket of overly salted chips. Joe nodded to Terry's retreating back, then shoved his mask back into a pocket. Morosely he crunched on a handful of chips, washing them down with swigs of the Guinness while contemplating life, phone calls and older brothers. Joe was just licking the last of the salt from his fingers when behind him he heard a familiar voice. " Bonjour, Michelle! I just got to Scorecard..." Carefully Joe looked over his left shoulder and froze. There, curled like a cat at the table just behind him, was a tumble of brown curls spilling over smooth shoulders, splashes of yellow and green on a summer dress, and a pair of shapely legs ending in basket-woven sandals. A flash of red like a cardinal's wing covered her face: Antoinette Dupuis. She was holding a cell phone to her ear and speaking carefully through the mask. "How long should I wait for you?... What? Oh..." Joe could hear the disappointment in her voice, that lovely, silken voice like warm honey on fresh baguette. "Of course I understand. No worries! These things happen. Kiss the children for me!" She set the phone down and stared unseeingly out the window. Surreptitiously Joe signaled Terry, who hurried over. "Terry," Joe leaned in close, "what's the best French wine you've got?" Terry's eyes flicked briefly in Antoinette's direction, then he whispered, "She liked a merlot." Joe jerked a thumb in her direction, "Send her a glass of your best from me." While Terry was pouring and presenting, Joe was wracking his brain for his wobbly French. He'd had a couple of years in high school, but that was centuries ago. Then he remembered his temperamental cell phone and pulled it out of his pocket. Its cracked screen flickered briefly, then faded into darkness; he'd forgotten to charge it again. For this, Joe was on his own. Marshaling his vocabulary like toy soldiers, Joe took a deep breath, hooked his mask back over his ears, then stood up and stepped to her table. It was the most frightening moment of his life. " Escusez moi, mademoiselle, " he said gallantly while bowing slightly. Antoinette looked up, and Joe felt his breath catch at the wide, brown eyes fringed with thick lashes that looked questioningly at him like a doe. He cleared his throat unnecessarily, then announced " Je m'appelle Joe Sticker." Antoinette's eyes widened in recognition, making her look even more like a deer. A flush brighter than her mask swept over her face and rushed across her forehead. She glanced away, then stammered, "Joe? Joe Sticker?!? I had no idea! Please, please sit down!" and she gestured to the empty chair across the table. Joe slid into it, feeling better about life and himself than he had in a long time. The conversation began with profuse apologies from Antoinette and gracious acceptance from Joe, but then gathered energy and speed like a river filled with meltwater and surging downstream. The sun sank into an orange heat haze, patrons came and went, Joe ordered them dinner with more merlot, and still they talked. When Antoinette slipped the mask from her face in one smooth motion, Joe found it the most sensual and erotic gesture he'd ever seen. He was mesmerized by her voice and her graceful movements, but even more entranced by her warmth, intelligence and humor. Terry startled them with his last call for the evening, and Antoinette looked apologetically at Joe. "I had no idea it had gotten so late. This has been a lovely evening. Merci beaucoup !" She flashed him that achingly beautiful smile that he was beginning to hope he would see every day for the rest of his life. She made a move to get up, but Joe impulsively took her hands in his, making her look deep in his eyes. " Ma chérie ," he said softly, massaging her slender fingers, "may I ask you something?" Her eyes filled with tenderness and she smiled again. " Bien sûr , dear Joe! You can ask me anything you like." Feeling very bold, he reached out to gently brush a wisp of curl from her cheek, then whispered, "Have you ever thought of bundling home and auto?".

Parts (I-V) I was listening to ‘shine on you crazy diamond’, waiting for the cars in the four lane street to pass. On the other side of the street was the brick viaduct that carried the subway out of the city. The street cleared and as I walked across, I suddenly noticed a light flickering in the second arch. When I got there, I found four candles burning on the ground. Two beer cans, bananas, grapes and candies were placed around the candles like on an altar, and pieces of cloth were hanging between the two street poles in front of it. I leaned over to take a closer look, when I spotted a man lying in the corner, up against the wall, in a sleeping bag. Sound asleep with only his pale face looking out. Behind his head leaned a backpack and a bicycle. Probably just passing through, I figured. And not wanting to wake him up, I pussyfooted to the other side of the arch. A train went by over our heads, shaking the bricks and the ground. I reached a crooked joint out of the brim of my hat, straightened it with my stiff fingers and lit it. Then I took a step forward, so I could look down the street and watch the smoking chimney of the incinerator that was reaching out behind the rooftops. A few cars were still going by. Then an ambulance pulled up next to the subway station with the lights on an all, picked somebody up, then it left again. And just standing there smoking and watching them, I felt I was simply there. I looked over to the sleeping man to see if he was still asleep and he was. I wondered where he was going with his bicycle. And I figured I liked that I was somehow part of his journey now and that he didn’t even know it. So I decided to give him the rest of my smoke, had a last hit and put it out on a brick. Then I pulled out my wallet, found a coin inside and went over to the altar. A plastic lid with a few coins in it was already there. I put the coin there for the ferryman and the last three tokes of my smoke for the ride. Then I left, wondering where he would be going. Parts (VI-IX) The next night I had rolled another smoke, and tying my shoes decided to go back to the place. I doubted the man was still there, but I still imagined how we’d smoke together, so that he could tell me about where he was going. Outside, the wind was guarding the streets as usual and it was colder than the night before. Waiting in the four lane street, I didn’t see any lights shining on the other side this time, and when I walked across I saw he was gone. A yellow blanket was left behind where he had been lying, and a garbage bag was sunken into the brick wall. The candles and everything were gone as well, only a few cigarette butts and frozen grapes had remained. Gazing over the ground I suddenly spotted another stub in one of the grooves. It was my yesterday’s smoke. He must have taken it out. I picked it up. There was just as much on it as I had left. Three tokes. They had gotten cold overnight. I smoked them away walking around underneath the arch listening to the rest of the second part of the song. Then I lit the new smoke. I thought about the man, and I thought he had something I didn’t. And now I didn’t feel like I was simply there anymore. So I left. Having had enough of the place.

The Magi Weekly Classifieds. Ad #1610 Single Wizard, 42. Enjoys good books, star charts and deep conversations. Seeking a star-crossed sorceress with a passion for discovery. If you value serious research during the day and playful observation at night, please write back. “Playful observation,” Albert Limerno read aloud from his ad. “What a buffoon. ” Albert tossed the issue of the Magi Weekly atop a heap of star maps on his desk. It took him a week to make those charts - plotting two new celestial bodies and calculating their apparent diameters, yet he spent a month agonizing over that silly ad. Time he could have spent on more serious matters. He plucked his quill and wrote a letter he’d been putting off for over a year. To the honorable members of the Order of the Heavenly Magi, Proven by the theory of perfect fixed motion, all celestial bodies move relative to each other in precise harmony. However, I have discovered an aberration. A dim body near the King’s Head star has an erratic motion that I cannot reconcile. Please refer to the included star map. Your humble servant of the skies, Albert Limerno The dim star was a frustrating deviation in an otherwise perfect sky, but he could not deny its existence. The past year he’d built and rebuilt his astrolabe - spending a great deal on bronze plates and ecliptic rings. He bought three different telescopes and built two of his own, all to make the star conform to the theory of perfect fixed motion. The star refused to meet his expectations. But even with the heavens on his mind, Albert's thoughts turned to his silly little ad. *** For nearly a month, Albert rose early, only to watch the postman speed past his house - save for three deliveries of The Magi Weekly. “Morning Bert.” The postman slapped issue #754 in his hands. Atop it were two letters. One sent from Martin Hornsby, Head of the Order of the Heavenly Magi, and the other addressed to the star-crossed Wizard . Albert rushed to his desk to retrieve his letter knife. He opened the second letter first. “Paintings?” was all it said. “Paintings?” Albert scoffed at the ads that had paintings. He saw one where a wizard clutched a gold staff and wore embroidered silk robes, as though that was his common attire. Another sorceress depicted herself atop Dragonridge summit, alluding that the peak experience defined her personality. A painting could be doctored to show any superficial display of status or attributes. It was beneath him. Albert threw the letter in disgust. He opened the other from Martin. Dear Albert, brother in seeking. The theory of perfect fixed motion has accurately predicted movements in the celestial sphere for centuries. During that time, we've had countless reports of ‘aberrations’ that have all been proven wrong. Most are as simple as not having a clean eyepiece. In your case, however, I suspect a failure in your imagination. We’ve confirmed that your reported body is simply not there. This is common for overtaxed minds. I advise a break from star charting. Enjoy some time off with your loved-ones. Your humble servant of the skies, Martin Hornsby “Clean eyepiece? Failure of imagination?” Albert crumpled the letter and tossed it in his stove pit. “He thinks I am some lunatic neophyte without a clue. No! I’ll prove it.” Albert dragged his astrolabe, hung from a stout pedestal at the foot of his desk, to his window. With two turns of the latitude plate, he found his star’s coordinates. He swung his telescope and looked through the immaculately clean eyepiece. The dim star was not there. No. How could this be? Albert spent all night cleaning his lenses and recalibrating his disks, but it did not make his star reappear. *** “Can you paint me?” Albert said, at the doorstep of his sister’s house. “You look awful, have you slept?” Gemma said. Albert came inside and slumped down on Gemma’s sofa. “Don’t tell me you come seeking a last portrait. Are you sick?” “No.” Albert sighed. “Well yes, but not of the body.” “What is this about?” “I need a painting for my ad.” “What are you selling?” “Myself.” “A classified?” “Yes.” “It’s about time!” “Can you paint me or not?” “Of course!” Gemma fetched a canvas and a case of paints from her armoire. She sat opposite him and set the canvas on her lap. “Suspenders and an ink-stained shirt? I still have some of Roger’s formal wear here, I'll fetch you--” “My clothes are fine,” Albert said. “And why would you ever paint the stains?” “Don’t be surly, I’m doing you a favor. Relax, I’ll make you look good." Gemma pointed her brush to the top of Albert’s head. "I’ll even add a bit of foliage to the barren hill up there.” “Ugh, the world has become as shallow as a spring puddle.” “First impressions matter, Bertie.” Gemma smiled and set her brush to the canvas. “My teacher said that no one will swim the depths of the heart, if the surface does not first capture their eye.” “Painters should stick to paintings, not proverbs.” Gemma dabbed her brush in a canister of blank paint. “Would you meet with a bald woman?” “What?” “If you saw an ad with a bald woman, would you meet with her?” “I’d guess she’s sickly or insane.” Gemma gave a mischievous grin. “That’s your first impression?” Albert slunk further into the sofa. How can a painter best a wizard so many times? “Sit up, and stop slumping,” Gemma said. “Look like you have some dignity.” Albert sat up, and for the rest of the painting, he followed her direction. Albert left Gemma’s with a splendid portrait. She captured his best features - his high cheekbones, and sharp jaw - and lessened his worst, by adding a little foliage and removing a little girth. After admiring the image for too long, he sent it away to The Magi Weekly. *** Within a week, Albert had a new letter. Dear star-crossed Wizard, My best work is done by moonlight, and if we connect, I’m certain I can help with your playful observations. Shall we meet? Say at the promenade on the solstice? I’ll be wearing a blue dress. Sara. Albert grinned. The solstice? That is tonight! He rushed out his door to Gemma’s house. “You’re smiling?“ Gemma said. “So you’ve finally gone mad.” “Can I borrow Roger’s formal wear?” Gemma clapped. “You have a date! Yes, come.” She ran upstairs and fetched a white silk shirt - frilled at the neck - and striped trousers. When Albert finished changing, Gemma brought him a short-waisted maroon doublet with gold trim at the sleeves. “He wore that on our first date,” she said. Her eyes grew teary. Albert gave Gemma a hug. “Thank you. For everything,” he said. And he dashed out of Gemma’s house on route the promenade. *** Sara stood at the head of the cobblestone path that followed Maggie Lake. Albert nearly turned around upon sighting her. Sweat pooled on his forehead and he could barely breathe. She was stunning. Her long curly black hair draped past her shoulders - streaked with a subtle gray that added a distinguished touch to her cherubic looks. She stood at least five inches taller than him, and her blue dress exposed only slivers of her long legs. “Sara?” he finally said, after calming his nerves. “Oh! I’d hoped it was you.” Sara thumbed to a man squatting on a dock nearby. “And not him,” she said, under her breath. The stout man held a rod in one hand and a bottle in the other. He flashed his yellow teeth and gave the two a nod. Sara held her arm out. “It’s nice to have the company of such a handsome man.” “I...ah, you...ahem..look radiant.” That was the best Albert could muster. But he took her arm, and they walked down the promenade. It wasn’t long before Albert settled and the two were laughing and chattering on. “You know!” Albert said. “That angler had the upper hand on me.” Sara laughed. “Is that so?” “Yes, he had a bottle! Such forward thinking by my rival. But I won’t tolerate any more embarrassment” He swept his hand toward the wine house a little way ahead. "Would you join me for a drink?" “Are you trying to make me giddy?” “Yes.” Sara squeezed Albert’s arm. “Well in that case, I’d love to join you.” The pair sat at a table overlooking the Maggie Lake gardens and shared bread and wine and stories. “So what do you do for the Order?” Albert said, pouring their second glass. Sara fiddled with her napkin. “I don’t work for them.” “Ah, and independent. I’d admire that. What’s your field of research?” Sara nudged her head towards the sprawling two-acre garden behind the wine house. “Plants,” she said. “You’re a cataloguer?” Albert said, somewhat taken aback by the low station for such elegance before him. Sara’s eyes remained on the napkin. “I make salves and potions for my clients.” “Hah! Like a witch, good one!” “That’s not a term I use.” “You’re a witch?” The wine and bread threatened to come up. Sara’s eyes narrowed. “I’m someone who doesn’t agree with everything that pompous Order has to say. They don’t like being proven wrong, and for that they slander us.” “They’ve been proven correct, time and time again, for centuries. And excuse me, but witches are prideful neophytes who don’t take their research seriously.” “All of them?” Sara said. Albert caught his reflection in the glass. He looked sharp in Roger’s maroon doublet. “In truth, I know nothing of witches. And you’re right, the order is expertly pompous. Would you accept my apology?” Sara smiled. “If you can accept being seen with a witch.” Albert lifted his glass. “To the under-realms with the Order of the Heavenly Magi.” Sara clinked her glass against his. “And to all the magic that life has to offer.” They finished their wine in silence. Albert looked out to the night sky. The moon was waxing gibbous, and the stars shone brightly. “Come,” he said. He left a bill on the table and stood. “I’ll show you what I do.” Sara took his arm, and they walked to the lakefront, where Albert withdrew his pocket astrolabe. “What is it?” Sara said. “Many things. A clock, a calendar, a compass, but for me, it’s most important use is a map.” He held the brass instrument to the moon and spun the outer disk. “You see that bright blue star?” Albert pointed to the sky and Sara followed the line of his finger. “I do!” “It’s the Gleaming-Soul star. Look for it if you’re ever lost, it will guide you north.” “It’s wonderful when you really take it all in.” Sara came close. “Do you have a favorite?” “There’s one that I’ve looked at a thousand times more than any.” He gave three turns to the disk. “There. A faint red dot called the King’s Head. Do you see it?” Sara squinted and thrust her neck forward. “I only see white and blue.” Albert dug in his pocket and fetched a loupe he crafted for such moments of spontaneous observation. “Here, look through this.” Sara held it to her eye. “Oh, I see it. And look, the King’s Head has a little ear.” “A what?” “A white point right beside it.” “May I?” Albert grabbed the loupe and looked through. It was his dim star. “You see it too?” “Yes.” Albert clutched her hands and found her eyes. “You really see it!” “I do.” Albert’s joy turned to elation as Sara leaned in and gave him a kiss. *** The enamored couple spent every day together for over a month. The nights were dreadful apart, so Albert asked Sara to move in. “Are we rushing things?” Sara said. “I don’t care. I’ve been a cautious man my entire life,” Albert said. “And I only feel alive now.” “All my things, my cauldron, my herbs, you’ll be sick of my clutter. ” “Look.” He patted his desk. “You can set everything here.” “If I leave, my mother will be alone.” “Ah, it’s a bit too high.” Albert said, mimicking a stir of a cauldron over his stove pit. He took his astrolabe off the pedestal and pulled the column the masoned pit. “Come,” he said, holding out an open palm. Sara went to him. “Are you sure?” Albert helped her onto the pedestal and held her close. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he said. *** “Can you please not boil the aniseed while I am ...aaa... achoo...working.” Albert said. He was at his planisphere, redoing calculations for the hundredth time, in pursuit of a new theory of perfect fixed motion. Sara stirred her cauldron, red-faced and gleaming with sweat. “My client’s daughter has a terrible rash and needs this yesterday. Can’t you work outside?” “Aaa...achooo!” In the force of the sneeze, Albert snapped the tip of his quill. “All I’ve done for you, and you can’t fulfill this simple wish?” Albert stood and crumpled his page. “I could figure this out, if there wasn’t such foul humors in here.” Sara dropped her stir stick. “What exactly have you done for me?” Albert chucked the paper into the fire. “How about giving you a roof, free of charge.” “I never asked for that.” Sara said. “Great heavens I wish you’d give those silly potions a rest. We don’t need the money. And do you know what it’s like to hear the other wizards chatter about me being with a witch?” Sara dug into the drawers of the desk and pulled out handfuls of aniseed and mandrake. “You needn’t worry about my foul humors anymore.” She clutched her ingredients to her chest and ran out the door. *** “Is Sara here?” Albert said, at the doorstep of her mother’s house. The old lady stood with two hands shaking on a hazel cane. “Yes.” “May I speak with her?” Sara’s mother shut the door. I’ve ruined the only good thing in my life. What’s the point of this misery... “Albert,” came Sara’s voice from the window. His heart skipped. “Sara I’m --” “I need my things from your house. I’ll be there in the morning.” “Please, let me explain. It was my work, I was frustrated and-” Sara closed her shutters. Albert retreated to his house and collapsed on a chair near his desk. He could not eat, he could not sleep, he could not work. Sara’s grimoire lay before him and he opened it. The dust from the book carried the scent of aniseed and he sneezed. And then he cried. Albert composed himself. The open page of the grimoire caught his eye. Sister Abathy’s Love Potion One Mandrake root Three areca nuts Two leaves of henbane This recipe was handed down by my great grandmother. She was born in... Albert flipped past three pages of Sister Abathy’s family history and paintings of each of the ingredients. Mix with your beloved's favorite drink, and they will be by your side forever. Please note that for guaranteed results, the potion should be made under the light of the full moon. Albert rummaged through the drawers. There’s a full moon tonight. I can do this. I can have her back. He found all the ingredients, save for an empty jar labeled henbane. He was not deterred. There will be some in the garden. There must be some. He grabbed his cloak and ran to the garden. *** Albert turned every leaf in search of the brown petaled henbane flower. For most of the night, he avoided a dense thicket of thorny roses in the middle of the garden. Exhausting all other options, he finally dashed into it. The thorns tore through his shirt and trousers and soon it was pitch black. Something hissed. Albert jumped back into a bush, taking thorns to his rump. Two tiny pinpoints of light rushed toward him. “Get back!” he cried. The hissing grew louder, and the figure took shape. The raccoon hissed once more and fled. Albert collapsed in the dirt. The stinging scratches on his body were nothing compared to the misery in his heart. The moon shone through the brambles above his head and only a few hours of its light remained. Even if he found the henbane, there wouldn’t be enough time. “To the under-realms with you,” he said. “Waxing and waning in some cosmic joke of lunar peekaboo.” Albert gasped. A moon! And then he laughed the greatest laugh of his life. “The King’s Ear is a moon!” Albert stood, plucked a handful of roses, and rushed back to his house. *** Albert sat on his porch the rest of the night, waiting for Sara to come. “What happened to you?” Sara said as she approached. “Something magical.” “I’m glad to see you so happy without me.” “Oh no, I’m dreadfully miserable. But now I see why.” Sara walked past him. “Wait. Look, I was frustrated with you, because you didn’t fit my idea of perfection.” “Yes, it’s a great shame to be seen with me-” “No. I was idiotic. Things don't need to conform to what I think, and they can still be perfect in their own way.” Albert held up the roses. “I’m not making sense...and I’m not asking you to come back. All I ask is that you accept an apology from this buffoon of a man.” Sara took the roses and gave them a sniff. “I never asked to live with you or take any of your space.” “I know.” Sara was silent for a long while. She stepped off the porch and looked up to the sky where the rising sun’s orange and red hues overtook the silver moon. She held out her arm, and the pair went for a walk.

TW: violence My mom’s last words were, “Every pain that we shared was for you. If you ever want to build a family, find yourself someone that mirrors you. Find someone and love her the way I loved you.” She was all that I have and so upon her death, the world had left nothing for me. There was no one to care for me anymore. No one to comb my thinning hair. There was no one to help me stitch an open wound once I suffered another. It is hard as well to chop food with this two-fingered left hand. We had lived in this wooden hut in the filthiest outskirt of town. Black waters of industrial waste ensured that the river cannot support a single sprout of any crop. Our picket fence never did hinder anything from trespassing our grounds. Looters would come and ransack our defenseless house, the equally starving would kneel for a meal’s share, and some people would just come in for our beating just to sate their bloodlust. The only visitors we aren’t bothered with were fat canal rats caught in our traps which would sustain our day. But my mom would hug me and assure me that all that’s happening was a way to toughen myself up. Her smile was the strengthening potion I needed. From then, everything that reminded me of her uproots a pain I always try to bury. But not this time. I thought I would be alone for eternity until I saw your face. Your smile was very reminiscent of hers. Do you know you both have thin lips but a deep cupid’s bow? It is uncanny how your nose has the same pointed form. Your dark eyes, I would say, are far more beautiful than hers. Hers I thought were carbonado but yours was the polished one. I did everything to have you and finally, you were here rested beside me. I would do everything to keep you with me. I caressed your face with my hand. I removed strands of your silken hair off of your lovely face. I’d love to stare more at its purest state. I flinched for you woke up. Quickly you sat on the bed with your body tightly adhered to the wall. Your body shrunk and your thin limbs trembled. I might have frightened you out of your rest. “Wha-what ...” your speech stuttered. After your deep breath came a moment of calm. “What are you doing? It is quite early for your nighttime visit don’t you think?” “Yes, that is so.” I squinted my eye and can’t help but look at your restless hands behind your back. “Are there bed bugs once more? Your hands seem to itch a spot furiously.” Your shaking voice shifted to an unwavering one. You gulped, “Now tell me why are you this early.” “I came here for your meal. Look, I prepared something special for you. I want my family to feel that they are loved.” I grabbed the tray with my right hand and tried to help it balance with my left. On top of it is a meal along with a glass of water. “What is it?” “It is not a rat this time. I tell you with all honesty. This is chicken!” “Why?” your eyes pierce. “What is with all this question?” I raised my voice upon your gratuitous skepticism. “Aren’t you happy I’m giving you a meal that I’ve never eaten more than the count of our fingers? What do you want me to do this time? You are making me mad! It was very thoughtful of me to provide you with something delicious for being a good girl!” “Calm down! I still am your good girl.” “Now fucking eat this up before I can’t control myself.” I left the tray above the bed, stood up, and started walking towards the door. “Wait!” she beckoned. “I would love you to feed me this time.” You know that I cannot refuse such orders from your sweet voice. “Please.” I went back and offered you a forkful of meat. “Open wide!” A sudden jolt rushed down my nerves. My eye whirled with rapidity and my vision became the whirs of a defective television. A loud ringing was all I can hear. Blood spurted out of my neck tainting your devilish smile with crimson. Your eyes glare with satisfaction. As if that wasn’t enough, you lifted your knife and swung it without hesitation but I blocked it with my hand. “You fucking open wide!” You stole the knife I carried on the tray and the next thing I felt was a loose jaw. Air started to inflict pain on my left cheek and the cold felt colder on my exposed gums. With your limping gait, you scampered out of the room. “Rot in hell, you monster!” “You will never get away!” How can you run with a weak leg? You made me laugh. I thought you were the one to stay with me through the years but I guess I’ll just force you once again to doing so. Wasn’t it enough that I severed three of your fingers for you not to be afraid of me? Do I need now to slit your fucking mouth wider the same as what you did to me? What deception! It really seemed you were becoming a good girl. I shouldn’t have released you from your shackles. Do you think this would kill me? My mother had cut my fingers for me when they started to rot because of an infection. She even plucked an eye of mine out and sold it in the black market. I take a beating every day you fucking moron! My lovely mother does know what’s best for me. She prepared me for this. I ran outside the house and looked for you in the darkness. The barren fields were wide and it wouldn’t take long for me to find you, especially with all the bear traps dispersed under a thin cover of soil. I tried sniffing the air just in case I can detect your lovely scent. A muffled groan excited my blood. Like a werewolf, the increasing sound of its prey draws me closer. And so I walked and walked, then ran the moment I saw a dark silhouette of yours. You don’t know how much my heart beats the more you tremble. Cry for me more. “What happened to you? You inflicted this upon you yourself!” I sat in front of you and once again, I removed the strands of your hair that blocked a beautiful view. “I told you to be a good girl. But what did you do?” I bellowed as I pointed a knife to your face, “What did you fucking do?” “Pi-please don’t kill me. I assure you that I’ll behave.” Your soft voice touched my heart anew. “You really are a sweet girl. Do you promise that --” You slammed a rock onto my face but this time I immediately retaliated with a punch. “You were beyond salvation.” I grabbed your hair and slammed your face onto the cold hard ground. Your eyes turned languid and your nose bled. I guess there’s no helping it. An eye for an eye. I held the knife firmly and with its tip touched the sclera of your eyes. A drop of blood tells me that your screams weren’t a lie. “Don’t! Please don’t! We are family right?” Your words echoed like music. “Let me hear it again?” “We ... are ... family ...” I never knew I’ll ever hear those sweetest words again in my lifetime. I don’t want to hurt the person I want to build a family with. I dropped the knife. “Let’s go home. Shall we?”

There wasn’t much left of the world. The war didn’t just take away singular things, rather uprooted entire concepts, and burned feelings and ideas to ash. Things such as society, comfort, and peace of mind were not only foreign to those who were born after it, but completely incompatible. Ideas that would collapse under even the slightest scrutiny, and that were more unbelievable than even the most outlandish children’s fantasy. Yet in a world where ideas died, where plants were all but eradicated, and the constructions that once stood as monuments to humanity's ability to create fell like dominoes, people still lived. Though these things were more real, and concrete than the very concrete beneath his feet, Elliot failed to consider them. The lack of care for the past or future was one of the notable traits of the Final Generation after all. Those who lived in the world before, often still thought about things other than what was in front of them, things that may have stood there thousands of years ago, or may stand there yet millions of years in the future. But the children of the Final Generation never had the luxury of learning this skill. All they knew was how to survive in the moment. Yet even Elliot had dreams. His were far vaguer and less understood than most boys of eight, but he knew he wanted something. Elliot, as impossible as it was, wanted to see a flower. He had heard that before his world, there were all kinds of flowers. Roses as red as blood, and daisies as orange as the sun. Flowers of dazzling colors he had never seen and fields of yellow called sunflower fields. Elliot’s older sister ran over, a piece of string in her hand, and a nervous smile on her face. She was born before the Final Generation and had a taste of things such as wonder, and amazement, and dearly wished for her brother to have a chance to taste such things as well. But whenever she tried to do something for her brother, something that would show him a world before his own, it always went wrong. Things were never meant to go right in his world, he couldn’t see why she couldn’t understand that. Though he did understand this, and so felt no disappointment when whatever plan she had, went wrong, seeing the pain on her face broke his heart every time She glanced up at the star-speckled sky. And nodded to herself. “Brookline,” he said softly. “Mhm?” she said, seemingly more focused on double-checking the plan in her head. “If this doesn’t work, it doesn’t mean you’re a bad sister. It’s not your fault” he said, taking her larger hand in his. She turned to him, her eyes, which had a color crossed between hazel and gold, fixed on his. For a moment she looked confused, perhaps still reviewing part of her scheme before she smiled softly at him. “That’s sweet runt,” she said, ruffling his hair. “But us grown-ups gotta make sure you little guys get a childhood as good as our own”. Elliot found it unfair that a sixteen-year-old was forced to be an adult, but completely missed the irony in the fact that he never saw himself as a kid. “Okay, just...just don’t get sad again” he said, "Don't worry, runt" she said, trying to hide the nervousness in her voice and on her face, a skill anyone born before the Final Generation clearly could not learn. “I won’t have a reason to be sad this time,” she said, pulling a lighter from her pocket. She flicked it a few times, and when she didn’t immediately get a flame, feared she never would, but eventually one came. “Okay,” she mouthed to herself. “Okay,” she repeated, this time talking to him. “It’s going to be loud okay? So, don’t get scared runt”. He nodded softly at her. “Okay,” she said one last time, before holding the flame to the string in her hand. She dropped the string as a flame started to follow it, across the barren ground. Brookline bounced up and down excitedly, but as the flame reached the tube at the end of the wick, it went out. For a moment all was silent, and Brookline’s shoulders slumped. Elliot’s heart sank as she opened her mouth, most likely to utter an apology, but before she could speak, a loud whistling sound emanated from the tube as it launched a brilliant ball of fire into the night sky. The ball exploded into a pattern of yellow light with a satisfying crackle before fizzling away. The tube-launched three more fireballs into the sky, each erupting into another beautiful yellow pattern. Elliot gasped in awe, and though he couldn’t see it, Brookline cried while grinning.

Dylan was a starving artist, often making more money raking yards than selling his photos. Even though he vows to quit his passion, he always makes his way to the State Capitol to catch candid images of people around the statues and lawn. As another rather uninspiring day draws down to its end with no pictures worth taking, Dylan begins to pack his equipment and head for his small apartment. He's grown too used to this feeling. Suddenly, ten young women in canary yellow dresses walk onto the lawn and form a circle, barefoot in the neatly cut grass. While people start to crowd around what must be the beginnings of some sort of performance, Dylan struggles to ready his camera and get in front of the onlookers. The women fall to the ground in unison as he lifts the camera up to his eye; Dylan snaps several quick pictures as the crowd grows silent. The ten bodies lie there for about two minutes before people grow concerned. "Somebody dial 911!" came the scream that broke the silence. The woman kneels there with her hand on the pulse--or lack thereof--of the redhead of the group. After the hysteria died down, the police marked the scene, and the media has asked their questions, a journalist rolls through Dylan's rolls photos of what's being called a mass suicide. The fourth one on the roll was an almost surreal capture; yellow dresses appear to float in the air as they fall and the faces look dead before they hit the ground, like the souls can be seen leaving the body. The journalist looks into Dylan's eyes, "I don't know what your portfolio looks like, but it seems as if you finally have your million-dollar photo.

Junior philatelist Davy Santos placed his rare, three-cent George Washington special into a windowed display card in the center of his table. Booth after booth, lined up side by side, filled the Sarasota Municipal Auditorium, home to the annual Sarasota National Stamp Exhibition. Some dealers displayed their wares on folding display boards, some on fancy swiveling racks, many in albums, a few in locked, glass-covered collectors’ boxes. Except for the George Washington special, Davy had a modest display of stamps in neat transparent envelopes organized in alphabetical order by country. These he’d collected in plastic shoe boxes he’d bought in a dollar store. His sheets of colorful tropical stamps from Venezuela were arranged all around the boxes to attract the customers. When doors opened, a swarm of people flowed in and began circulating up and down the rows of vendors. The buzz of fans talking and joking and bargaining soon filled the auditorium. A bald man in a brown leather jacket stopped and asked, “Hey, kid. How much for the George Washington?” “Nine hundred,” Davy replied. “Just for today.” “Fair price,” said the man, who sauntered away. Another guy, older and more hunched over, strolled on by. Davy called out, “No fee for looking. Help a soon-to-be-college student get to college, please?” He held out a business card with his name, email address, and phone number and with a photocopy of his three-cent prized possession glued on the back. An hour or so passed, but no one was buying yet. Davy stood when lookers approached; sat when no one was there. He took sips from his can of Coke hidden at his feet under the table beside his now- empty wheel-around cart. “Hey, kid! How much for the butterfly?” It was the same bald guy in the brown coat, who’d stopped before. He pointed to one in Davy’s Venezuelan pile. “Five bucks,” said Davy. “Humph,” the man said. “All these flowered jobs? Must be truly old. Nothing like the Simon Bolivars you usually see from there.” “They’re from the 1950s. My great-grandfather’s. I inherited his collection when he died.” “Humph,” he said again. “Will you take $4.50, kid?” “Okay.” After collecting the money and placing the stamp and its transparent envelope into a paper bag, the boy said, “I’ve got some collectibles from Great Britain and a few from Liechtenstein?” “Nah. Thanks.” Davy had never told a single person at school that he collected stamps even though it was something he’d obsessed over ever since he’d gotten that first envelope full of them from The Mystic Stamp Company for his sixth birthday. He’d been hooked ever since. But guys at school wouldn’t get it. They’d call him weird or nerd or worse. So, he kept his true hobby a guarded secret and only attended conventions in Melbourne or Kissimmee when he was sure no one he knew would be there. Today he was taking a risk. The convention was in his hometown of Sarasota. Hopefully, no one from his circles would ever be caught dead in here. With no other sales in sight, Davy abandoned his booth and headed out for a walk. “Watch my stuff for a sec?” he asked the vendor next to him. When the lady nodded affirmatively, Davy took off to explore the other dealers’ tables and maybe spot a rarity or two. Two vendors had shops in nearby Bradenton; some came from as far away as Connecticut, Missouri, and Canada. He decided to take a look at the exhibit sponsored by the ABC Stamp Company, which, a sign said, specialized in 19th century U.S. postal history. He was admiring an 1894 one-cent stamp when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and faced a girl. Long ponytail, blinky eyes, his age. “Hey.” “Back at you.” “Someone in your family a dealer?” she asked. “Nope. Just me.” “I’m here with my dad. Boring.” “Nothing boring about philately. Its geography, topography, currency, sports, famous people, even foreign languages.” “I guess.” “Bet you don’t know the word Germany in German is Deutschland? I learned that from a stamp. I bet I’m the only guy who knows where the island of Mauritius is.” She leaned close to him and said, “So where is it?” “It’s an island in the Indian Ocean, off Madagascar.” “Oh, I know Madagascar. That’s a movie.” “No, it’s a place. Once a British colony.” “Well, you sure know a lot.” Blinky-eyed Girl held an extra-large paper boat full of french fries in her left hand. “No food or drink in the exhibit area. You know that, right?” “I know, but fries taste awful when they get cold so I better eat ‘em up.” She swirled a fry in a glob of ketchup then stuck the whole thing in her mouth. Just then something on the ABC man’s table caught Davy’s eye. “A twenty-four-cent inverted Jenny?” he exclaimed. “You’re kidding me! It’s a fake, isn’t it?” “That’s no album weed , kid!” the vendor said. “It’s the real deal.” “You mean a reissue?” the girl asked. “Nope. Cost me $510,000 to be exact. The asking price is $600k.” “Not a forgery?” Davy said. “Aren’t you afraid of losing it?” “It’s insured. Wanna hold it, kid?” “Yeah.” Half a million dollars in the palm of his hand and Davy’s knees trembled. “Big yikes!” He felt like he was in the company of royalty. In a way, he was. “You actually gonna sell this thing? Why don’t you hold on to it?” He handed it back to the vendor, who placed it on the table in front of him. “Got some bills to pay and at my age, if I don’t travel the world soon, I’ll never make it. Here’s my business card.” Davy read, “Sam Houston, ABC Stamp Company, Cleveland, Ohio.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the girl was flipping through an ABC catalog. “Attention dealers, collectors, and visitors. Attention, please.” Davy and Sam turned their heads toward the front doors, where the loudspeakers were located. “Our noon auction will be starting shortly in the theater area at the entrance of the convention hall. Don’t miss it!” The announcement was repeated twice. Davy shrugged. He never entered into any auction. He was too afraid his stamp would be undersold. He turned on his heel about to head back to his booth when a hand grabbed his shoulder. “You little thief. Nice try. Hand it over.” “What?” “You know what?” “I don’t.” Davy winced from the squeeze on his shoulder bone. “The inverted Jenny. My inverted Jenny. Give it. Right now.” “I don’t have it. I gave it to you.” “You took it. During the announcement.” “No, I’d never. I didn’t, I swear.” “Hand it over. This second, you little punk.” Now Sam was shaking Davy, who heard his teeth rattle in his head. Someone walking by said, “They teach them young to steal!” “I didn’t steal anything!” His shouting and Sam’s fury attracted a throng gathering around the booth. The crowd parted to let a man come on through. It was the bald guy in the brown leather jacket. “What’s going on, Sam?” “This here punk stole the Jenny. The Jenny!” Sam yelled. “Let him go, Sam. He’s just a kid. Wouldn’t know value if it bit him.” “Oh yeah? He stole it, clear as day.” Davy wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and took a couple of deep breaths. His knees wobbled and his stomach wanted to heave. “I didn’t, no!” The bald guy said, “Better get back to your table, kid.” Davy’s legs moved but he lost his bearings and traipsed up and down the rows hopelessly before he found his way to his meager wares. A few minutes later Sam, accompanied by a six-foot-tall, paunchy security guard, showed up. “Search him, Hal.” Davy felt the tears well up. “Empty your pockets. The other one. Now the shirt pocket. Take off your belt. Remove your shoes.” Davy did as he was told, moving through this bad dream as if he’d been cast in a movie of his deepest fears. Except he was the accused instead of the accuser, and the stolen item was an inverted Jenny instead of a George Washington. Sam stepped behind Davy’s table and rifled through his cart. The guard whipped envelopes out of the shoeboxes and tossed them on the floor. One by one every aerogram and piece of postal stationery lay haphazardly on the floor. “I don’t have it. I told you.” “We’ll find it,” the guard said. “I know how.” Sam and the guard disappeared down a row of tables. The lady vendor who had watched Davy’s items during his absence stared. The boy began picking up loose stamps that had fallen out of their protective coverings. Some had come off of their paper hinges. One sheet of Venezuelan tropicals was torn down the middle. His fist pounded the tablecloth. Those wonders that had belonged to Great-grandpa Jake could never be replaced. He took another sip of Coke to steady his nerves, he hoped. Suddenly, a stern voice rang through the hall. “You’re under arrest!” It was a cop. A female. With a nightstick in hand and a holstered gun. Sam was by her side. What? Why? I didn’t do anything. “I don’t have it.” “You had it. Where’d you stash it? You little hoodlum!” Sam grabbed Davy’s shirt in his fists and yanked him forward. “I want my stamp. Now!” “I’ll handle this,” the policewoman said. “Hands behind your back.” As she read him his rights, Davy’s mind was a blur. All of it was a blur--where they exited, how he got to the patrol car, how he got seated in its back seat cage. “What about my things? My money box? My credit card reader?” “You should have thought of that before you stole a million-dollar stamp.” “Half a million,” Davy corrected. Officer Hastings adjusted the mirror then shoved her ponytail into her cap. Ponytail! “Wait! I know who took it. I can get it back.” “Too late.” She inserted the key into the ignition; the engine roared to life. “But I know who has it. Listen to me. Take me back inside. I promise I won’t try anything. I’ll get the stamp back. That’s all anybody wants, right? Please, give me a chance. I know who has it. I know.” “Try anything and I’ll Tase you.” It took all of Davy’s courage not to bawl in front of the other vendors as the female officer led him, handcuffed, up one row and down another. Finally, he spotted the cute girl with the blinky eyes and ponytail. He recognized her orange T-shirt and her skin-tight skinny jeans. “Her!” Davy said as he pointed. “Look in her basket of fries.” “What? I will not.” “Look in it. She was right beside me. She walked around with that basket of fries like it was filet mignon and I only saw her take a single bite.” “Excuse me, but I need to see your fries?” Officer Hastings’ face turned a crimson red. “The food court is over there.” Blinky-eyed Girl hugged the paper basket to her chest like her life depended on it. “Milly, what’s going on?” A blinky eyed man with her identical features pushed his display aside and spilled her fries onto his tablecloth. “Nothing, Daddy.” But there, among the greasy mess, was the inverted Jenny, still in its acrylic protective case. “Milly? Where did you get this?” “I don’t know.” “What do you mean, you don’t know? It just jumped into your food? Do you have any idea how much prison time you could get for something like this?” The girl’s faced paled, and her chin began to quiver. “I don’t know, Daddy. I don’t.” “Sir, don’t worry. It’s just a cheap forgery,” Davy lied. “So she isn’t in any trouble. But this officer is gonna return it to its rightful owner, just so it doesn’t get mistaken for the real thing.” When Davy slipped by the girl, she taunted, “Don’t need your help, you little turd!” The female officer paraded a handcuffed Davy back to Sam’s table, where she handed over the priceless beauty. “That’s my Jenny. My Jenny! Officer, you’re a lifesaver! Wait, why are you removing the handcuffs? This kid is a thug. He stole a stamp worth thousands of dollars then took us on a wild goose--” “--No, sir, he didn’t. And he saved the reputation of the girl who did.” Davy rubbed one wrist then the other. Head down, he trudged along the rows of vendors till he reached his booth. Bending down, he scooped up the loose stamps, the empty shoe boxes, the broken lids. Soon a voice at his side said, “Need a hand, kid?” Davy looked up into the eyes of Sam Houston, who was handing him a brand-new Tupperware container in one hand, his three-cent George Washington in the other. “I do. I do need a hand. Just don’t call me kid.” Davy accepted the man’s apology. Glad the convention was winding down, glad a female cop had believed him, glad he hadn’t had to call his mom from a police station for the very first time in his life. Happy to be just a weird, stamp- collecting kid. But still, it might help if he didn’t look the part. Thus, he made a pledge: Tomorrow he’d stop shaving and start growing a beard and hopefully some respect. words: 2,251

I still remember the last time I saw you. Do you remember that day? It was almost the end of August. The leaves were starting to change colour and the weather was starting to cool down. You walked into my office around 3 in the afternoon like you owned the place wearing that royal blue shirt that you knew I loved along with faded jeans. You flopped onto my office chair and promptly started apologizing for being late as you were held up at work. We talked while I continued to finish my work. At 5 I locked the door to my office and turning around I saw you standing by the passenger door of your car holding the door open for me to climb in. Who knew the smallest gesture could mean so much? After you got in we were on our way. We had movie tickets and dinner reservations for that evening. During the drive you unconsciously reached over to grab my hand, put it on top of the transmission shifter and covered it with your own hand opting to drive with one hand rather than letting my hand go. Once we reached the theatre you killed the engine and got out of the car to come and open my door again. After I climbed out you leaned in and whispered “You look amazing.” Smiling from ear to ear I stood on my tiptoes to give you a quick kiss. I was wearing a black simple dress and three inch open toed heels on my feet. I always loved that you were taller than me even when I was wearing heels. I loved that I could rest my head on your chest when we hugged. Your height was definitely a reason I was attracted to you in the first place. Grabbing my hand once again you led me into the theatre and directly to Theatre 8. We found seats all the way at the top and got comfortable. You did not let go of my hand once during the whole process. Not during the movie. Not during the walk back to the car. And not during the drive to the restaurant. Conversation flowed so easily between us. It always had. I remember you taking off your jacket and placing it around my shoulders as the cold wind hit us when we stepped out of the restaurant. Not wanting to leave each other’s company we chose to aimlessly drive around for a while talking about work, friends, movies. Anything that came to mind. We finally reached my place just before midnight and I remember you whining about me going on vacation for a week. You were upset I was leaving but simultaneously happy that I was getting a chance to let loose. I didn’t see the need to say see you when I get back. I thought that was a given. I kissed you goodbye before getting out of the car. I didn’t turn around to wave goodbye as u drove away. But now I wish I did. Little did I know that kiss was the last time I ever kissed you. Little did I know that night was the last time I ever saw you.

Later, when she’s older and her bones pop when she bends down, she’ll remember this. It makes sense. It smells the same-- Nebraska isn’t so different from Missouri in the rain, and it’s the same muddy scent, even though she’s on the driveway and not in the grass right now. The smell remains the same, and it’s the smell that’ll make her remember, when she’s older, this day in the rain. She’ll remember how the rain beats down, plastering her hair to her forehead. It will be longer by then, but for now it's short and stuck against her skin, refusing any attempt she makes to fix it. Longer wisps of her hair are also stuck to her cheeks, but that’s nothing. They’ve been there for an hour now, cemented by tears. Maybe she’s crying now-- she doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter, not with the rain. She shivers-- he took his letter jacket back when he drove away and she hadn’t thought about the cold consequences of that when she’d gotten into the car earlier. Years from now, she’ll buy her own letter jacket from a thrift store, adorned with letters she didn’t earn, although she won’t be wearing it when she thinks about how the rain felt clinging to the back of her thin shirt. It’ll be inside, in the closet next to her graduation gown, and she will wear it to the farmer’s market on the days she doesn’t snooze her alarm. Now, though, she’s cold. She shivers. Later, when she’s forgotten exactly which day of July this is, she’ll still recall the moments she spent considering whether or not to go inside her house. She would love to get dry, of course, but it’ll be air conditioned, which would chill her to the bone. Besides, her mom is in there, and if she goes in, her mom’ll see her pink-rimmed eyes even if the rain has done away with the tears themselves, and she knows she’ll have to explain to her mom how the love of her life is gone, and she’ll have to hear her mom, trying her best to be consoling, tell her that she’s only seventeen and she has her whole life ahead of her, as if it doesn’t feel like it’s ending now. When she remembers that part, when she’s older, it’ll bring a tiny, fond smile to her lips, but for now, it just sends her into another sob. She can tell she’s truly crying now-- her tears are so hot against her frozen cheeks, and she tilts her head up towards the sky. She feels like she’s communing with the heavens themselves, like the storm clouds can recognize one of their own and her tattered, faded soul is just the right color. When she looks back on this moment, when she’s an adult, she’ll mostly remember how one particularly tenacious raindrop flew right into her left eye. When she’s rented her own apartment and then moved on from that apartment to the small house she’ll be living in when she remembers how she felt, devastated, on her knees in the middle of driveway, watching the end of the street as if staring will make his headlights reappear, as if he’ll admit everything was his fault and he made a mistake by letting her go, if only she keeps watching the turn of the road, she’ll sigh. When a few years have passed and this is no longer the worst day anyone in the world has ever had, she’ll think about how she let him drive away and shake her head a little-- that visibility was truly dangerous to drive in. Right now, however, she just blinks. She knew this would happen and she still put on makeup this morning-- it’s dripping down the sides of her face and smudging onto the palms of her hands when she wipes it away. She thinks the worst is over when she sticks her left hand in her pocket and pulls out a crumpled receipt for a cheap noodle dish and she feels her lip quiver all over again and when she exhales heavily, it seems deafeningly loud, despite the noise of the rain. When she’s grown a bit, and hears her own laugh in the same caliber rain just as loudly, it reminds her of the way the rain faded into a static back then too. Right now, though, she’s just aware of the way her breath hitches in her throat and how it shudders once she forces it out and how half of her nose is blocked. It’s hard to breathe, she finds, and she shivers again. The world is so grey, so empty, and so is she. It’s fitting. Later, when she’s older, with her hands on her knees, winded both from laughing and from chasing her eight-month old chow-chow mix around her yard, she’ll think back to now, where she’s running out of sob, as if her lungs simply won’t force air anymore. Right now, her life is over, and her future is blank. She clutches her own forearms, a gesture half self-consolation and half a last-ditch attempt to stay warm. The rain refuses to let up, aggressive, overbearing, deafening. In a few years, when the rain hits her just as hard, it won’t seem painful at all. In fact, when she’s older and the rain reminds her of this moment right now, the rain will seem comforting. After all, it’ll be the same rain, the same water, and she won’t be able to help but smile at her former, younger self, who cared and loved so hard. She’ll look up at the rain, making sure not to get it in her eye, and admire the clouds-- they’re not empty, she’ll find, but full and lovely and she’ll laugh, despite herself, before scooping up the damp and muddy puppy. He’ll make a mess when she gets him inside, sure, but it’ll be worth it, she will think. She’ll walk towards her own door and think about the boy she’d loved so much, and wonder if he’ll be in town for the high school reunion in a few months. They will have become friends again, by then, and she will be happy with that. She’ll look back at the rain once before opening the door with the non-puppy-carrying hand and smile again at the memory of sitting out in the rain, on her knees in the middle of her parents’ driveway, and she’ll take a deep breath to smell that same rain smell that had surrounded her then. But for now, she steadies her breath and shivers again. She wipes away the last of her tears and the rain-- a fruitless effort, to be sure, as more rain continues to drip on her face-- and stands. She stands, and lets the rain run down her scalp, down her spine, and she takes a breath.

My faithful readers, In the pages of this monthly column, I have revealed to you the mysterious doings of some of the most curious and eccentric persons on this earth. Over the years of your faithful readership, you’ve followed along on my adventures in meeting such elusive characters as the Bayou Swamp Preacher, the Magician Salesman, and the Mob Exorcist. Although I’m proud of my chronicles thus far, there had been one particularly evanescent figure of great importance who had evaded my attention...until now. Join me as I regale my encounter with the mysterious ghost writer known as Mr. De Ville, exposing his true nature and fulfilling a family destiny of mine that stretches back generations. As one becomes enlightened about the literary world, it does not take long to recognize the impossible pace at which many well-regarded authors publish new works. It was this realization that fed my intrigue of the shrouded world of ghost writing. Surely, a profession that encourages comparisons with specters must guard some shadowy personalities worthy of my column. To find such intrigues, I once again elicited help from my contacts in the dark, digital spaces that underpin our society. After a few weeks of plodding developments, I finally was afforded a lead regarding a man hiding under the alias of a Mr. De Ville. Subsequent investigation revealed this man to be the uncredited author of several infamous biographies, the subjects of whom had a strange habit of dying mysterious deaths before their life stories had been published. A lack of criminal investigations into these matters led me to assume that Mr. De Ville had somehow acquired powerful allies in high places. This gave me pause as to whether to continue my investigation, as any damning details I surfaced would surely haunt me after publication. However, I had a hunch that this Mr. De Ville may be the nefarious figure whose exposure would alleviate some darkness in the world and cement my rightful place in my family’s legacy. After much internal debate, I found the fortitude to carry on. Details were sparse on the man, even from my associates of questionable character, whose powers of recommendation rarely led me astray. I was ultimately blessed with an address, a domain in a rural part of upstate New York, deep in the forested bosom of the Adirondacks. Reluctant to make the drive without confirmation of identity, I sent a letter addressing my desire to interview the ghost writer. To my surprise, I received a return letter in just four short days. In the letter, a man who identified himself only as Rene, revealed that he was Mr. De Ville’s assistant, and conveyed his employer’s desire to meet with me at his residence. An invitation with strict conditions for meeting was followed by a harsh warning of discretion, promising the utmost legal action for any public revelation of my planned visit. I took the threat seriously, based on my earlier assumptions, and told no one, despite the obvious risks it posed to myself. The day before the proposed meeting, I made the long drive from the city to the small town nearest Mr. De Ville’s supposed residence. I stopped for the night at a dilapidated motel near the highway just as a fierce storm whipped up. Sleep evaded me that night. Thunder crashes and sweaty nightmares awakened me constantly. In one fleeting moment, I felt the presence of someone in my room, prompting me to grab my trusty cane and raise it above my head, shouting like a fool into the empty darkness. A more cautious person may have regarded the nights’ disturbances as terrible omens and abandoned the campaign, but I am not such a person. The journey from town took me along progressively degraded roads, from smooth highways to bumpy gravel roads, to barely passible dirt paths that appeared untraversed for years. Rene had suggested I bring along printed directions, for there was no cell service in these deep woods. I was glad to have followed his advice, for I was nearly lost multiple times even with said assistance. The unmarked dirt roads curved and branched endlessly into a disorienting maze amongst the sea of trees. I began to fear that I would arrive dreadfully late for the meeting, if I arrived at all. Deep in the evergreen timber, the light of day struggled to penetrate the thick tangle of branches. I had been driving nearly all day, and the fuel light flashed a warning. Fortunately, I had brought along an extra container of gas. As I parked, a premature, thick darkness overtook the woods. I kept the key in the ignition and the headlights on. Without my cane, I leaned on the car as I filled the tank. The forest was eerily quiet. Two glowing eyes appeared between the trees up ahead. The glowing orbs seemed to sit atop some tall creature. As it moved through the trees, the eyes lowered to the ground. Walking into the headlights, the eyes belonged to a snarling wolf. It approached slowly; its sharp incisors revealed. I felt frozen, paralyzed, from some otherworldly fear. The wolf stalked to the side of the car. It’s eyes locked with mine, and it’s snarl retreated. The wolf backed away and returned to the headlights, trotting a few paces before stopping and turning back, as if expecting me to follow. I fumbled putting the empty container away and hastily returned to the car. I proceeded hesitantly, slowly rolling behind this fearsome lupin as it guided me through the darkness. After some time, it stopped and let out a blood-curdling howl, before dashing into the thicket. No sooner than the wolf abandoned me, than I spied several specks of flickering orange light in the distance. Like a moth to flame, I followed the light of the lanterns until coming to a rest in front of a manor so out of place in these remote woods that I could barely register my belief. The large gothic mansion screamed of Victorian excess. A grand, stone staircase led up to an imposing wooden door fit for a castle. Ornate carvings danced along all its awnings. I hobbled up the great stone steps and breathed a deep, calming breath. As I reached for the ornate door knocker, the door flew open. A squat, bespeckled man with patchy, wispy hair greeted me. “Mr. Helsnig, I presume?” “Oh...uh, indeed...but please, call me Abe,” I said, as he motioned for me to come inside. I crossed the threshold as I spoke. “I assume you are Rene, whom I corresponded with?” “Ah, of course, Abe. Yes, I am the one who wrote to you. How was your journey? I’m afraid the path here can be quite cumbersome for those unaccustomed to the...” My focus on his voice faded as I absorbed the scene before me. A soaring cathedral-shaped ceiling overlooked a looming balcony, with two spiral staircases descended like twisted metal skeletons. There were no windows to be seen, with the gloomy space lit only by dwindled candles mounted along the peeling walls. It was even more ghastly than I had expected, even for such a supposedly eccentric person. I struggled to shake away the goosebumps that prickled my skin. “Please, follow me into the library where Mast...er...Mister De Ville awaits your company.” Rene had walked to the doorway between the staircases as I gawked at the room. He looked impatient, as I’m sure my late arrival had inconvenienced him. The metal tip of my wooden cane echoed through the empty room as I stepped towards him. I caught Rene looking at it suspiciously. “May I ask, for what use does a young man like yourself have with such an aid?” With much effort I withheld my annoyance and responded politely. I gave a brief explanation of my illness in youth, which had led to my current hindrance. Rene led us around a dark corner and down a narrow hallway. From a doorway at the end, I could see a dark silhouette illuminated by the dancing light of a fire. Rene hurried ahead and disappeared into the room. A deep, booming voice said “Ah, yes, send him in.” Rene reappeared and motioned for me to approach. The grand library awaited me. A roaring fire crackled in a cavernous hearth along one wall, flanked by two wooden chairs with intricate carvings along their frames. The room reeked of ancient books, which sat piled on sagging wooden shelves extending from floor to ceiling. Against the far shelves appeared to be a rusted and tattered hospital gurney. “For my treatments, Mr. Helsnig.” The voice materialized suddenly behind me, giving me fright. I turned to see a tall, pale man looming over me. A black shawl draped from his gangly shoulders. “Ah! Mr. De Ville, it’s nice to finally make your acquaintance!” I struggled to calm my voice. “Are you alarmed by my appearance?” He inquired. His blood-red eyes piercing mine. “No,” I lied, a sheepish attempt to convince us both. “Albinism is a rare and strange affliction, one of many I suffer from, but I’ve accommodated with my unique dwelling.” He raised his arms, gesturing at his mausoleum-like estate, the shawl hanging like giant wings. “Please, Mr. Helsnig, join me at the fireplace. You have travelled so far, and I presume you have many questions to ask of me.” He moved gracefully, as if floating, taking a seat beside the fireplace. I joined him. The hot flames on my face thawed the chill of dreadful nerves. “Well, Mr. De Ville, shall we start with your craft? How does one go about telling someone else’s story, in the manner of their voice?” “Ah, yes, well over much trial and error, I’ve found that it does not suffice to simply listen to one’s story, no matter how brilliantly they can orate the intricacies of their journeys.” De Ville gazed intently into the fire as he spoke. I spied flames dancing in his eyes, and I could swear it was not merely a reflection. He continued with a patient elegance. “I shall perform a demonstration for you tonight, but first, let us hear your other questions.” My concentration wavered as I considered his intentions. I scrambled to collect my thoughts as I continued. “I must say, I’ve marveled over your work, and with your powerful prose, surely you could have fame and fortune if you so desired. Why this profession? Why seek anonymity?” De Ville turned his gaze to me, and his severe expression alerted me that I had struck upon a sensitive subject. “True power lies in the shadows, Mr. Helsnig!” A bitter tone rose in his voice. “Be not foolish enough to reveal oneself to the masses, for you only invite injury. Better to thrive in the darkness.” I let a grave silence settle before I continued. “Pardon me, I don’t mean to be rude, but I must ask. Why invite me to your residence?” De Ville turned to me. White lips wrinkled like maggots pursed into an amused smirk. “Why, haven’t you already guessed? A young man as well traveled and full of experiences as yourself, I’d be a fool to not wish to tell your story. How fortunate am I that you sought me out!” A tremor rang through my heart. De Ville smiled big, and I saw his fangs. Before I could react, the sound of quickening footsteps behind me followed was followed by a dull whack to the back of my head, after which the world went black. I awoke with a blinding headache. My body was strapped down to what I could only assume was the hospital gurney I spied earlier. Sensing a tingling in my right arm, and I lifted my head to see a dark red tube snaking from it. “Ah, I see you’ve awaken!” Mr. De Ville, or whatever name this monster went by, was staring at me from across the room near the fireplace hearth. Rene shuffled over to me and attended to a bandage on my head. “I do apologize for that nasty whack on the head. Rene is a good Familiar, but he tends to get a bit carried away at times with his duties.” After changing my head bandage, Rene bent down and was rummaging with something at my side. Upon standing, I saw him holding a bag of blood, my blood, and he shuffled quickly over to his master. The monster’s eyes lit up and he clasped the bag with his long, bony fingers. He seemed to rise into the air, afloat with pleasure. “Now, Mr. Helsnig, you shall witness my process! In the blood of my subjects, I can taste their personality, smell the successes and failures. I imbibe the very essence of their life. With this, I can flesh out their story as perhaps no one else can.” As the monster lectured, I worked at my wrist restraints. One was loose enough that I hoped to pull my arm free. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of having to dislocate my shoulder to do so, but the alternative was even more unpleasant. “If you would be so kind, Mr. Helsnig, as to regale me with your life story while I sip on your most vital of fluids. Your cooperation will result in a peaceful death, as you slowly weaken and fall into that irreversible sleep after me having drained you completely.” I yelped as I forced my shoulder from it’s socket, nearly fainting from the pain. “Please, do not struggle my dear subject, it only delays our work. Must I appeal to your sensibilities as a writer to convince you? I shall write for you the grandest biography that one could hope for!” Realizing they had not suspected my plan of escape, I played along. “Yes...okay....I will tell my story.” “Excellent,” the monster exclaimed with a hissing sound. Opening his mouth wide, like a snake unhinging its jaw, he bit into the bag of my blood. After a moment, Rene rushed to his master and grabbed at it. “Master, pace yourself!” The monster pulled his mouth away and licked my blood dripping from his chin. “Ah, yes, I can get carried away, ahem...now please, continue...cough, ahem.” The monster lurched into a coughing fit. It clutched it’s throat and glared at me, it’s eyes aflame. “What have you eaten!?” “Ha!” I laughed, stalling for time as I wiggled my wrist free. “You have doomed yourself with a taste for blood!” “Master!?” The familiar yelled, grasping at his side. The monster doubled over, hacking a terrible sound. The familiar turned to me, anger flashing across his face. “What have you done to my master!?” “Hahaha!” I couldn’t contain my glee. “The monster’s throat burns from the garlic and colloidal silver that flows through my veins!” I slipped my hand from the restraint and untied the other. Free of my bondage, I grasped my cane leaning against the bookshelves. Upon seeing my escape, the familiar charged at me, no doubt intent on carrying out deadly revenge. With a swift dodge of his advance, I spun round and swung my weapon, catching him right at the temple with a sickening thud. He collapsed limply to the floor. My heart thumped; my vision tilted as the loss of blood lightened my head. I steadied myself with my cane, sucking deep breaths. My eyes desperately scanned the room for other threats, but the only remaining appeared to be the once great monster who was now reduced to a pitiful heap on the floor, coughing and wheezing and spasming like a caught fish. “Who...haaack....haa.....who...are...haack...you?” The monster weakly rasped. “Face me and I’ll reveal my true self!” I ordered, kicking the monster. It feebly dragged itself to a slumped position against the wall. My blood seeped from the holes burned through it’s throat. “Spare me....haak...and...haack...haaack...I shall...give.....haaack...eternal life!” “Ha! Spare me the offers of your cursed eternal life! My family of mere mortals can live forever through the deeds that each generation visits upon the damned!” I slipped off a protective metal cap to reveal the sharp end of my wooden cane. Standing over the monster, I raised it high with both hands. The monster hissed and threw up a hand in a futile attempt at deflecting my blow. “I shall cast you to hell for your undead deeds against the living! For my true name is Abraham Van Helsing the 6 th , and I continue that which my great, great, great grandfather began so long ago!” With all my strength, I drove the sharpened point through the monsters hand and into its chest. It released a horrendous scream. Fire spontaneously burst forth from its chest and quickly consumed the entire body. The flames of damnation burned quick and hot, quickly reducing the monster to smoldering ash. When I finally peeled my gaze away from the glorious death, I noticed that the Familiar had slipped away. I followed his trail of blood out a back door, where the tire marks in the dirt revealed that he had escaped. I resolved to track him down, for he would surely lead me to another monster. My dear readers, as I have now exposed my identity, my column shall take on a different tact. I may have downed a king of the shadows, but there are many others who lie in wait to take the throne. I do hope you will continue to follow along as I hunt them all. Sincerely, Abe Helsnig, aka Abraham Van Helsing the 6th

"Two Pair! 10s high!" The meaty fist slaps the lawman's cards on the table, causing the dirty glasses and last bottle of whiskey to jump and wobble. The bar is nearly empty this late at night. Or should it be this early in the morning? I don't know and I don't care. All I do know is Mr Crane won't let me flop down on the sacks behind this here bar until all the customers are either upstairs with the girls or finding other homes for their drunken stumbles. Heh, even the girls want these imbeciles to lay it all on the line and finish up. Sandy's been drooped over Marv's shoulder all night, but I swear she's decided to sleep there. I caught her drooling down his lapel three hands back, but he ain't noticing anyhow. He hasn't seen much other than the cards and his drink since a couple hours past midnight. He eyes the turn now, the ungrateful turd of a card he just dealt himself, and curses. I always find it amazing a man can hold so still while cursing and drinking and, well, Mama told me not to use the other word, not even in my own head. No wonder Sandy can sleep on him like that. "It's yours, Burt, if the Scribed don't have nothing better." Oh, damn. The fatigue muddling my head is instantly wiped away by Marv's words. Not this again. Why did I give them that last bottle? Now the Scribed outsider will take offence and he'll pull those guns. Then I'll need to go call Mr Crane to tell him the bar is all shot up and he'll blame it all on me, I know he will. I look from the three me...people at the table, to the balcony for the first floor. Oh, thank you, sweet lord. Angie's there. She'll step in if anything goes down. She might look like the rest of the girls, but one wrong move and they'll be shipping you back to Tombstone in a pine box. The Colt hides behind that stretch of bare back, cocked, locked, and ready to keep the peace. The peace! Please, please don't make her shoot the lawman. I join everyone else in the room in watching the Scribed. No one calls him that, of course. He's either the man with no name or "Pardner" to most. To us that know him, those on his regular route, he's Boneyard Bill, or Bones if yer brave. I'm not brave. Bill lifts his chin and stares Marv in the eye, the orange glow of the light from his socket doing nothing to pierce the drunken fog of his opponent. Slowly, the hard white of his fingers move to lay his two cards down, knuckles clicking againdt the wood as his hand unfolds. "Three of a kind." Bill's voice echoes in the air, deep and resonant, a sound that throbs through every part of your body and soul until it reaches your brain. And it must be Bill's voice, since we hear it when he moves that sigil-carved jawbone of a mouth. No one cares he doesn't have a throat for breath to pass through. When you live on the edge of the Soul Lost Plains, you get used to people like Bill. You get used to it, or you leave. One way--or another. Burt stares at the pair of tens Bill drops. There are only four in the deck, this being a reputable house of disrepute, and they are all visible. His face flushes. His eyes bulge. Suddenly, I pay increasingly more attention to the bet in the middle. Oh, jeezus, no. The flat, silver star sits atop the small pile of favours. It's just possible to make out the word "Deputy" from where I am. I can only imagine what the Sheriff will say when Bill walks into his office, that star pinned to his desert-tan poncho, head bowed so his cowboy hat hides his fleshless, scribed face. He won't bluster, he won't rage. He'll give Burt a whooping he'll never forget and then send Bill out into the plains. And he will go. But, he'll be back, probably with his bounty, and something will need to be done about it. But that isn't what is going to happen. It's going to be worse, I just know it. "Ye cheated." Burt's voice is low, dangerous, carring the conviction of a man who knows he is always in the right. And the fear of a man who's life depends on not being wrong. "You know I didn't." "That's the third time in a row ye had a ten." "How do you know that? You didn't see my cards last round." Burt's face grows redder than I thought possible, and I go looking for the bat. Or a place to hide. "What ya saying, Scribed? You callin' me a... " "Boys." Angie doesn't raise her voice. "Take it outside, m'kay? I don't want to explain to the sheriff why I had to put holes in your clothes, you hear?" Bill turns to Angie, ignoring Burt, who looks ready to ignore the lady. "You don't want that, Angie. You know how I play those games." The chill air ices over between one breath and the next. Even Burt has lost his bluster, red skin now the colour of snow, or that's the colour they tell me it's supposed to be. His eyes drop to the single bullet atop Bill's stack of favours. One of his special bullets. His soul bullets. "You were saying. Lawman." I've heard that tone once before. The time Bill hopped into town, missing a leg, a couple ribs, and half a hip. He hopped to the graveyard and fell on Old Charlie's grave. I didn't see it, but they say he dug the old man up and 'recycled' what wasn't being used. It took three nights for him to finish carving those runes into the bone but, when he was done, he wobbled on out to confront the mob of pitchforks and shotguns. That was the first time I saw the bullets in action. I didn't want to see them again. I didn't want to see the jauntiness return to his step when he was full up again. "Well?" Damn, Burt, back down! Back down and save us all the trouble of explaining this to the sheriff. Instead, colour returns to Burt's face and venom to his words. "You're a cheat, Scribed." Boneyard pushes his chair back and stands, poncho billowing around his skeletal figure. Humerus, ulna, radius, that's what the doc calls them. Arm bones. They snake out, one of those big black pistols held by the guard on the end of a finger. He places it between Burt and himself. "That," he points at the bullet, "And that," he points at the gun, "Are for you. Don't anyone say I didn't make it fair. When the clock strikes Rise -- we draw." No one moves when he leaves, saloon gate swinging as he passes. One breath. Two breaths. "Who do you want to tell your ma?" "Angie..." "Who do you want to tell her, Burt? Someone will have to." "I got this. This time we're on even footing. I'm same as him." Angie shakes her head and turns to her door, probably to watch from her window. "You're not the same, Burt. You ran and hid the time he came to the cemetery. You didn't see what he done. You didn't see what he is." Her eyes are haunted, their hollowness visible from here. "I'll tell her for you. I'll spare her your stupidity." Burt stares after her, then at the weapon. Slowly, he picks it up, breaks open the magazine and loads the cartridge. All the while, his hands shake. He doesn't look at anyone. No one looks at him. "I got this." He starts for the exit, stumbles, straightens, pushes the gate apart. Leaves. Silence reigns. Marv continued his statue act all the way through. 'Til now. Together, we race for the door and I only just note Sandy's chin smacking into the seatback as he moves. I don't think she was awake long enough to be aware of what's happening. It's later, earlier, than I thought. False dawn has past and the pinks and purples of morning's first light already streak the skies, fleeing before the rolling thunder of Dawn's Cavalry on the move. The clouds of dust their charge kicks are easily visible, and I pray we won't be dealing with a soul storm today on top of everything else. No warnings were issued, but it's long past due for one. Burt stands in the centre of Main Street, Bill down by the old church. He's quiet and still, feet spread, shoulders...well, I have to say loose. His face is hidden under his hat, the brim bowed to cover it. He might be grinning, maybe smirking. Can skeletons smirk? He faces the cavalry, appearing ready to meet them in battle, instead of defending his honour against a drunkard. We all watch, wait. The sky lightens. The cavalry charges. The air is still. Then, they are upon us, their spectral mounts flashing across empty space, their silent cries echoing from open mouths. They twirl their sabres and kick long-gone spurs into longer-gone flanks. They tear past us--through us--the wave of dust following in their wake, the only physical manifestation of their existence, fleeing before the oncoming light. And, just like that, they are gone again, the dust billowing around us, slowly turning to motes of purest crystal as dawn breaks across the town. My gaze darts between the combatants and the line crawling up the bell tower, creeping ever close to the old toller. Burt's fingers twitch. Bill doesn't move a non-existent muscle. The line inches closer. Burt's legs tense. He's ready to act. Angie's right. He fled. He hadn't seen. She would need to tell his mum. Finally, the rays strike the bell and, for the first time today, its silver chime rings out over the land. Burt dives. Bill fires. If it were a normal bullet, he might have survived. It isn't. A spray of colour bursts from Bill's barrel, streams of light putting the sun's recent performance to shame. They twist, and turn, and form beautiful horrors from nightmares. Flying skulls, dead unicorns, demons leaping from unseen air pocket to air pocket. They are their own cavalry charge, and they have spotted their enemy. Burt doesn't scream; he doesn't have a chance. He has barely enough time to realise what's happening before they are upon him, ripping his soul from his body, snatching it away and roaring into the sky. Their cries and cackles are unheard, but I know I will hear them. Eventually. In my nightmares. Bill calmly lowers his pistol, raising his canteen in the other hand. He says something then; I know not what. But the spirits hear him. And, though they struggle and plead, they return to the skeleton, drawn to that bottle. It takes forever and no time at all to shackle them to their master, who sends them somewhere only he has ever been. When the last vanishes from view, he raises the canteen to his jaw and drinks deeply of the nothing. Wiping his arm across his face, he shuts the lid and strides to where what was once Bill lies, retrieving the pistol from the body's loose grip. "Get me his star, Davey. I got a sheriff I need to talk to." I do what I am told.

Nathan had a conundrum. The glass globe that mapped the entire planet - which he had dropped and shattered - was missing! The last place he recalled having it was while infiltrating the militancy hall in Droon. He'd been in the back alley trying to piece the broken - well pieces - together. What had happened after that? He had no memory of the moments after, which deeply disturbed him. To distract himself he stomped a rock into the soil of his personal floating island. Displaced dirt was pushed out of the edge in influence from his runes and fell off onto the forest below. “Well, that’s okay.” Nathan inspected the runes by stroking his finger through the groove in his totem. He traced them all the way to the dirt it was wedged into. “Fine calculations I believe.” He was a genius. The totem wasn’t even centered and he still kept the chunk of earth level. “Now let’s see, I wonder where the pieces have gone. Someone might have stolen them. Maybe sold them off for a large fortune.” He had no way to track the pieces. They weren’t homing crows. So would he ever find them again? He might have to give up and spend his life on something more meaningful. At least he had the portion that showed most of this continent. The town west of Droon would be good. He recalled visiting there once. He’d been surprised how much news came through there. “Maybe I will find a young lady asking the local glass blower for the remains of a glass globe to be repaired. By which time I will arrive and sit with my drink. After overhearing the young lady I will approach (in a not perverted way) and offer my assistance. Namely my financial backing. I would pay for the repairs. Then with the glass map, we will join on an adventure together and become fast friends before using the globe to end the Terror of the Militancy once and for all.” Nathan was keenly aware of the plot holes and cli·chés in his story. Once the town was in sight he lowered his personal island into the forest to its south. The mountains and hills in the distances evened out and fell away as he lowered under the tops of trees. He was in the midst of the quiet forest when he crashed to the ground. The island collapsed into a heap of grass and rock and dirt with his totem askew. There was no other way to land. He brushed himself off. His fine coat was dirty now; about right for someone who had traveled on the road. He was grateful for the cover. As for the totem he hoisted it and shuffled a sack under it and sat to rest. He was sweaty thirty ticks later when he was done. Even better, it was summer after all. When he took a step up to the main road through the town, a woman ran out of a building on his right. “Haha! We usually get the best news by scroll, but this time the news walked itself in!” Nathan froze. Did she know him? “Hah! Well, bring your strange log in and tell us about it!” The woman turned and walked back into the building. Nathan followed her. This would probably be exactly where he’d want to be. Past the door, Nathan looked up at the sky. What did they do when it rained? “Terral! I’ve got him!” Nathan laughed. “You have me. Now...uh... do you have anything for me?” “Hahahah!” “Hehe.” A light and feminine voice laughed. “I’m Arri. Tell me something more interesting than the news out of Droon, and I’ll feed you and rehydrate you.” Nathan took a seat at the long table under a canopy. He shuffled his butt on the well-worn stool. A plate of grains and root vegetables steamed up between him and the women sitting across from him. They all smiled. “Looks good.” He pushed the plate aside. They all leaned in. Terral had an eager look on her face. “This is definitely going to be juicy.” Nathan took a sip of the drink they’d served him. “The totem I lugged here? That’s a rune totem I carved myself.” Terral’s eyes were so rapt with attention that Nathan felt the heat of a blush rise to his face. “What’s the totem do?” Her light and now breathless voice made his heart beat faster. What was this? “Ah...uh, the totem. I use this for transportation.” Nathan took a bite off the plate while they pondered his words. Terral looked at the other woman. “I think this news is fabricated.” “Maybe he’d find comfort among the other fabricated stories.” “Oh you’re right. He’d be all nice and cozy.” Nathan chose to eat his generous meal and ignore the banter. He knew they spoke of the scrolls hung behind him. He’d been bullied enough to know not to react. After finishing the drink he had food remaining. He accepted an offer for a refill. While Arri went to fetch more, He stood and turned around to walk up and read the scrolls that hung on the far wall. Terral came up next to him while he skimmed the various news reports. She respected his focus by watching silently. After he had skimmed all the news, Arri came up on his other side with a cup. He moved to accept it but she shook her head. “Yours ‘s on the table.” Then she tossed the contents on the scroll in front of her. As the liquid soaked in, the ink ran. Nathan turned toward her in shock. He heard a giggle behind him. “It’s water.” “Water...” He looked at the scroll soaking into the fabric. Not parchment as he’d assumed. She jerked the cup up again and more water ran the news away. Nathan watched as some drops fell into a divet in the ground where the bottoms of the scrolls were weighed down. Someone new suddenly burst in and hurried over. “The news! Arri! It’s not even raining. what’d you wash it away for?” “This is yesterday's news. Stay a while and enjoy the company of your neighbors. Today’s news will arrive shortly. Do I ever tolerate a late runner?” “No. no, you don't, you can be trusted. I’ll have what he’s having.” While the other man took a seat, Terral replaced him and felt one of the fabrics. “She washes the news away early, so folks come from all over the village and sometimes even Droon and the outlying homes to keep in the know. She’s brought a suspicious community together in a really clever way, I think.” Terral gave him a look. He didn’t know what the look meant, but none of the news would help him. He looked at her, tried to remember her name, but failed. He spoke to the air instead. “I lost a glass map of the planet. I’m looking for the pieces.” “Wow, a globe? Those are so expensive. Who even needs one? Nobody’s going to cross the ocean.” “No, I think they are still on this continent. I dropped it and it shattered. I have a good memory, but not after that moment. Here, I have a piece. He pulled out a concave shard of glass and held it up for her. “Let’s take that to the table so you don’t drop it again.” At the table Nathan pointed out the geographic etches in the glass. The woman felt the smooth oceans and the rough continents. So why do you need a globe? Are you trying to learn about the other continents?” “Well I can still learn about this continent with the part I have. Yes, the other parts are necessary if I want to get back to the academy.” “Academy... The University in Droon?” “No, this one is out in the ocean.” “Out there? Ships don’t even leave sight of the shore. How will you get there? Wait back? So you’ve already been there?” Nathan nodded. “Would you like to see how? “ “Arri. a break?” “Sure thing Terral! As long as you tell me all about your date!” Terral. That was her name. He’d remember it now. Nathan guided her out to the forest again. Terral was keeping pace with his long and quick stride. She kept her face turned away from him. Was she blushing too? He picked a flat and empty lot with plenty of healthy grass, where he dragged the totem out of the sack. With a heave of his totem he pegged it into the soil right through the grass. Terral watched him trace the runes from top to bottom. The runes were carved all around the totem and connected by smaller grooves like elegant veins. After his finger passed a glow lit up the runes. Once he reached the base of the totem, the ground broke up around them. They rose on the chunk of earth and had to kneel from the sudden movement. Nathan gestured for her to hold onto the totem. Once high enough to see over the rooftops Nathan eased the amount of runic influence on the island. They stood suspended directly above the empty lot. Terral waved at the people in the open air news hub. They pointed and waved back. This was sure to be news that would get him into trouble again. That was good because he wouldn’t find those globe pieces easily. Terral sat and said, “What if you never find the other pieces?” “Well the naive stories of gathering the parts of a relic and saving the world are very unrealistic. I’d need an anchor linked to this totem to move horizontally. Otherwise I can only levitate a small piece of ground Directly up. The globe has a link to Flor’eliant zherself. That’s how I anchored to the forest nearby. His “date” looked past him in thought. A smile lit up her face, “You are clearly a genius at using runes. You could try making your own map.” “That wouldn’t be enough. I’d need a deep connection to the elements. The globe isn’t runic magic itself. I have no idea how it was made....” A short woman walked into the the news hub and sat at and empty seat. she dumped a pile of broken junk in front of her and began placing them in an organized arrangement. Nathan turned to Terral. “Does this town have any maps of the area? “ “Are you going to make your own globe?” “No, I’m going to try a different way to anchor the totem to the land in the ocean. “So giving up on finding the glass parts?” “Not quite, but I think that local maps might even have a better connection to the planet. “Arri!” “What!?” “This Nathan man wants maps!” “I’ve many not very useful ones.” Terral looked at him. “Well mister Nathan. Want to look?” Nathan smiled. “Even old or outdated maps could help.” Nathan and his new companion perused the maps in a room behind the news hub that did have a roof. While they grew excited, the newcomer was placing glass pieces together that represented waves and other images in glass. She tried in vain to solve the mystery of the images. In frustration she slid everything into a pack and left the hub at a brisk walk. “All right, do you mind helping me home?” A great vine rose out of the soil on the outskirts of the town. The woman was lifted high in the air and carried away across the land. The great vine wove and entered the earth in long-reaching arcs. As one portion descended another rose for the woman to hop onto. In this manner she quickly traveled past the city of Droon to the east, then turned north and with her went the shards of a glass globe. Deeper inland, and north to the city of Amnyl where she would return to her pursuit of the past. “We’ll find out what you are yet, little artifact.” She patted her pack with optimism. Back at the town, two strangers peered over old and new maps with a fervor of those engaging in novel and intellectual pursuits. Forgotten was Nathan’s dreary voyage across the land. Forgotten was Terral’s lonely yearning for news abroad. In a cramped room they shared a new journey. A journey much like the one a young mechanist had embarked on at the workshops of his university. Three journeys that shared a single thread.

“Yela?” A woman in black business slacks and teal silk top looked at me. “Yes?” “You can follow me.” So I did. We left the testing room of plain walls and hard chairs. As she introduced herself as a nameless director, she led me through wandering hallways. We had been walking through this maze for ten minutes, when we arrived at two wooden doors and she said, “Welcome to the Gut Camp!” I followed her past the gates four times my height and was greeted with a garden of trees, flowers, rocks, birds, butterflies, and ponds. Somehow when the doors shut behind me, all other noises disappeared. I only heard the fluttering of wings and the trickle of water. “Yela,” she started. “Your gut tested so well during the entrance exams. We think you would thrive as a part of this program.” At 18, every citizen of Wastan completed in-depth personality tests to determine how they would best benefit society. I could’ve been placed with the Heart or Brains or Brawn schools, but I was assigned to the Gut tribe. We were picked for our instincts, not our digestive health. She guided me through a tour of the place, while painting daydreams of me leading national and global initiatives. As others passed us, I noticed creatures following them. They acted like dogs but didn’t look like them. One creature didn’t look like any other. Some were big, and some were small. Some slid, and some flew. Some drew me in, and some inspired me to look away. “Yela.” We stepped onto a platform of a gazebo-esque structure. It looked wooden, but it felt like clouds under my feet. “I’d like you to meet your companion. This is Hunch.” She stepped to the side and revealed my creature: a purple bowling ball with eyes, a mouth, paws, and feet. “I’m pleased to meet you, Yela,” they spoke. I gasped. “I’m sorry.” “No worries,” they said. “Meeting your companion for the first time can be shocking.” They bowed with the little neck they had. “Yela,” the director chimed in. “Hunch represents your purest intuition. They will support you through your training and career as a leading mind and decision maker. In 15 minutes, you two must pass the gut test.” “What’s the gut test?” I asked. “You and Hunch will be interviewed and measured for compatibility and cooperation. It’s like a routine doctor’s visit, nothing to worry about. Plus, the connection should come naturally for the two of you.” I looked at Hunch, and they smiled at me. “I will leave you two and return in 15 minutes for your exam.” As the director nodded and glided away, a bird-like creature landed on her shoulder. I wished my companion could fly. I kicked the air, as if a rock was at my feet. I walked along the gazebo’s edge and looked over at Hunch. They were still. “So how exactly do we prepare for this test?” “We must trust ourselves.” “Have you done one of these before?” “No, I was created to pair with you and no one else.” “Really? How old are you?” “Age does not concern me.” I scoffed and dragged my fingers across the bars of the railing. “Assuming that you have not been around long, do you even know what you’re doing?” “One does not know. One simply does.” “Unbelievable,” I scoffed. “Hunch, you’ve got to give me more than inspirational quotes.” “Greed makes one foolish.” “Ridiculous,” I laughed and threw up my hands. “Can I get a new companion?” “No.” “Thank you, Captain Obvious.” “My name is Hunch.” I looked at them and their stone-cold, serious face. No quivering smile. All business. “This must be a mistake.” I strode around the garden, arms swinging. I scanned for the director. I exhaled like a peeved dragon and strode some more. I heard a noise behind me, like a helicopter rotor spinning. I looked over my shoulder to see Hunch pattering a few yards back, like the toy group contestants of a dog show. I rolled my eyes. How was that thing designed to help me pass this test? Just then, I spotted the director. Despite the tranquil surroundings, I ran across the garden. The helicopter behind me picked up speed. Once I got to her, I said, “Director,” and paused to catch my breath. Then, I heard a shaky slide whistle below, and at my feet sat a panting Hunch. I shook my head. “Director, there’s been a mistake.” “What kind of mistake?” “Hunch can’t be my companion.” “But Hunch is your companion.” “No, Hunch can’t be. We don’t get along.” “That’s common for a student’s first meeting with their companion.” “But,” I replied, as I dug around my brain for a rebuttal. Then, a high-pitched gong rang next to my ear. I looked up to see the director’s assistant holding a four-inch gong and mallet. “It is time for your gut test,” the director said. “Now?” I questioned, as Hunch began to hum. “But we need more time.” They followed the director and assistant, leaving me behind. “We can’t go now.” They walked toward this wooden beast of a structure, like the queen gazebo, decorated with vines and flowers. “We won’t pass.” Despite my reluctance, I was pulled forward by the director’s drive. No eyes looked back at me. Not one of them glanced over their shoulder. Then, I tripped and fell into a flower bed. As I spat out petals, I brushed dirt off my jeans. I looked up to see Hunch shaking like a dog that was caught in a rainstorm. “Hunch?” “Yes?” “Did I trip over you?” “Yes.” “I’m sorry.” With my hands dangling, I let my arms rest on my knees. “It was merely an accident. Rising again will be a testament to your persistence.” They held out their hand-paw hybrid. I scoffed. “How can you help me up? My microwave’s taller than you.” “I believe I can. I feel I can, so I will.” They stretched their arm out to me. I sighed, grabbed their hand, and was pulled up. It was smooth, unlike a yank. Hunch managed so much strength that I almost fell into the next flower bed, but I remembered my balance and strength this time. I turned around and looked at Hunch smiling. “Woah, how did you --” “I already told you,” they said and shuffled to meet the director. I shook off more dirt and nerves, while running and catching up. Making sure I could see Hunch ahead of me, I walked onto the platform. The director sat in an empty chair between two other officials. They all had an air of earned importance. They looked others in the eyes, despite the difference in position. It was as if there was no hierarchy. Hunch stood before the panel and nodded to the spot next to them. I hurried to my place. We bowed to the panel. They bowed in return. “Hunch,” the director started. “Do you trust Yela?” “Yes,” they answered with the little chin they had held high. “Yela, do you trust Hunch?” I used my peripheral vision to check in on them. Chin still as high as ever. I answered, “Yes.” “Yela,” she said. “Do you trust yourself?” Unaware that I’d be tested on myself, I was thrown a surprise party without any streamers or cake. I gawked like a fish out of water. Everyone looked at me, but Hunch stayed forward. That nub of a chin did not falter. Noticing a new warmth and moisture in my armpits, I stuttered, “I think so.” Equipped with invisible magnifying glasses, everyone leaned in, but no one said a word. There was nothing like silence that made me want to fill the space. “I’m pretty sure I do. I mean I do. I do trust myself. Most days. Almost always. You know, humans. We mess up. Like last week! Last week, I spilled coffee on my mom’s couch. That was stupid. She was mad. Oof, she was mad.” “Yela,” the director grounded me. “Yes, ma’am?” “Do you trust yourself?” There was nothing like someone repeating their question that made me doubt myself. “Director,” Hunch said. “May I have a moment with Yela?” She nodded. Hunch turned to me, and I knelt down. “Yela?” “Hunch?” “Do you believe you can trust yourself?” I looked at the waiting panel and turned back to my companion. “I think so. I just hate having the focus on me.” “That’s right. You should focus on yourself.” I shook my head. “Hunch, that’s not what I --” “Thank you, Director.” They ended our conversation and turned forward, leaving me to pick up my jaw and rise again all on my own. “Yela,” she started. “Do you trust yourself?” When I was a young girl, I believed I could fly. I would sprint, flap my arms, and jump from anything I could. I once made it to the roof of our house, but my mom spotted me before I could make any big moves. I believed I could, and for a second -- leaping from a tree -- I was airborne. “Yela?” “Yes!” I shouted, inspired by the internal monologue that no one else heard. “I apologize for the outburst, ma’am.” “It’s alright. I like the enthusiasm.” She smiled. “I will ask again. Yela, do you trust yourself?” “Yes,” I answered with a chin high like Hunch’s. Our army of two was ready to take on the world. Just then, I felt something wrap around my leg. I looked down and saw Hunch hugging my calf. “Are you alright?” “I am proud of you.” I smiled and felt like flying again. “Yela and Hunch,” the director said. “You have passed your trust test. You are free to go, but please stay close.” Hutch tightened their grip on my leg. “Thank you, Director,” I bowed. “But what am I supposed to do now?” “Whatever you’d like, until you are called for your next exam. It won’t be long.” She and the other panelists bowed and left for other business. I looked down again. “Hunch?” “Yela?” “Are you going to let go?” “I do not want to let go of this feeling. Not yet.” They snuggled and squeezed. I smiled and looked up to the sky filtering through the roof’s beams. One day, Hunch and I would learn how to fly.

In our small town in the middle of nowhere, there was a girl named Vita. Vita was known by all who lived there, but not in a good way. Many of the townspeople called Vita and her mother the Water family. Any problem or weird occurrence was usually blamed on the Water's, as they had a bad reputation and they were associated as devil worshippers. The reason why they felt this way was because Vita’s mother claimed that her daughter was cursed as a child by some kind of demonic being. This claim alone left many people to start rumors about the family. Later once they found out what the curse was, the family was then ridiculed and made a joke. Inevitably causing them to keep to themselves. I always found the curse claimed to be put on Vita rather odd as well, which made the rumors understandable. I had grown up with Vita understanding her lifestyle and becoming what seemed like her only friend. She was a sweet person and she had a strong personality to her. She knew how people in town felt about her and she used it to her advantage. Claiming the devil will “kill” them if they kept spreading rumors. Of course, I learned this was all just a joke to her; her real goal was to get people to leave her alone. She knew no devil was going to kill them, but she did tell me there was one that would kill her. Vita's curse is that she cannot be submerged in water unless another living being was in the water as well. It may sound complicated but Vita herself has explained it to me in detail. For example, she explained that she is not allowed to bathe alone. She would always have to have a goldfish or other animal in the bathwater first, or another person in the water with her. Vita says if she follows this rule then she is safe, but claims if she is ever submerged in water without following this rule, the demon Stagnoram will find her and take her. To help prevent this from happening simple locks were also placed on all the faucets in the home. A simple turn and click could unlock them but this helped deter Vita from turning the water on without being prepared. The constant use of fish in Vita’s life caused her to be quite fond of them. They made her feel “safe,” she told me. This caused the family to make constant trips to the pet store, as many fish would eventually die due to use. Vita had many, many funerals for the fish, and she cried at every single one. Her backyard encased a small hill and at the base, she had a fish cemetery where the funerals took place. Of course, this curse did not apply to drinking water; she was safe in that aspect. Only when her body was submerged or covered in water would she be in danger. Therefore, whenever there was a rainy day Vita was always in the dry safety of her home. Due to unpredictable weather, whenever she went out she always carried an umbrella and a rain poncho in a small shoulder bag, just in case she had to cover herself quickly and find shelter to avoid water. In her house, there were fish everywhere. Around every corner and on almost every table stood a small glass jar with a goldfish in each one. She told me these fish are there in case of emergencies, whatever that means. Besides living by this rule, Vita and her mother had a very normal life, and they were amazingly kind people. If only the people in town could see just how normal they were. I always wanted to believe Vita, and I told her I did, but deep down I still felt like she could not be cursed. Now looking back, I wish I had believed her... It all happened one day when Vita’s mother asked me if I would spend the day with her because she had to leave for a work opportunity and could not take Vita with her. She would be gone until the next day, so her mother asked me to look out for her and keep her away from water. Of course, I accepted and proceeded to spend the day with Vita. She and I started the midday by heading to a local diner to eat out. We chose to order our food then find a nice spot outside in the sunshine. It was a beautiful day that day and the smoothies tasted better than usual. Sitting at our table near the diner, I began to see a sliver of movement in the distance. Behind Vita emerging from the corner, a group of boys quickly shuffled along carrying a large bucket filled to the brim with water. I immediately jumped into action trying to stop them. “No!” I yelled, but before I could get to them, it was already too late. The boys dumped the bucket of water onto Vita’s head. She screamed. Her scream was so loud and terrifying that it shook me. Everyone in the entire town probably heard her piercing cry. It caused the young boys to stumble and quickly retreat around the corner, snickering and making jokes as they ran away. Vita, with her now soaked black hair and drenched clothing, began to panic. Her eyes widened and her face strained in a way I have never seen before. It was as if what they did to her mentally broke her momentarily. Suddenly I could hear a deep sound all around us. It was like a vibration but it coursed through the air. You could feel it pressing against the outside of you like a shirt that you could not see, but you could still feel the weight of it. It grew in volume and intensity when finally, it became what sounded like a voice. “*So that’s where you have been*...” The voice emanated from nowhere but everywhere at the same time, almost as if I could hear it, but only inside my head. It was a low whisper but its tone was something unforgettable. It was deeper than any voice I had ever heard, but it could not have been human. It felt sinister. Vita looked directly at me. Tears in her eyes. “I need to get home. It found me.” The words barely escaped her lips. “You heard it too?” I asked her. The feeling of fear began to swell within me now. I was not the only one who heard that awful sound. That voice. It sounded pure evil. I was hoping it was just my mind playing tricks on me. Something like this could not possibly happen. It could not be real, this was all just some crazy trick or game she was playing on me. “He’s coming. We have to go.” Vita exclaimed. “Who is coming? Are you playing tricks on me, Vita? Is this all some kind of game to you?” She stood up and looked at me. Her face wore a look of disappointment. “Out of everyone I thought you would always believe me.” her voice cracked as she said it. She sighed and turned away, beginning to walk toward her home leaving me behind. I stood there for a moment feeling guilty as hell. In her weakest moment, I was not there for her. Then practically called her a liar about her curse. I pulled myself together and began running to catch up to her. I caught up to her and patted her back. “You’re going to be ok, don’t worry.” I tried to reassure her, and at the same time, I felt I was reassuring myself as well. Vita looked at me and gave a small smile, but sadness still lingered in it. “Stagnoram is coming to kill me now thanks to those stupid boys who don’t understand. They don’t understand anything. They have no idea what they’ve done to me!” Her voice was stern and harsh now. I could tell that she was first scared, but is now filled with anger at the situation. I followed her silently as we approached her house allowing her to yell and vent along the way. She shoved the door to her house open as she entered. As soon as she did, the sky cracked and it began to rain. “Well that’s just great isn’t it!” she yelled in an angry sarcastic tone as she threw her bag onto the couch. I walked in and closed the door behind me. Vita grabbed a towel and began drying herself off. “You’re gonna be ok right?” I asked her. She turned to me as she was wringing her hair out. “No. Something terrible is probably going to happen.” As soon as she said it, lightning flashed near the window. The loud crack of thunder echoed through the house. The sound of rain began growing into a noisy static. “Can you check the weather?” Vita asked. “Sure.” I walked to the living room and turned on the TV, switching to the news. As soon as it flickered on, I was taken back. “Flooding?” I whispered it. Vita ran over and snatched the remote out of my hand turning up the volume. “Evacuation efforts have been taken. Nine inches of rain is predicted with some areas facing even heavier rain.” The news anchor spoke as they displayed footage of our town being hit by a major flash flood. Parts just near us were already beginning to have issues as water began entering people’s homes. “He is on to me... He found me... I know it, he found me.” Her voice was shaky and I could tell she was scared. The sound of the rain began to get louder now. “I need to tell my mother what happened, that he knows where I am.” She picked up the home phone and began dialing. As soon as she did, we lost power and everything went dark. Vita let out a small shriek in the darkness. I made my way to her as my eyes slowly began to adjust and I could finally see around me. I reached her and tried to calm her down. We stood there in silence for a long time. Eventually, the streetlights outside began to buzz as they powered on, allowing us more light to see. The rain and thunder raged intensely as we stood there. “Let’s distract ourselves.” I halfheartedly suggested hoping to release the tension. “How about goldfish?” Vita exclaimed joyfully. She turned to me with a spark in her eye. “I’m totally gonna win” she taunted me as she began setting up the card game on the small coffee table. “You’re on!” I laughed as I challenged her. The tension in the air seemed to be broken now, and Vita almost acted as if she forgot about her curse entirely. However, the joy did not last for long. Soon we began to see water leaking through the bottom of the front door. Vita immediately grabbed sandbags from a small closet and began stacking them in front of the door. “Get all the doors leading outside.” She handed me large bags of sand as she asked. “Where did you get all this stuff?” I asked her as I set bags in front of the back door. “I’m always prepared for water.” She sighed as she said it. After putting bags in front of every door leading outside, we regrouped in the living room. The bags were working well, keeping the water at bay for now. All was well but an odd sound began to grow in the distance. I cocked my head to the side and began listening intently. I know this sound; I had heard the same sound at the diner. The deep vibration that grew into some otherworldly voice. Thinking of the voice made me shudder. It sounded as if the vibration was getting closer and closer to the house. Vita quickly grabbed her bag and put on a yellow see-through rain poncho. She unsheathed her umbrella and began pointing it around like a weapon. “Where the hell are you Stagnoram?” she yelled into the air, looking around in every direction. “I know you have been waiting for this moment a long time, but I won’t go without a fight!” her face was serious and her poise was strong. She was ready for a fight. Her seriousness brought fear to me. It validated the fear I had felt earlier when hearing that dark voice. It made the situation more real than I ever thought it could be. Yet, even with all this fear, I still deep down felt skeptical of it all. The sound of the vibrations began to intensify now. It seemed to make the walls shake lightly. I affiliated the cause of the shaking walls with the storm but Vita’s was mind was made up. It was not just a storm shaking the house; it was Stagnoram coming for her. The walls began shaking even more violently now. It caused me to think maybe it was not just the storm, but before I could express the idea further a loud metallic bang was heard a few rooms away, followed by the sound of spraying water. I quickly ran to the source of the sound. Inside the bathroom, Vita’s showerhead had somehow burst. Water was spraying out in every direction. I reached for the faucets to turn the water off but they were not on to begin with. How could this be happening? I began to wonder to myself, completely confused by what was happening. Vita stood outside the doorway avoiding the spray. “the waters not on is it?” Her voice was calm and collected now. I turned to her. “No the water isn’t on,” I responded hesitantly. “Then it’s true... Stagnoram really has found me.” Her voice quivered and shook once again. The words came out almost as a whisper. I myself began to panic as well. These weird turn of events and Vita's state of fear began spreading to me. “Like hell, he’s not.” I tried to say it with confidence. I then grabbed a nearby towel and tied it in a knot over the broken showerhead. Water still leaked but it was much more manageable now. I walked out of the bathroom and closed the door behind me. “For now we avoid this room,” I told her. We walked to the living room and things quickly took a turn for the worst. The front door suddenly burst open. Water quickly began filling the house leaving the kitchen already in an inch of water. “Don't leave the water!” Vita screamed. She grabbed her umbrella tightly and began smashing the glass jars holding the goldfish. “You thought I didn’t plan for this?” she yelled as she smashed more fish bowls. The goldfish landed safely in the water and swam about. The water now filled the entire house almost four inches deep. My shoes up to my ankles were completely underwater. Vita looked at me with fierce intensity in her eyes. “Don’t you dare leave this water without me. I’ll die.” Her tone was something unforgettable. It was something she asked from the bottom of her heart and I felt it. “I won’t leave you,” I told her. I was beginning to feel many things now. Fear, anxiety, and helplessness. I could not rationally explain what was happening but at the same time, I was already coming up with answers in my head to normalize the situation. Once again, mentally I was not prepared to take the responsibility of keeping her truly safe. At that moment, the ceiling began to shake violently. Swaying back and forth almost as if the roof would collapse any moment. It was like the universe had read my mind and felt my fear responding to it. Lightning flashed brightly leaving everything white for a split moment. It had struck the roof. Its deafening ring left me dazed for a moment. The roof now was splitting and beginning to crack. “RUN!” I yelled to Vita, and just as I had the ceiling finally gave way. It came crashing down smashing everything underneath it. I quickly ran out the front door and fell, landing on my hands and knees deep in the water. The impact left me breathless for a moment. The rain was heavy and my entire body was soaked in seconds. I pulled myself up out of the water and quickly began looking around for Vita. I ran to the back yard. I looked around and then up and finally saw her. She stood on the top of the small hill in her backyard. The water was still up to her feet even on the hill. Umbrella drawn and wearing her rain poncho, she looked upwards to the sky, and I could see in the distance, she began to cry. I yelled her name, but the sound of the storm was too loud. Somehow, though she managed to hear me. She turned to me and gave a soft smile. In that moment, it was as if time was standing still. I could see every raindrop falling to the ground in slow motion. I felt like everything was going to be ok. As if it were all just a game and that the next day, we would be looking back at this laughing. That feeling quickly subsided. It all happened so fast but it felt like I watched it for a lifetime. Around Vita’s feet, dark black claws began reaching out of the water. They surrounded her like a mouth about to swallow her whole. It rose higher and higher revealing that the claws belonged not to a mouth but to multiple hands. They were long and skinny with fingers stretched much longer than they should be. Its skin was black and leathery with deep enlarged veins pulsating rhythmically. The hands surrounded Vita and rose still even higher. Some of the hands were reaching almost as high as her now. Still, I could not see what foul body was attached to these limbs. A dark black webbing made of what looked like thin skin began enveloping her feet around her. She looked at me for the last time. Tears in her eyes. I stood there watching her. I felt powerless as complete and utter fear took over my body. I felt paralyzed by what I was witnessing. Something not of this world, and I did not have the courage to withstand it. Vita began to say something, but just as she did, she screamed. In a split second, I watched as the long-clawed hands grabbed at her body. The black webbing quickly wrapped itself around her ankles digging into her skin. The hands, each grabbing hold plunged her into the dark black water beneath her. As quickly as she went into the water. A fountain of deep red color rose from where she once stood. It sprayed her blood all across the yard like a sprinkler in the summer. I was now drenched in her blood and the only thing I could do was scream. I slowly stumbled my way towards the hill and fell to the ground where she was plunged down. I began clawing at the dirt, shoveling it with my hands. I trying to find her, to find Vita. In the end, I kept digging for nothing. She was gone. But I didn't want to accept it. It all happened too fast, and I never fathomed anything like that could have ever existed in the first place. If only I had truly believed her... Years have passed now and everything is very different. I moved away and started a brand new life. One not associated with what happened on the hill. There is one thing that hasn’t ever left me since that day. My fear of being alone in the water. Ever since I have been living the same lifestyle Vita had for her whole life. My faucets have locks on them, and my house always has a goldfish near and ready. Sometimes during storms, I hear the vibrations again. They slowly pull at my windows and knock at my doors. If I am brave enough I will put my ear to the door and listen carefully. Sometimes I can hear it making the strangest sounds. One time I was listening, it even conjured up its voice again. It still chilled me to the bone when I heard it. It only spoke one word, overwhelming me with fear. “*Stagnoram.

First creative writing I've done in several years. I finally feel my spark coming back after fighting through a bout of depression. It's cold. I can see the water particles in my breath freeze as I breathe. They have breached the main hull, knocking out life support. I am huddled behind a desk in a side room off the bridge, blaster in hand, eye on the bridge entry. Ready to blast the first thing that comes in. Lights are off, power knocked out, too. The only light I have is the occasional red glow of the emergency strips along the walls, illuminating the dead crew strewn around the bridge. "Warning. Delta protocol enacted. Self-destruct will commence in T-minus three minutes and twenty-five seconds" I grit my teeth. I refuse to die here, alone in a strange nebula, in this cold, metal grave. The ship automatically initiated the self-destruct protocol when we were boarded. 5 minutes. 5 minutes until this thing explodes, taking them with it. But not me. I refuse. I hear a noise from the hallway. As if the mandibles on a giant bug were clicking together. I shivered. These creatures were things from a nightmare. A nightmare I must escape from. "Warning. Delta protocol enacted. Self-destruct will commence in T-minus two minutes and fifteen seconds" I exhaled sharply. I didn't realize I had been holding my breath. I had 2 minutes to reach the escape pod. It was right around the corner. If I could rush out, distract the invaders with a few shots from my blaster, I could make it. Close off the airlock, and escape in the pod. I only needed about 60 seconds to do it. I narrowed me eyes, mustering up all the courage I had left, and channeling my almost crippling fear into energy. "Warning. Delta protocol enacted. Self-destruct will commence in T-minus one minute and forty-five seconds" I can do this. "For the Sovereignty. For Vandor!" I raised my blaster, it's steel cool against my hand, giving me strength. I stood and ran for the door of the bridge, firing off a round of blasts to clear my way. I heard screeching. I must have hit one of the bugs! As I charged through the gaping holes in the bridge door, I was almost caught by a black mandible as a creature reached for my neck. I managed to twirl around and doge it, letting off a few more shots in it's general direction. Hissing from the creature. I ran a down the hallway, dodging sparking panels and downed pipes from the ceiling. I could see the door! I was almost there! I reached out to open it. Suddenly, I felt something grab my waist. It was tight, hard, and pulling back from the door. It was one of the creatures. "Warning. Delta protocol enacted. Self-destruct will commence in T-minus one minute and fifteen seconds" "No!" I screamed. I will NOT die here! I lifed my hand to fire off a round into the creature's face. No blaster! I must have dropped it when it grabbed me! It hissed, hot hair blowing into my face. The smell of death. I couldn't make out it's full form in the dark, but from the occasional spark or flash of red from the emergency panels, I could tell it was black, shiney, with many eyes looking at me. Its mouth was a hole with two large pinchers on either end, and many smaller ones in it's mouth. It leaned in for the kill, pulling me towards it. I reached out into the dark for anything, and found what I hoped was an electrical cord hanging from the ceiling. I thrust it forward, into the creature's mouth. It screeched as the electric charge surprised it, releasing me and stumbling back. I wasted no time getting back to the door, charging through and shutting it behind me. I locked it and climbed into the small, cramped escape pod. "Warning. Delta protocol enacted. Self-destruct will commence in T-minus forty-five seconds" I flipped the boot up switch, preparing to launch the pod. But nothing happened. "No! Nonono!" I tried it again. Still nothing. "Warning. Delta protocol enacted. Self-destruct will commence in T-minus thirty-two seconds" I tried it once more. A whirl, lights flickered, and then went out. Oh God. Had the pod been damaged? Is this the end? My mad race for freedom, was it all in vain? "Warning. Delta protocol enacted. Self-destruct will commence in T-minus twenty seconds" My head sank into my hands. "Please" I whispered, hoping my silent prayer would be heard. "Warning. Delta protocol enacted. Self-destruct will commence in T-minus fifteen seconds" I tried the switch again. "10" The lights flickered "9" They didn't shut off! "8" The navigation panel came to life, loading the preprogrammed emergency coordinates "7" I felt a vibration in the seat as I felt the pod trying to come to life "6" Sweat beaded on my forehead "5" The airlock door of the pod slid shut. "4" It clicked. Locking me in "3" Just waiting for the launch button to light up" "2" It lit up! "Launch sequence completed." "1" I slammed my hand down on the launch button. ...... ...... ...... "Timmy! Time to go!" My mother called to me from the exit of the grocery store. I looked up at her from the small cockpit of the rocket that I had just sat in. She chuckled, walking over to me. "Aww, did my little spaceman forgot his quarter? Here." She reached into her purse, pulling out a shiny quarter, and put it into the coin-slot of the rocket. Ruffing my hair, she watched as i grinned, enjoying the few moments of fun I had while the rocket bounced back and forth. It was a good day to be a kid.

A few years ago we had a local who came to us saying he would tell us what we needed to know, we knew he had the intel because he started spewing information that we didn’t even know right there at the gate, stuff that the guys at the ESP didn’t have the background to even understand. They searched him and brought him in because while they didn’t know what he was talking about they knew that someone did and that they’d get a good word put in from the higher-ups if this went well. The first question we always ask when someone is just volunteering intel is why. People get shot at the gate all the time and no one ever finds out about it, so why would this guy risk getting shot to help us. So we ask him, and he says something about how we find missing persons all the time, and how his wife and kid are missing. It’s true finding missing persons is one of our objectives but it’s pretty low on the list of priorities and it wasn’t the kind of stuff we were doing. Right then, in the middle of our conversation, two guys from the agency walk in. It was then that I realized this guy’s intel is probably pretty important to someone since the agency guys usually just sit around smoking and joking all day. But this time they were serious. They walk in, tell me and the other guys to leave the room. It’s just them three now. About 20 minutes later they walk out without the local and they give us the “rundown”. The rundown from the agency guys is them telling you what you’ll say and do, and you have to do it, no questions asked, otherwise you won’t keep your job too long. This time the rundown was, “We’re gonna tell this guy that we’ll do everything we can to get his family back if he gives us what we need and you guys are gonna tell him that too.” Then one of the agency guys takes me and walks about 20 feet from the group, and looks me in the eyes and says “Now I’m sure you know this, but that guy's family is dead, or might as well be because we’re not doing shit to find em’, and after we fill him in, this guy is never leaving the gates.” I know the drill, the guy before me filled me in, most of the locals that deal with the agency guys never leave the base anyways, but this was different because this local wasn’t an “enemy combatant” or whatever they call them now, this was just a civilian who thought we could help him. So they tell the local he can’t leave the base until they get the intel because he’s in danger anywhere that’s not here and that once they got the intel, they’d find his family and give him a house somewhere with some solar panels like they do with the guys that give us low-level intel. The reason they couldn’t let this local go when it was all said and done was that they had to give him background information so that he could fill in the blanks, and this “background” was stuff that no one but those two guys knew. It was stuff that if I knew, I might “step on an IED” in a week. The local stayed on base for about a week, then one of the agency guys gave me the new rundown. Again he looks me dead in the eye and says “Here’s what gonna happen, you’re escorting him off-base to his new house, when you guys get there he attacks you, and you take him out, bring his body back, make sure you’re at least 10 miles from here when you do it.” I take about 15 seconds before I say “ok”, then right before I’m about to turn and walk away he says “Make sure he’s not alive, because if you bring him back here and he has vital signs we’re gonna have a problem.” I nod and walk away. The next morning I wake up and look at the sun for a few minutes, I don’t know why but whenever I have to do something hard it’s what I always do in the morning. The local is already in the SUV when I get to it, he’s pretty calm but I can tell he’s happy. I feel f\*cking awful. I get in and we drive away. I’m hoping he doesn’t talk to me, that would only make it harder for me to do what I had to. He asks me if his family is ok, locals don’t usually know English, and if they do it’s not much so they always skip the small talk. I tell him they’re doing fine, that some guy radioed me saying so before I got in the car. Then I lie, I say I think one of the tires is flat so I pull over, you can get away with that kind of lie because most of these locals don’t drive cars so they wouldn’t know. I get out of the car and walk over to the back right tire, I let out a bunch of air so it looks flat. I stand next to the car for about 5 minutes. I already know exactly what I’m going to do, I played through the scenario about 100 times the night before. I walk over to the passenger door and tell him the tire is flat and I need his help replacing it. He’s eager to help and gets out of the car and asks what I want him to do. I tell him to walk over to the tire with me and hand him the car jack. I walk behind him as we go to the tire. I start talking to him, telling him how the houses we give people are nice, and that he’ll get enough electricity to have lights on at night. Then while he’s cranking the jack I pull out my SIG and shoot him. He dies instantly. I got a little splatter on the car which pissed me off, but what pissed me off is that I think he knew what was up, I mean I wasn’t even helping him, why the f\*ck would I ask for his help if all I was going to do was sit there while he cranked the jack, he must’ve known something was up. I just hope he didn’t know exactly what was up, because I’d feel awful knowing he knew he was living the last moments of his life and that he knew it was inevitable.

I see her as soon as I open the restaurant door, waiting politely in the queue for the hostess. “Linda!” I say warmly, and we share a heartfelt if a bit awkward hug. I extend my arms and we stretch back without letting go to take a look at each other. “You look great!” I exclaim at the exact same moment as she says “I love your hair!” and we laugh as we pull each other back into the hug. Linda’s shape hasn’t changed over the years, beautifully rounded. She had confided it made her feel self-conscious back in the 1980’s but it has always absolutely perfectly suited her larger-than-life personality. Now, her shape is basically what is expected at our age and my own form has conformed more than I liked to admit. “How are you?” I ask with a roll of my head and a wry smile. Where would we even begin to catch up after all this time? “I’m good” she assures me with a little helpless shrug as we follow the hostess to our table. I remember so many times we’d met for dinner after work, one or the other of us always late, always rushing but making time to see each other even when we lived 30 miles apart. Now we live thousands of miles apart and were lucky to be able to arrange this lunch. Never one to ignore the elephant in the room, she blurted right out with “I’m so glad you responded to my post. I am so sorry we never got together after Jim died and before I moved away”. “I know”, I replied, “there was so much going on and..” I trailed off, not sure how to end that. I knew that she never really liked Jim, he was so much older and she thought he was “slimy”. Years before she had broken the cardinal rule of not criticizing your best friend’s partners even when they are, because they will inevitably get back together and you can’t take back those words. I remember the phone call from her, when my sister and I were driving back from the funeral parlor. “Not right now” I had told her, “please call again”, but she hadn’t. “How’s Jack?” I ask, thinking of the room he had occupied in their old house, with the unmade single bed and how she’d told me he sometimes snuck into their big bed, acting silently and leaving again when they’d finished. She accepted that arrangement and I was not one to judge, not having been married longer than 10 years or having had any children. “Good, she said, we’re happy”. I grinned and asked “Is he raising goats yet?”. Years before, I had stayed at Linda and Jack’s house while I had multi-day meetings on the Peninsula and since I wasn’t a full member of the Academy my travel wasn’t paid. We had such a good time that we started planning our future aging in a communal house, where Jack would raise goats and we would grow our vegetables. Linda glanced at me quizzically, and I said quickly “Just something he said years ago”, realizing she didn’t remember that. That hurt a little, since I remembered those couple of days very fondly. It’s funny how something that is so memorable to one friend will not even be recallable to the other, but I had experienced that so many times I let it drop, navigating to safe territory by asking “Keeping busy with the grandkids?” She relaxed a bit with that, a huge smile showing that same adoration I seem to see on all my friends who are deeply interwoven with their grandchildren’s lives. Honestly, Linda was always meant to be a grandmother, even when she was an absolute technical legend in the microprocessor industry. Not only her grandmotherly shape, but her cooking and crafting and decorating seemed ready-made to step right into her 60s. I tell her “I bet you’re the perfect Grandma”, and she smiles, acknowledging. “It’s so great to be able to spoil them. I never felt I could with my own kids, I guess I was probably too tough on them”. “No way!” I say. “You’ve been a great mother to them”. I remember babysitting one time when she and Jack had wanted to attend their big company holiday party. When I got there, her 5 year old daughter was in the bathtub, and Linda had said goodbye to her then, leaving me with a naked little girl who was trying not to cry. I also remembered how she told me she wasn’t sure she even wanted a son who didn’t want to go to college, but I don’t bring that up. We update each other on what we know of mutual friends from long ago, illnesses, and former lovers. We discuss how we handled our parents’ estates and assure ourselves that our own estates will be easier for whoever is stuck doing that for us. I tell her about my life now, the plant nursery and the last few jobs I had before I retired. “Sometimes I think about all we endured as early women in technological roles and I wonder if things have gone backwards”, I offer. “I know!”, she agrees. “But then again, the things we’ve seen and endured would never happen as blatantly as they did then.” “Like someone hiring all the beautiful young college hires like that IT department manager did? It was like girlfriend tryouts for him.” “Or some disgusting older man bringing unwanted romantic valentines to a married woman with a sexual innuendo, year after year?” “How is it”, she asks, “marrying again? How much do you tell him about your other husband?” “Ah”, I reflect, “Not as much as I’ve told you!” She laughs with a wicked grin. “OK so not about that afternoon with the colleague and the other woman then?” “No. I mean I could, but I don’t want to give him ideas. I didn’t like it all that much.” She laughs in agreement. “Yeah, I haven’t told Jack about that time with Stan, either”. I pause. “I honestly think he’d understand, but at the same time it’s not only your story so it may not be fair to Stan or his widow”. It’s always striking to me how I can share so many intimate details back and forth with someone for so many years, and then be completely out of touch for so long. It seems strange, yes, but it’s become a common thing with me. When I have a friend that I see frequently, we share everything, and when that changes due to circumstances, we just, well, stop until we are in person again. Most of the time it’s easy to pick back up when we do see each other again, but not always. Today with Linda, we jump right back into that intimacy, but what was it about that time that made it so easy to confide? How can this one lunch bridge 20 years when I haven’t had this kind of conversation with any of my newer friends? I say “I wish we could keep in better touch”, and she gives me a kind smile. “Me too”. “Remember how we’d talk for so long on our work phones, office doors closed but still working, running test cases or code integration or whatever, but just staying on the phone?” “I do! We just had so much to figure out, mostly about men as I recall” “True! We couldn’t have those conversations anywhere else.” She tells me “When I think about it, I don’t know how we ever survived all that.” “Right! I would never want to go back to being that age, would you?” “Oh, God no, can you imagine?” “No more than I could imagine being this age back then, I guess. I’m glad we’re friends, Linda, it was all a lot more bearable with you to talk to.” We part with another hug, saying we’ll keep in touch and that we’ll be hoping for another in-person opportunity soon. “Ask Jack if he remembers about the goats”, I say.

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The estate in Arak, in all its glory, was a gift from the Qajar dynasty, the rulers of Persia from 1789 to 1925, to her great grandfather, Mirza Isa Ghaem Magham Farahani, for he had served as their trusted chancellor for more than 20 years. The mansion, in its powerful display, was a perfect representation of him. An artist-drawn portrait, hung in the entrance halfway, showing a look of a man not common today. His long-black beard, almost as tall as his colossal hat. Eyes looking away from the artist, maybe to show the perfect angle of his sharp features. Her father, Aman Allah, as well as the Arak residents talked forever fondly about Mirza Isa Ghaem Magham Farahani: An honorable man, a scholar, an author who had served as the Prime Minister of Iran in 1834, until his tragic betrayal and murder just a year later. Luckily, many of his published books including the Monsha’at were left behind to carry-on his legacy. While she was staring at the gorgeous structure before her, her own beauty a reflection upon it, one of the older servants, Fatemeh Kanoom, who had dutifully served in that house since her childhood, rushed to welcome her. “Welcome home Ezzat Kanoom (Mrs)!” Others circled around her reaching to kiss her hands and show her their affection. Ezzat was used to attention. In her opinion, too much. Her beauty was like a thick coat of armour, unmatched, with the exception of her own mother, a distinctive beauty, who had left her father’s lands in Bakhtiar and Lorestan to enter this house as a noble bride at such a young age. It drew the eye from suitors galore and some women's disdain. If only she could take it off from time to time. It was a joyous moment given the sad circumstances they found themselves in. Alil, one of Asgar’s sons (the old and faithful gardener still living in the house), arrived with the lit ‘esfand’, the seeds and dried fruits of Garden Rue (Peganum harmala), to perform the customary 5000 year old ritual of burning esfand in honor of this beautiful mistress. He held a metal spoon, scooping esfand seeds and heating them until they smoked, giving off a familiar aroma to the servants who believed in it’s “magical” effects. The seeds began their popping sound and between the smoke and sound, more greetings were exchanged, the esfand working its way to ward off the evil eye. The esfand see has its true medicinal properties. Used throughout history to cure many ailments and diseases, leprosy being one of them. Iranians believe that the evil eye can be bestowed upon someone through an ill-intended compliment, speaking of a positive endeavor before it happens, and occasions such as this one that Ezzat was in. Coming back home. The servants were certain that the evil must have befallen their beloved masters to have to endure so much tragedy. She closed her eyes to embrace the smell and ritual of the burning esfand, not because she believed in such nonsense, but to put the servants at ease. She lowered her head below the metal spoon that was being circled around her head. How she wished that she could truly believe that the disinfecting smoke and popping sound of the seeds could actually shield from the evil intentions--that it could take away all of the unwanted attention from men that seemed to constantly surround her. She closed her eyes to breathe the old familiar smell of the house. The delicious milk bread, a specialty of Aligoodarz (the birthplace of her mother) that was being baked in her mother’s memory, was coming from the kitchen, filling the room and her thoughts. Was it really 24 years, since she was in the kitchen baking with her younger sister Azam, whom she had practically mothered? She recalls their floured faces, in a dream-like arodescense, in their majestic kitchen, while her younger uncles received lessons from the mullah who came to act as the boys’ tutor every morning. What a waste! She thought, as a light tongue-click and hiss escaped her mouth. She would forever feel resentful on why it was the boys in the house who received the education. While she and her sister were strongly encouraged to learn cooking instead. Although she could feel happiness from time spent with her little sister learning to cook and spending time with Godsi Khanoom the kind hearted Chef, but still the resentment was there. Conversely, deep down in her un-admitable depths, she was proud of her cooking skills. She had yet to meet someone who could match her skills as a Chef. Fariba, the youngest of the servants, took her bags,”Ezzat Kanoom, how did you get here? Why didn’t you call us to come pick you up at the station?” “Now Fariba, you know better than that. Ezzat Sadat never asks for help! She is my proud daughter,” came the voice of the kind hearted old Chef, Godsi Kanoom. They liked to add the word Sadat, whenever they used her name, as a sign of respect, as this was a title reserved for those thought to be of direct lineage to the prophet Muhammed himself. Everyone fought to grasp a bag. “She is a Ghaem Magham, and her mother’s daughter, that she is, may God bless her soul,” said Asgar Aga, the gardener. With that, a silence fell on the room. The women in the room became teary-eyed, a few others closed their eyes and said their Salavat’s (Islamic prayer saying may peace be upon her) in honor of the sweet lady they had so loved. “Where would you like to stay?” Mastaneh, the inexperienced servant, asked once more. Godsi Kanoom, pulling herself up while breathing hardly so she could scolded her, “Where do you think silly girl, In her mother’s old room, of course, next to the library” In the background, servants still are overcome by excitement and curiosity over the arrival of Ezzat Sadat , and her striking resemblance to her mother. They whispered to each other, how is it possible, that aging and giving birth to five children, in addition to the pollution in Tehran, where she had been living, has only made Ezzat Sadat more beautiful than before. Asgar Aga, glanced an angry look at them, and took her over the charge of her bags, while ordering the younger ones to be careful with the esfand. As they passed the library, she paused to step in. She looked at the door behind which, once upon a time, a large-boned servant boy, Taghi, had hidden in secrecy to listen to the mullah who had been giving lessons to her uncles. Taghi was tasked to bring tea and dates to the young masters during their tutoring. Unbeknownst to them, Taghi had made it a regular occurrence of hiding behind the door during their tutoring and listening to the lessons. On one particular afternoon, the mullah asked the boys a question about Socrates. “What is the Socratic method?” To which he received no response. Just as the mullah’s frustration began to set in, a voice rang out with the correct answer. “A dialogue of asking and answering questions to stimulate critical thinking leading to deep ideas and finding underlying presuppositions.” Wide-eyed, the mullah watched as the young Taghi came from his hiding place. Now angry and flabbergasted, Mullah forcefully escorted the servant boy to Mirza. Everyone, including the Mullah, expected and feared that the boy would be punished for his actions. However, Mirza was more impressed by the boy’s actions and aptitude for learning than angered by his disobedience. Instead of disciplining him, from that day forward, young Taghi was included in the tutoring sessions and was able to learn, no longer as a servant, and with no need to hide. She closed her eyes and pursed her lips into a sad smile. It was in this house that the young lad, Taghi Khan Farahani, would grow up, be educated, and become Amir Kabir Naghashbashi-- one of the greatest Prime Ministers Iranians would ever know. She was proud of her Jad, (great grandfather), her blood, dating back all the way to the profit, and her heritage. They had educated young Taghi and forever changed the course of his life, presumably for the better. Hesitantly, she wondered if it was not some of Taghi/Amir Kabir’s sins that brought about all the tragedy in her life. Amir Kabir was known as the Iranians’ first reformer. As a ruler he attempted to modernize Iran. First, he took notice of how European powers had intervened in Otooman affairs. So, he removed any possible grievances before a foreign power could claim to be their “protectors.” He was an intelligent man, a highly revered man. Probably due to his roots, he did a lot for most minorities, including Christians and Zoroastrians. Still in all of his glory, it is his sin, of which Ezzat was sure God would not forgive, he was responsible for the death of 20,000 innocent people of the Bábi faith. Bábism, the faith that professed that there is only one unknown and incomprehensible God. A God which manifests his unending series of manifestations. The faith was founded in 1844 and flourished in Persia, the faith that became the principles of modern day Bahai religion. Amir Kabir regarded the followers as a threat and repressed them until the execution of the Seven Martyrs of Tehran and the execution of the Báb himself--the herald of the Baha'i Faith. Surely, she thought, this mansion and her family as guardians of Amir Kabir were cursed from the heartbreak of the Báb due to his actions. She did not consider herself to be of the superstitious disposition, but what else was there? In the last year of his life, Amir Kabir was exiled to Fin Garden in Kashan and murdered by command of Naser al-Din Shah Qajar. She wondered, what if her grandfather had punished him that day, instead of letting him study? What would have his fate been? And the faith of those innocent 20,000 people he killed? She was lost in thought when Asgar Aga approached and placed his hand on her shoulder. “As God is my witness, I tried to tell your father, Aman Allah, that you and your sister deserved a chance at education, just as if God had blessed him with a son. You had an astronomical promise, Kanoom Jan. If only your father had taken the time to pay attention to my humble request, you would be the first female Iranan prime minister Kanoom Jan. I am certain of it.” He called her Kanoom Jan. A term of endearment, also to say “dear.” She leaned over and kissed Asgar’s old cheeks. The dear old man. It should be noted that she was not fond of men often, but he was an exception. Many of her childhood memories included him and his kind gestures. The day her mother died, she ran out to the field and cried her eyes out. Asgar Aga was also fond of her mother. She had always been kind to him and his children. He brought her mother’s favorite horse, gifted to her from Bakhtiar, to the field, and they rode together for hours in silence. Her mother was a stunning, sweet, obedient and fragile wife. It was said that when she would enter a room, men and women alike would be mesmerized by the refined movements of her soft body. Ezzat resembled her beauty immensely, but not her personality by any means. After her death, Ezzat took the role of a mother for her younger sister until her father, as was expected, decided to take on a second wife, a simple commoner this time, no traces of nobility, nor beauty, neither in her blood nor actions. Ezzat would never dare to tell him how that really made her feel. Seemingly, her sweet mother was so easily forgotten. Upon the birth of her first child, also a girl, the commoner, knew she had to quickly get rid of any female attention, towards Ezzat and Azam. Not when their mere presence was a constant reminder of the elegance, and purity of their mother’s blood. At ages 8 and 4, she hurriedly married Ezzat and her sister off to their cousins. Even though, under Islamic law, they were not yet of age to marry. Neither had experienced menstruation. The stepmother cared little and Ezzat was married to her 25-year-old cousin and Azam to his 20 year old brother. Neither given proper time to grieve their mothers’ death, they would be sent to live with their new husbands, the children of their mother’s sister, and their aunt Talabeh in Tehran. In such a small period of time, the girls had lost their mother, their home, their family, and their life as they knew-- it all to be, a man’s wife. Now here she was, 24 years later. She was there to pay respects to the father whose orders had shaped her life, and a destiny she had not desired. There grows the seed of her bitterness, not towards her father, a man that she respected, but towards the culture. The male dominated world that imposed such a lack of choices on her. That only saw her worth as an exceptional cook, and nothing more. She was the mother of five children, three boys and two girls. What a good, dutiful wife she was, surely he would be proud. To think, if someone had taken a chance on her the same way Mirza took a chance on that servant boy years ago, where would she be now? She walked slowly to her room and wiped the tears away. She attempted to put on some makeup. She needed to give her most dignified face to the servants. After all, with her stepmother dead, as the oldest daughter, she was there as the lady of the house today. She sat in the room, appreciating her surroundings. The archways resembled mountains and pillars to the side of each with as much mass and height. How can something this large and beautiful not be made by nature? So exact and by man’s hand. Everything looked the same, though the walls had been freshly painted. The Persian rug on the floor was the same as she remembered. It had been a gift to her grandfather from King Fath-’Ali Shah Qajar, who in turn, had gifted it to her mother on their wedding day. It was an 1834 Tabriz made rug. Hand woven, intricate detail, heavy even by sight. It filled the room as much as the air did. In the middle of the room, a tall peak to show the main entrance and on either side, sprawling horizontal-length to create an open square. To look out from the entrance, the courtyard right in front, and on either sides of it the house stretched out like arms. She had imagined this moment so often, the day she would come back home. The day she would dare to look her father in the eyes and ask him why. Why had he not allowed her to study? Why had he sent her away so quickly? Her father’s burial was to take place that afternoon. She knew what would follow next, the respectful visits from the villagers, the male descendants of her Jad pouring in, the state lawyers coming to settle accounts, sale of the house, and the many lands her father owned, the division of the assets, the small family quarrels that would surely follow, she and her sister, would certainly be left with nothing, after all they were only women. She had no interest in any of it. She looked outside of the windows at the stupendous view. The majestic look of Safikhani Mountain on one side and Meyghan Lagoon on the other. How perplexing it is to feel so despondent while bearing witness to such beauty. She straightened her back, took a deep breath, and knew in her heart that this would be her last stay in this room, in this house, but Arak would always remain an important part of her being, no matter where she landed. After all, at age 32, she knew exactly who she was, and what her purpose in life was. She knew she would never again, allow a man to dictate her destiny. She was Ezzat Sadat, the daughter of Aman Allah Ghaem Magham Farahani, and of Banoo Massoumeh Dadgar, the legendary beauty, whose family had ruled over the Baktiari lands for over a century. Their stories and legends, and the consequences of their actions, would live on, long after this house would be gone. Although this room, with all of its beauty, would be a permanent fixture in her memories. That was all that mattered.

The power went out. Again. Sally fumbled around for the matchbox on the counter and clumsily struck a match on the rough side of it. The little flickering light swallowed up most of her tiny dark apartment in a faint orange glow. Stupid power grid. What am I even paying taxes for? They said they shut the power off because of the snowstorms. Personally, Sally thought that the power company was just incompetent and couldn’t fix the lines fast enough, but saying that wasn’t going to help anything. They could’ve at least waited until I finished making my coffee. Gosh. She stood in front of the mirror above the couch, the match in her right hand, while she fixed her frizzy ginger hair with her left. The bags under my eyes are so big they could carry groceries. Gosh. I look like a walking corpse. Well, as long as it’s snowing, I’m not going anywhere. She was startled by the loud buzzing of her ringtone. She reached down and felt around for the top of her flip-phone sticking out of her back pocket. She flipped it open and answered it. “Hey, Sally Watterson here.” Sally sandwiched the phone in between her head and her shoulder and walked over to the kitchen counter, emptying the half-made coffee in the pot with one hand and carrying the match in the other. “Weather’s pretty bad out there.” The voice on the other end said, distorted by the buzzy sound quality. “Huh, no kidding.” As she reached over to turn off the faucet, the match fell into the sink and fizzled out. “Dang it.” “Sally, light another match. I can’t see you.” The voice was strangely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. “Who is this?” She walked over to the counter and set the empty coffee pot down. The person on the other end laughed sweetly. “Sally, it’s Kevin, remember?” Kevin? Kevin. Oh my gosh. Sally dropped the phone and the matches, frozen in panic. “Sally? Sally, are you there?” She blinked twice, her breathing sporadic, and knelt to the ground fumbling around for the matchbox. It was much harder now to actually find it because of the pitch blackness in the room and the furious shaking of her hands. Her hand seized the small rectangular box and one of the matches scattered across the floor, and in one swift motion she struck it and illuminated the room again. She could now see the phone on the floor, and reluctantly she reached down and picked it up. She swallowed a large breath, thinking maybe that might steady her voice. “This isn’t funny! Look, I don’t know who--” “Hey, I can see you now!” She spun around again, holding the match a full arms length away from her as if it would ward off whatever devil was on the other end of the phone. Shaking, she rose to her feet. In the mirror above the couch, she could see a shadow on the wall behind her. It wasn’t hers. It was shorter and thinner, and etched out of the wall in a deep black that defied the light of the match. Holy crap. Sally hung up the phone and flipped it closed. It didn’t do a thing. The shadow stepped out from behind her. “Hey, Sally... it’s been a while.” Sally turned. The shadow seemed normal in all other respects, it was connected at her feet and stretched all the way up the wall. But when it came to the shadow itself, it seemed to elude the matches’ glow and move as it pleased. None of its features were detailed. It didn’t have an expression. But the way that it moved, the tone of its voice was radiantly alive in just the way Sally remembered. It was unmistakably Kevin. “What on earth are you doing here?” “I’ve been here. I’m just never able to talk to you.” Kevin kicked sheepishly at the floor, but there was no sound. “What- why?” “Well, you never use candles or matches. That’s the only way you can see me,” Kevin said, picking a discarded match up off of the floor and setting it gingerly on the counter. The match seemed to be levitating. “And I never called because I didn’t think you’d answer the phone for your dead childhood friend.” Dead childhood friend. -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- Sally and Kevin had been neighbors since Kevin’s family, the Colbys, had moved in when they were both three years old. Their houses faced each other, and between them was a wide, stone-gray street. Their kingdom. Sally’s mom had always said to be careful when they played in the street. But they’d done it for years, and nothing bad had ever happened. Mom was crazy. She didn’t know that Sally and Kevin were invincible. Sally soon found out this wasn’t the case. It was a warm evening in early July. Sally wanted to run one last race before they had to say goodbye for the night, so they hauled their bikes a few houses down and lined up in between the two mailboxes, the designated starting line. “Ready? Three... two... one!” -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- “You died, Kevin. You died. I was there.” Sally’s voice was cut out by a sob. She wiped her face on her sleeve unceremoniously and cleared her throat. “Gosh. How are you here?” Kevin danced back across the wall and stopped right in front of Sally. “I told you, I’ve been here. This whole time.” Sally stared at Kevin, or rather, this construction-paper cutout of him on the wall. She could see it. His messy blonde hair and brown eyes. His freckled face and innocent smile, complete with braces and teeth that dipped just below his lip. She had ignored and avoided any memory of that face for eleven years. Distressed, Sally blew out the match and threw it on the carpet. She only had a few seconds of silence before her phone vibrated in her back pocket. Reluctantly, she answered. “What was that for?” He chirped on the other end, childish offense in his voice. “You don’t understand,” Sally’s eyes flickered around the walls. Without the match, she was surrounded by black on all sides. “I already got over it. I already did all the stuff they tell you to do when a person dies.” “Like what?” “Like, accept the fact that they’re gone and you’re never gonna see them again. Like that.” “Well, I’m here right now,” Kevin said. “So whoever told you that stuff is wrong. You should be happy.” “I’m not happy! You know why?” “No. Really, I don’t.” -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- Kevin bolted ahead of her, but Sally wasn’t far behind. She had lost quite a few of the races that day, something Kevin loved to tease her about, and she was determined not to lose this one. They had just passed the Fitzgeralds’ house, Kevin’s neighbors. Kevin’s house was the one right before the turn. The finish line. Headlights. A bright red car flew around the turn, heading straight for Kevin and Sally. Startled, Sally swerved, hit the curb and fell off of her bike, landing on the Colby’s front lawn. -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- “I-- I don’t know either, Kevin.” “Well, there’s your problem.” Kevin teased. “Now can you light that match, please?” Sally flipped the phone closed and scraped the match on the rough side of the box, igniting it. There he was, plastered on the wall. “What do you want from me, anyhow?” Sally flopped down on the couch across the room from the shadow, raising the match up to illuminate the room. “I just want to talk to you,” Though Kevin’s smile couldn’t be seen, it could be heard in the upward movement of the tone of his voice. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.” He says that as if he hasn’t been dead for eleven years. “Anything in particular?” “I do have a few burning questions.” Kevin sat down on the floor. “Lay ‘em on me.” “Well, back home you always said you’d love to move to a small town. Like the one you’d go to over spring break to visit your Grandpa.” Sally stared at Kevin. She knew where this was going. “So, why’d you move to Chicago, of all places?” I had to get out of Pennsylvania. “Oh, you know how it is...” That neighborhood. That street. “You graduate, you’re in your twenties...” I couldn’t stand the emptiness. “Some things just change.” -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- “Sally. Sally, honey, wake up.” Mom. Sally was lying on the couch in Kevin’s living room, the lights off. The only light was the glow of the dying sun, bleeding over the horizon. Mrs. Colby was standing in the doorway, her hazel eyes glittering with sudden misery as she stared out the window at something in the street. The telephone cord was wrapped around her arm, the phone pressed against her face as black mascara tears ran down her cheeks. “Please, come as quickly as you can--” Sally sat up and stared out the window, realization slowly dawning on her. A glimpse of a twisted red bicycle and Mr. Colby kneeling on the pavement was all she caught before her mother sat in front of her and blocked her view of the tragedy unfolding in the street. “Sally, it’s going to be fine.” It was obvious it wasn’t. Mom had that same look of regret on her face as Mrs. Colby. Her eyes shining with diamond tears, her pupils dilated in terror. In her heart she knew, but by four o’clock the next morning it was confirmed. Kevin Colby was dead. And to Sally Watterson, now 23, it was still an open wound. “Things like what? You haven’t changed all that much.” Kevin said, his head cocked slightly. “You’re just... older.” “And you’re not.” Sally paused. “You should be. You should be here. You should be alive, Kevin.” “Look, Sally, it doesn’t really matter--” “I feel like I stole this from you.” Sally rose to her feet, gesturing around at the walls of the apartment. Kevin mirrored her on the wall. “High school graduation. My first job, my first kiss. This life in this city. Everything I’ve done and everything I’ve had feels like I stole it from you.” “Sally, thinking about it over and over again is gonna get you nowhere. Believe me.” “You don’t understand, Kevin! I can’t! I can’t live like this!” The smell of smoke. Sally looked to realize the match wasn’t in her hand anymore. I dropped the match. The russet-red carpet caught the embers, its burnt-out color suddenly turning a dangerous orange. Sally ran for the sink, snatching the coffee pot off of the counter and stuffing under the running faucet until the water rose to the top. This isn’t going to work, is it? Sally stood there in the living room, the coffee pot filled with water. Gosh. Shattered glass on the floor. The coffee pot in pieces. Oh my gosh. The temperature and flames rose. Sally’s back against the wall, the tremendous light casting a dim shadow behind her. “Sally, I’m here.” The air became hazy with smoke and the brilliant orange fire engulfed and illuminated her powerless apartment. The flames clawed at the carpet, growing ever closer to Sally, enlightening her mind with one last thought. Kevin was there. He had been all along. Then, as if on a cue, Sally’s vision went black. -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- “Excuse me, ma’am?” Sally’s eyes flew open and in one sudden instant, she tried to recount everything that had happened. She looked around, bewildered. “Ma’am! Ma’am, calm down, it’s okay.” Her eyes caught on a man in a blue uniform right in front of her. She was surrounded by people. My neighbors. The smell of smoke lingered in the air. My apartment. “Ma’am, you’re okay,” the officer continued, as Sally slowly came to the realization that she was sitting on the sidewalk. “No. No I’m not.” She felt the matchbox in her back pocket. “Not yet.” Sally flew to her feet and dashed into the alley, snatching the matchbox out of her pocket. She struck the match on the side of the box a few times before it finally lit. And there he was. In the darkness of the powerless city, the match seemed to illuminate the universe. Both stared at each other in sublime silence for a few moments before Sally finally dared to speak. “Thank you, Kevin.”

Harlow The building’s old. Decrepit. Unremarkable in every sense of the word. And yet - something about it makes me wistful. Nostalgic, even. But I can’t quite place what that something is. We walk through the doors and into the lobby, my backpack slung over my shoulder, suitcase trailing behind me, the broken wheel making a click-clack sound as it jostles around on its hinge. I glance over at Thomas. His face is passive, his eyes pointed down towards the carpet that might have been white once, but I know him - I can tell that he hates the place from the slump of his shoulders and slight quirk of his eyebrows. Well, there goes the hope that he might like it here. I get our key from a balding, red-faced man sitting at the clerk’s desk. “Fourth floor,” he says tiredly. “Apartment E. Stairs are through there.” He gestures towards a metal door speckled with rust. “No elevator?” mutters Thomas under his breath. I shoot him a dirty look that he pretends not to notice and walk through the door. The stairwell’s dark, damp, and smells like broken dreams. I like it. We lug our suitcases up the four flights of stairs. Thomas stops a few times to catch his breath, but I keep going, anxious to see our new place. When we finally reach the fourth floor, I open the door leading off the stairwell landing and enter a narrow hallway lit dimly by deep-set lights in the ceiling. I fumble in my sweatshirt pocket for the key, open the door engraved with the characters ‘4E’, and turn on the light. The apartment is empty and dusty. The yellowish-tan wallpaper is peeling at the corners, and the windows are covered with dirt. The distinct smell of mildew hangs heavy in the air. But, somehow, I feel like I could belong here. And it’s then that I realize why this place fills me with longing: it reminds me of my childhood. It reminds me of how it feels to be home. Thomas The apartment’s horrible, even worse than that sorry excuse for a lobby. I can’t look in any direction without seeing something wrong with it - peeling wallpaper, grimy countertops, dust-covered window sills. I look over at Harlow, though, and she’s walking around in a sort of trance, like this is some luxurious penthouse or something. I just don’t understand what she sees in this dump. It’s true, I grew up pretty well off, and although she doesn’t mention it much, I know she wasn’t exactly wealthy as a kid. Maybe this is what she’s used to or something. But - this place? This is the apartment she’d found for us? Sure, it was cheap, but it isn’t even worth the small amount we paid for it. I’ve already told her my parents would buy us a nice place if we asked them, and we could pay them back once we started our jobs. She wouldn’t hear it. Well, she’s always been the independent type. It’s one of the things I love about her. But, still. We set our bags down and walk around the apartment. There’s four rooms: a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and living room. Not much, but enough. It would’ve been fine, if the place wasn’t so gross . “So, Harlie,” I say cautiously. She can have a bit of a temper , and I don’t want to test it by telling her outright that I hate it here. “Where’d you find this place?” “Some website,” she says absentmindedly, running her hand along the bedroom wall. “Why?” “No reason.” She sighs. “C’mon, Tom, I’m not stupid. I know you hate it. But can you just try ? Please? We’ve already bought it and everything.” “I don’t hate -” “Yeah, you do,” she says, folding her arms with a smirk. “No, I don’t.” I say, setting my jaw. Sometimes I think we’re both too stubborn for our own good. “Yeah, you- you know what, I’m not gonna argue about this.” She turns and walks back into the living room. We’re going to go shopping for furniture and supplies tomorrow, but tonight we’ll have to sleep in sleeping bags. We order pizza and eat it on the floor, relishing the greasy-fingered feeling that we hadn’t been able to find in the college cafeteria. We eat in silence for a while, until Harlow says, “We’ll clean the apartment up tomorrow. Okay? It’ll be better after that.” “M’kay,” I say thickly, my mouth full of pizza. She gives me a small smile. Afterwards, we watch a movie on my laptop, huddled together against the wall under a blanket, the computer halfway on each of our laps. It’s nice, just being alone together. We didn’t get that very often at NYU. When the credits start rolling around 10:00, Harlow turns her head towards me. “Let’s get some sleep, okay?” “It’s still pretty early,” I tell her with raised eyebrows. “Trust me,” she says with a rough laugh, “you want to be well-rested for tomorrow. We’ve got some hard-core cleaning to do.” “If ya say so.” “I do say so.” I smile and kiss her on the cheek. Later, when we’ve brushed our teeth and are tucked into our sleeping bags, I decide to ask her one last time. “Harlow, I know I already mentioned it, but you know my parents could buy us another place, right? Until we make some of our own money.” “Thomas, no . We talked about this.” I can almost hear her scowling. “Yeah, but . . . c’mon, Harlie. Look at this place. Could you just tell me why you won’t ask them for help?” “ I think this place is great,” she says angrily. “And I’m not going to have your parents taking care of us like we’re still kids. We’re not kids, Thomas. We haven’t been for a long time.” “I know that,” I say. I realize it’s no use arguing with her. She’s made up her mind. I turn over and, eventually, get pulled under by the heavy tug of sleep. Harlow I wake up to a loud shout. I sit up straight and look over at Thomas. He’s sitting up too, his back rigid with fear, waving his hands violently in front of his face. “What?” I say, panicked. “What’s wrong?” His face wild with fear, he points to a tiny spider I hadn’t noticed, crawling across the floor. “That thing- that thing landed on me!” I can’t help it. I burst out laughing, so hard that I almost fall over. He stares at me. “It’s not funny !” “You should’ve seen yourself!” I say, wiping my eyes. “The look on your face-” I dissolve into laughter again. He scowls, but I can see that he’s not really angry. “You’re not being very mature ,” he says, running his hand through his dark, sleep-tousled hair. “Eh, screw maturity,” I say, standing up to get ready for the day. While I’m brushing my teeth, Thomas comes into the bathroom. There’s a hard look in his gray-blue eyes that scares me a little. When he looks like this, there’s really no stopping him from getting whatever it is that he wants. “ Harlow ,” he says. I stop brushing. “Yeah?” I say through a mouthful of toothpaste. “I just went into the kitchen. And it’s crawling. With. Ants.” His voice is as hard and stiff as a board. I shrug and go back to brushing. “So we’ll buy some ant traps at the store.” “You don’t understand, Harlow,” he says in a low voice. “They’re everywhere . We’re infested. We need to leave.” “Since when are you so afraid of bugs? The spider, and now these ants- what’s up with you, Tom?” “What is up with me is that this place is disgusting, Harlow. You know it is. And I promised myself I wouldn’t mention it again, but if you would just let my parents buy us a place-” I spit the toothpaste into the sink and glare at him in the mirror. “Thomas,” I say warningly. He usually stops when I say his name like that, but this time he keeps going. “ No , Harlow. We’re leaving. And it doesn’t matter if you don’t want to get help or feel like a little kid or whatever, because this isn’t just about you, okay? I get a say in this, too. And I say we’re leaving . I don’t get why it’s so hard for you!” “No, Thomas!” I’m shouting now, but I don’t care. I’d rather do anything than become someone like that. Someone like his parents. Someone like him - although he’s mostly different. But I can’t tell him that. I can’t tell him the truth, but I can tell him to stop asking for it. “We are not leaving. End of story! I don’t care if you’re afraid of some stupid ants. We. Are. Not. Leaving.” I turn and storm out of the bathroom, not staying to hear his response. And I don’t stop - I leave the apartment and walk down the hallway into the stairwell. I lean my back against the wall and sink to the ground, throat burning from shouting, heart aching from refusing to tell him the truth. But I don’t know how I could possibly do that. Thomas I stand there in the bathroom, still staring at the place where she was brushing her teeth a couple minutes ago. What’s wrong with her? Why is she so against my parents helping us? What could she possibly see in this place? I run my hands bewilderedly through my hair and stay in the same spot for a while before going after her. I find her in the damp, smelly stairway, sitting with her back against the wall. “Hey,” I say, helping her up and taking her face in my hands. She doesn’t avoid my gaze - she looks straight at me, and in her dark eyes I see an intense sort of fire, something I’ve never seen there before. It makes her look wilder. Freer. Beautiful. “What is it? You know you can tell me anything, right?” “I know,” she says. “So what’s wrong?” I ask her. She shakes her head and backs out of my grasp like a stray dog trying not to be captured. “I just can’t do it.” “Do what?” “Get help from them. Live in their world. Your world, I guess. I can’t do it. I can’t.” “I don’t get it.” “Of course you don’t. You grew up like that. Always having whatever you wanted, whatever you needed. I didn’t grow up that way. And I can’t pretend to be like them when I’m not. What I’m saying is I can’t be a rich person, okay? I can’t be one of them. And your parents hate me Thomas. You know they do.” “They don’t hate you, Har. And we don’t have to be like them.” “Yeah, we do. If I ask for help from them, I’ll get used to luxury like that. I’ll lose everything that makes me myself . I’ll become one of them. I can’t do that. It’s the worst thing that could happen to me.” And it’s in that moment that I realize everything she’s been going through. Horrified at the idea of asking them for help, not because she’s stubborn, but because she’s terrified to lose her identity. I can’t pretend to know what that’s like. But I can try to understand. Harlow When I finally tell him the truth, I can see the understanding in his eyes. It’s like he’s seeing me for the first time. I can tell that he gets it. And he steps forward to wrap his arms around me, holding me tight in the stairwell of broken dreams.

The tree was dying. It knew that it did not have much time left. The season had been dry and other, bigger trees in the forest had used up most of the nutrients and moisture that were still left in the soil around it. It was still a thin and small trunk with only few branches and shallow roots. It lacked the resources to compete with the bigger trees around it. What use would it be to struggle against that already decided fate? Every day was just one day closer to the inevitable end. But one day a stranger came to the forest. A human. The tree did not know humans well. They rarely visited its part of the forest. On the rare occasions one found their way here they did not stay long. This day too the tree expected the human to leave after a brief look around. But that is not what happened. With wide eyes full of wonder the human took in the vibrant environment. It seemed to be fascinated by all the trees and flowers that grew here. And then the human‘s gaze fell onto the dying tree. With browning, too dry leaves and in some places almost naked twigs and branches it was not pretty to look at. The tree was sure the human would soon point its attention to the prettier and healthier plants around it. Instead the human stepped forward and touched one of its dried out branches with gentle fingers. It took out some kind of container from its pouch and slowly started pouring the liquid from it on the dry soil around the dying tree. Water. The human had given it water. The tree soaked it up as fast as it could. It wasn’t quite enough but it was more than it had gotten in what felt like a long time. A fighting chance. Hope. The container was empty now and the human put it back in its pouch. It looked reluctant. Then the human made some noises that the tree did not understand and left. It was a short encounter, but it had fed the tree‘s dying flame of hope a little. The water had not been much, but it was enough to tide it over for just a bit longer. It had a chance now. And unexpectedly the human visited again. And again and again. Each time bringing water with it and one time even some fresh, rich soil that it put around the tree. With the human‘s help the previously dying tree began to flourish. On the outside not much difference could be seen yet but the changes were happening. The tree had fanned out its roots. It was growing them deeper every day in order to have a stable base for the future, with better access to the nutrients deep inside the earth. It was also growing little buds, where flowers would bloom in time. There weren’t many yet, but they gave hope for the future. One bud was almost ready to bloom. It was hidden behind some leafs though so it wasn’t directly visible. One day the human came by again but didn’t act like it normally did. The human sat down on the ground with their arms slung tightly around themselves. Water started leaking from their eyes and desperate noises escaped their throat. It sat there like that for a long time. The tree did not know what was wrong with this human. It did not understand the behaviour the human was showing right now. But the tree knew one thing. It wanted to do something for this human that had done so much for it. With much effort it rustled some of its leaves. Some of them fell to the ground in front of the human. The human looked up startled by the sudden noise. A beautiful, vibrant flower bloomed, no longer hidden by leafs. The tree had poured all the resources it could muster at that moment into that flower. This flower was all it had to give. The humans eyes grew wide and the water stopped leaking from them. A big smile formed on the human‘s face. With gentle hands it touched the vibrant flower, careful not to accidentally damage it. "Thank you" Even though the tree could not understand the human language it understood the message the tried to convey. The flower was the tree‘s thank you and the human had understood. Sometimes with just a little help life found a way to persevere. And as long as there was a little life left there was hope. The human stayed with the tree a long time before going away that day. And the tree knew that the human would always come back. As long as there is life there is hope.

26th June 2020, 10:32 AM: Harry is watching TV in his house. He is a magician and lives alone in a cooperative housing society. He is sitting on his couch and playing with his mobile. On TV, the news appears that a thief has escaped from the jail and is on the run from the police. Suddenly, someone knocks on his door. Harry opens it. He sees the same thief. At 10:40 AM, The police who were chasing the thief reached the housing society. Inspector Ramesh talks to the secretary of the housing society who informs them that the watchman is on a leave and there are no security cameras in the building. However, police find a CCTV camera in the street outside the housing society. The footage shows the thief entering the housing society. The police check the whole place. They go inside every house and search for the thief. No one opens Harry's house when the police knock. The police get suspicious and break open the door. At 10:50 AM, they enter the house and see Harry tied and gagged in a chair. The wardrobe in his bedroom is open. Harry tells Inspector Ramesh that the thief threatened him with a knife, tied him and stole 1.5 lakhs money that was in his wardrobe and left the house. Police then search outside in the streets but couldn't find the thief. The media mocks the police brutally. At 2:00 PM, Inspector Ramesh is suspended as the thief escaped the jail while he was on duty and he failed in catching him. Later that day, Ramesh goes home and is very depressed. He locks himself in his room and keeps thinking about the case. He is very desperate to solve this crime. He remembers that the CCTV footage in the street showed the thief entering the housing society but not leaving it. He suspects that the thief is still in the housing society and most probably in Harry's house. He tries to know more about Harry through the internet. He finds out that Harry is an expert in Escapology. He is convinced that Harry is lying because he could have easily freed himself when the thief tied him. He also finds out that many of Harry's shows have been cancelled and he is not a very successful magician. He believes that Harry cannot possess 1.5 lakhs and he is lying. 27th June 2020, 10:00 AM: Ramesh reports to his senior's office the next morning. He tries to convince him that Harry is lying. However, his senior Aakash rubbishes Ramesh's claims. Aakash tells him that Harry was tied by ropes instead of chains. He is only trained to free himself from chains with the help of a hook. Further, Harry was threatened by a knife. So it's possible he was nervous and couldn't free himself. Also, Harry has given a statement that he took a loan from a Government Bank for his next show and this has been confirmed by the Bank. This is how he had 1.5 lakhs in his wardrobe. Ramesh is told to leave the police office as he doesn't have any solid proof. He returns to his home as he had failed again. The case has been handed over to many officials. It has been shifted to many different departments. Many elaborate Inquiries and meetings to solve the crime have occurred. The thief's associates were caught and interrogated. His bank accounts and cash withdrawal were traced. 'Wanted' posters for the thief have been circulated within the country and later to overseas countries too. Spies have been set on Harry. But all of that was a dead end. It's been a year. The search for the thief and money is still continuing and this has become one of the most discussed cases among the police, public and media and yet it is not solved. However, the secretary of the housing society is happy that the government installed CCTV cameras inside the building for free. It turns out Harry got addicted to online gambling games during the lockdown and he lost a lot of money. He had taken a loan of 1.5 lakhs from the government bank but was unable to settle it as many of his shows were cancelled due to fear of the spread of the virus. Harry killed the thief the day he saw him and hid him behind a mirror in his bedroom. The mirror was one of his artefacts that he regularly uses in his magic shows. He then opened the wardrobe door, tied and gagged himself and feigned a crime scene. The corpse of the thief still lies behind the mirror. The case has made Harry very popular. Media had hailed him as a hero since according to them, he remained calm when the thief broke in. His debt is cleared because the government spared his loan as his money was stolen and couldn't be found by the police. He is now a successful magician, married and has two kids. Meanwhile, Ramesh became addicted to alcohol. He was arrested for beating his wife and daughter. In the jail, his mental health began to deteriorate. He was soon shifted to a mental asylum where he committed suicide.

Kari Michaels just quit her job. Again. Mel would be here any moment and Kari dreaded revealing the news to her older sister. If Mel knew, she’d never agree to their road trip and Kari needed this trip. Their plans had been in the books for eight months, since their mother’s funeral. Kathy’s dying wish was for her daughters to reconcile and visit their favorite vacation spot from when they were children and still best friends. Kari had her doubts about the reconciling part, Mel always seemed so disappointed in her. If she added the little tidbit about quitting her job, Mel would feel justified in her opinion. According to Mel, Kari did not live up to her potential, but how could she live up to a sister who made all the right choices and wasn’t afraid to point that out? Kari put her bag in the hatchback of her car and looked at the time. It was unlike Mel to be late. Moments later, Mel pulled up in her sporty SUV with her long blonde hair all blown out and her make-up perfectly applied. “You’re late,” Kari couldn’t resist pointing out. Mel just shook her head and didn’t take the bait. “I’m here now,” she said, looking as if her mind were elsewhere. They had agreed to take Kari’s little Toyota because it was so much better on gas mileage, so Mel put in her two large suitcases, which sat next to Kari’s one overnight bag. Melissa Michaels was high maintenance whereas Kari tended to be make-up free and down to earth. They were like oil and water - the two sisters, but it hadn’t always been that way. When they were kids, they’d been best friends, preferring each other’s company over their friends. It wasn’t until their teen years that they began to drift apart. It was about the time Mel had met Greg, who she later married. That summer her sister had changed. Mel hadn’t always tried to be perfect. Kari could recall her sister’s infectious laughter and adventurous spirit. Kari missed her. “I’ll drive first,” Kari said, getting in. “Sure,” Mel responded without an argument. Normally Mel liked to be in control and in charge. “Should we get Slurpee’s for the road?” Kari half joked, remembering how their mother always began their trip with Slurpee’s. “Let’s do it,” Mel smiled, which was the last response Kari expected. What was up with her sister? They hit the convenience store and came out smiling, with their large drinks. Maybe this trip would be better than she thought. “Remember when that guy cut off mom and she got so mad she threw her Slurpee on his pristine white car?” Kari recalled. “And then he chased us for a few miles before Mom lost him,” Mel added, laughing. “Mom always had such road rage,” said Kari, taking a large gulp of her cherry cola Slurpee. “We were lucky,” Mel pointed out. “I don’t think I’d do that nowadays. People are likely to have guns.” “Yeah, but it was fun then, when we didn’t know any better.” They got on the beltway heading south, each content with their own thoughts, as Kari maneuvered around the busy traffic. “I brought some of Mom’s Cd’s,” Mel said, taking them out of her large designer handbag. “Whatcha got?” Kari wondered, surprised by her sister’s sentimentality. “Neil Diamond, Elton John and the Eagles,” she held up the albums. “Oh, Mom loved Neil the most,” Kari said, unused to going down memory lane with Mel, who always seemed to be looking forward. “Neil it is,” Mel said, sliding in the Cd. Neil Diamond’s deep, sultry voice crooned through the speakers. Kari was immediately hit with nostalgia. It felt like having their mom in the car with them. Kari blinked away her tears, not wanting Mel to see her so vulnerable, but Mel was looking out the passenger window, deep in thought. Had Mom been right? Could this trip bring them back together again? For the first time in years, Kari felt hopeful. The traffic made the Outer Banks feel so far away, but Kari couldn’t wait to dip her toes in the sand and explore the little cottage they used to stay in. Would it be the same? Melissa cracked her window and let the warm, summer air blow her beautifully styled hair into a mess. Kari couldn’t recall ever seeing her sister so relaxed. “So how have things been?” she asked, sensing a change in her. “Fine,” Mel answered, distractedly. She turned up the volume, virtually cutting off further conversation. This puzzled Kari even more. Mel loved to talk about her perfect job and her perfect life. She wasn’t usually this closed mouth. Most of her conversations revolved around Greg, but so far, she hadn’t mentioned her husband once. Kari let the songs and the memories flood her as the traffic let up. “I have to pee,” Mel spoke up after a while. “Me too,” Kari laughed. “I think there’s a rest stop coming up soon.” “Remember how Mom always made our stops a game?” “To see who could be done the fastest,” Kari recalled. “It wasn’t until years later that I realized she hated taking the time to stop. She wanted to keep going,” Mel said. “Then why did she ever give two kids Slurpee’s at the beginning of the trip,” Kari laughed, pulling into the rest stop. “I don’t know,” Mel laughed too. “Who could figure Mom out?” When Kari was finished, she checked out the vending machines, wanting something to munch on. “Beat you,” Mel teased, leaning against the car. “What took you so long?” Kari held up her bag of chips. “Aw, you’d better share,” Mel whined, trying to snatch the bag. “Maybe,” Kari said, holding the bag away from her sister. This trip was going better than she had thought. As they got back on the highway, Kari sensed a camaraderie with Mel, as they shared the snack. “How was Greg taking it being on his own for the week?” Kari asked, as she stuffed a chip in her mouth. Her brother-in-law was a control freak, and always seemed to like Mel waiting on him. Mel just shrugged her shoulders like she could care less. Now Kari knew something was up. Normally Melissa worshipped the ground he walked on. It had been that way since high school when the popular jock had first taken notice of her. Kari didn’t want to push her sister for more details. She didn’t want to disrupt the peaceful mood they were in, so she changed the subject. “How about the Eagles?” Kari asked, after Neil Diamond had played through. “Sure,” Mel said, changing the Cd. After a while, Mel turned to Kari. “He wants a baby,” she said, looking so vulnerable and unsure of herself. There were worry lines around her sister’s perfect features. “And you don’t?” Kari asked, shocked. “I thought you wanted a baby.” There was a long pause before her sister answered in a soft voice. “Not with him.” “What?!” Kari almost shouted. She was dumbstruck. “What’s going on, Mel?” she asked, now clearly worried. Mel let out a nervous laugh. “My life is a mess,” she confided. “I’ve made so many mistakes,” she sighed, looking like she was about to cry. “Melly, what’s going on?” Kari asked, reverting to her sister’s childhood nickname. “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” she admitted. “High school? I should never have married Greg. Or let him talk me into changing colleges to be near him. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know who I am without him?” “You’re still my beautiful, adventurous, smart sister,” Kari told her. “I haven’t been a very good sister in a long, long time,” she sighed, again. “And I’m sorry.” “Well, we’ve both lost track of things,” Kari conceded. “But that’s what this trip is for, right? To get back on track?” “Yes, it’s what I want,” Mel answered. “Me too,” Kari said, glancing at her sister. “I hope it’s not too late?” Mel asked. “I’ve pushed you aside for so long.” “It’s never too late,” Kari stated with assurance. “Plus, it makes what I have to tell you seem small potatoes.” “What?! What’s going on with you?” “I quit my job again,” Kari admitted, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for her sister’s caustic remarks. “Well good,” Mel said, instead. “You can do better. They didn’t appreciate your talent,” she said, with certainty. “Who are you? And where is my sister?” Kari joked. “I’m so sorry, I always made you feel like you weren’t doing enough,” Mel confessed. “You’ve stayed true to yourself all these years. Where I’ve let someone else dictate my life. I’m the last person who should be giving advice.” “What are you going to do, Mel?” Kari asked. “I’m leaving him,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “I should have done it a long time ago. I think when Dad left, I just wanted someone else to take over, so I gave Greg full range. Isn’t that awful?” she said, disgusted with herself. “We were just trying to survive back then,” Kari pointed out. “We all handled the divorce in different ways.” “I suppose you’re right. But now we can make up for lost time,” Mel told her. “And this is just the beginning of our vacation. We have all week.” “We have all our lives,” Mel corrected her. And they did.

Linoleum: A Tale of Loss and Madness Bob’s eyes flickered ceaselessly around the small room, seeming to fall everywhere at once, everywhere except for the wall they avoided. He smoked and paced, never still, exhaling reinforcement into the smoke-filled room. Bob’s hand shook, it usually did. The pitching cherry caught his eye, a drunken firefly in the haze. Bob’s eyes stilled, as he caught the rhythm of his hand’s dance, then with earnestness, he took the lead. His hand blurred, penning a disappearing masterwork in the air, the cigarette burning down towards the callous. He moved frantically, he saw it all coming together, it was-- Bob yelped in pain and outrage, hurling the butt, and sucking his fingers, as the manuscript faded into nothing. He yelled hoarsely in frustration; he shook, a bull considering a charge then, stopped. The only other occupant was an old dog, asleep in the corner. In a display of nonchalance, that his jerking eyes called a lie, he pulled another cigarette from the crumpled pack. He aimed the pack back to his pocket, but his shaking hand missed, and Bob watched the pack fall to the dirty linoleum with a frown. He sighed, let the cigarette and resumed his pacing. “Possessions never meant anything to me.” Bob declared. The dog snuffled in his sleep. “I’m not crazy!” Bob exclaimed over his shoulder, more forcefully than the unasked question warranted. The dog looked up in sleepy confusion. Bob draped him with a glare, then waved it off with annoyance and plowed into the smoke. It seemed to bristle at his trespass, but was unable to veer from its indifferently welcoming nature. From deep in the haze there was an almost inaudible whisper, “Well, that’s not true.” Emerging from the smoke with new resolve, Bob tried to stick out his index finger, but stopped half way, realizing it was still in use holding the cigarette and opted for his little finger instead. “I’ve got a bed,” he listed. He added his ring finger to the count, “and a guitar.” Now, he was just holding his hand up in the air. There was a yap from the corner; the old hound had decided to join in, not really interested, but refusing to be left out. “And a dog,” Bob agreed, with a nod of affection to his only companion. Bob tried to add another finger to the list, but wiggling his thumb didn’t seem right, and the rest were all in use. “Named Bob,” he shot at the dog, getting frustrated and stalling for time. Bob the Dog cocked his head slightly, and gave a guttural inquiry as to whose fault that was. The dog being right didn’t improve Bob’s mood, and the finger list situation was deteriorating rapidly. With a growl of frustration, Bob hurled his cigarette at Bob the Dog, it sailed wide and the dog pretended not to notice. Bob shook himself out and changed gears, he looked down at his free hands with determination. He wiggled his fingers and cracked his knuckles with a victorious laugh and...still couldn’t achieve the dexterity to hold up three fingers and keep two down. Bob deflected his frustrations back at Bob the Dog, pointing at the floor in accusation. “Who pisses on my floor! “, he accused, pointing, till his scowl turned to a lecherous grin. “That’s right,” he screamed in triumph, “I’ve got a floor”. He fell to his knees on the grimy linoleum holding up his four outstretched fingers, and kissed the floor in victory. Bob the Dog gave a disgusted snort, and began licking his asshole. “So, what?” Bob threw at the dog, “So, what!” Bob the Dog looked up from his grooming, and skeptically waited for a point. “So, what...”, Bob seemed to be out of ideas. “I’ve got pockets?” he tried. “Full of ....” Reaching into his right pocket for a lifeline, he found, “...Kleenex,”. Shit, but he had another chance. “And...,“ Bob reached deep into his left pocket and found nothing but his leg. The bottom was broken through. He pulled his hand out, releasing a galaxy of dust that floated, alive for a moment, and then sunk down towards oblivion. Bob tried to find a meaning, “Lint?” he said, feeling there should have been more. Bob the Dog the Dog stood up, circled once and flopped back into the same position. The dog glanced back at Bob sadly and then closed his eyes. Shit, he’d thought he had more than that, but he had nothing, nothing but... “Holes.” Bob whispered. He looked down at the muddy, stained, indistinguishably colored linoleum and saw the fallen pack of cigarettes. His eyes stilled, as he seemed to try out a thought. He started slowly, like he was sounding out the words, “Where everything important to me just...”, then gained some long-buried confidence, “seems to fall right down my leg.” Bob stopped, and looked down, the crumpled softpack waiting lonely below. “And onto the floor?” he tried, uncertainly. That wasn’t right, something there; but he was losing it. Bob the Dog’s chest rose and fell peacefully, snuffling softly, still, it was Bob’s only chance. “My closest friend?”, he implored. Bob the Dog snorted groggily, looked up and met Bob’s eye. Bob was pulled into the dogs mind, some senses expanding so far, others, nearly gone. He was content, and as he accepted his place he began to feel the symphony of life and death that was forever playing all around; beautiful, sad, deranged; it was everything that was and would be, and every being that lived had a part the song. Bob fell back into himself, it was like jumping from bed into a frozen lake. The symphony and comfort were gone. Tears filled Bob’s eyes. Bob the Dog farted. Bob gaped up in disgust and was met by a big shit-eating grin. The Dog’s point now seemingly proven, he turned in a circle, and peacefully melted down to a blob on the floor. Bob looked down. “Linoleum...” He turned in his circle and then lay down into the floor. “Linoleum,” he whispered. His head drooped and his cheek joined with the floor, in cool comfort. “Supports my head. Gives me something to believe.” Bob’s eyes closed, the floor was warm. He slept and dreamed, or maybe just remembered. He was a young man meandering happily down the water’s edge, holding a cheap metal detector in one hand and a brown bagged bottle in the other. Smiling, enjoying the day, oblivious to the glares of the surrounding people. “That’s me,” laughed Bob. He was so young, in his prime and loving. He was singing, and Bob sang along with himself. “On the beachfront, combing the sand, metal meter, in my hand...” Young Bob trailed off. He never had figured out the end. He roamed on up the beach, stooping occasionally to pick up a few coins and deposit them in his worn khaki cargo pants. “Sporting a pocket full of change”, Bob sang softly, finishing the tune. That sounded alright, or maybe it was shit. He dug his toe into sand and felt warm linoleum just below the surface. He looked down and was standing on cement. Bob was older now, the world had tried to wear him down, he was beaten, but still had the spirit of the boy on the beach hidden underneath. Bob’s face lit with a sad wistful smile, “That’s me on the street with a violin under my chin, playing with a grin.” He’d loved to play the violin, these were his most peaceful memories. Bob closed his eyes and listened for the tune. His smile wilted as the grating screeches of music and incoherent lyrics resolved. People shied back. “Singing gibberish.” All his strings were broken. Security moving in. Bob squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wake. He didn’t. He was restrained. His last moments of freedom. “That’s me on the back of the bus.” Bob was back in the smoky room. In front of him the door, on the wall he didn’t look at, opened. Inside was a white room with no sharp corners, a single prisoner inside. “That’s me in the cell.” Bob met his eyes, and both pairs stilled. Bob In The Cell lay down, softly repeating a mantra. “That’s me inside your head.” “That’s me inside your head.” “That’s me inside your head.” Bob closed the door.

Joanna sped down a streetlight-less stretch of New Jersey highway at 90 MPH, her car furiously rattling and shaking, thinking about how terrified she had always been of highways. For some reason driving on the highway at night felt like being in the middle of the ocean, no place to stop, no markers, just an endless stretch of asphalt, your only protection the tiny bubble of light from your headlights--then suddenly, as if the universe had heard her thoughts, the trees receded on both sides of the road to reveal a massive, near-endless graveyard, split in two by the expressway she barrelled down. Joanna shook her head and looked out at the graveyard, which stretched out all around her and the road like an ocean of grass and stone. She had driven this road hundreds of times--albeit not at this time of night, and not under these circumstances--and she did not remember there being a graveyard here. Especially not of this size. She couldn’t stop her attention from leaving the road and going to the undulating, multiplying rows of headstones, mausoleums, and towering memorial stones, completely dumbfounded. A sudden bright light brought her attention back to the road, and she looked at her speedometer and saw she was going 105, and then the bright light, which belonged to a 2004 Nissan Sentra LE, smashed into the front of her car with enough force to crumple up her hood and throw her into a world of pain and chaos. Some people say that during traumatic events the brain records memories in snapshots. Here are the photos Joanna’s brain took as the metal behemoth she was trapped inside flew through the air: A woman’s face, for a fraction of a second, screaming behind the wheel of her car, seen between the gaps in her fingers in front of her face in a futile gesture of protection. Dollar bills, frozen in the air, flying in every direction like confetti. Her airbag deploying, looking like some sort of phantom racing towards her at light speed, its white nylon body obscuring everything else for a split second. The graveyard, seen perfectly upside down through a shattered window, the spires and bodies of headstones reaching up towards the moonlit sky. The exact moment her nose broke. She was sort of proud that she didn’t close her eyes immediately when the ceiling smashed her face, but then the car flipped and her head flung forwards into the airbag, then back into the ceiling and finally her brain decided to stop taking pictures and pass out instead. “Hey! Hey! Are you awake? Are you okay?” Joanna slowly opened her eyes to see a kind of scrawny, untrustworthy-looking girl with an overly-pierced, angular face and lurid, painfully-bleached hair, her face cut and bruised but looking otherwise okay. Joanna felt blood pouring down her face and she realized her car was upside-down. She had no idea how she was possibly alive. She was sure that any sort of impact over a hundred miles an hour was guaranteed lethal. “Are you okay? I’m sorry--I didn’t see you--you were driving so fast and I guess I was too--the graveyard freaked me out so bad I was like, losin’ it--I’m usually good with like, horror and stuff but I’ve never seen this graveyard before--sorry, I’m rambling--are you okay?” “Yeah. I’m fine.” Joanna dragged herself out from under the crumpled steering wheel-airbag jumble. Somehow the steering column had just missed going straight through her. The girl reached down and grabbed under her arm as Joanna crawled, and together the two of them navigated the constellations of shattered glass on the pavement and dragged Joanna to her feet, wobbling and stumbling. She took a few ragged gulps of the crisp night-time air, leaning heavily on the girl, who held her up quietly. “What’s your name?” “Joanna.” “I’m Talia.” “Nice to meet you.” “...What’s with all these bills everywhere?” Joanna looked at Talia, and in a split second gauged her as not the type to call the cops. She looked at the two flipped cars and the dollar bills littering the road. “I, uh... stole a bunch of money from my ex-boyfriend. His car too.” “Oh--that’s cool. This is my dad’s car...so like, kind of the same thing.” Joanna smiled a little bit and looked at Talia, who stared at her dad’s car, which had compressed by about half. She was actually kind of pretty, Joanna thought. Then Joanna looked out at where the graveyard had been, and realized that it was completely gone, as were the trees, and the only thing that stretched out on either side of them was an infinite, flat, four-lane highway, that reached all the way to the horizon and beyond. Where the graveyard had been there was only darkness, giant curtains of black. And then something spoke, sounding like a chorus of all of the dead together at once, every voice weaving in and out of each other to create a towering, discordant tapestry of sound, what must have been the entire graveyard speaking in harmony. “*Walk with us.”* Talia and Joanna were suddenly surrounded on every side with a teeming parade of the dead, dressed in clothes from every time period, some decomposed, some looking as fresh as them. They walked without a unifying rhythm down the endless stretch of road, weaving around the wreckage of the two stolen cars, some of them picking up dollar bills as they passed and sort of chuckling to themselves, knowing they had no real use for them. There were no streetlights--each of them carried a single flashlight to light their path. Joanna and Talia looked at their feet to see two flashlights, and then Joanna turned to Talia with tears in her eyes. She had thought she was the tougher of the two of them but the question she had to ask caught in her throat and twisted her heart. “Are we dead?” Before Talia had time to answer, the chorus of the dead answered her, this time half-singing, clearly a practiced response to a question that had been asked of them time and time again. Their collective voice rattled the sky, each syllable loaded with the sadness of the forever displaced and the lost. “*This place is for those who have died between* *driving late at night or lost at sea* *Heaven or hell is not for me* *I was nowhere when I died* *So nowhere I’ll be”* The parade fell silent. The only sound was the sound of hundreds of thousands of pairs of shuffling feet, skeleton and human and all the stages in between. Joanna put her head in her hands, and then suddenly picked up her flashlight and whaled it at the ground. It exploded into a mist of glass and plastic. “I’m not walking.” “What?” “I’m not walking. Just because I died nowhere doesn’t mean I have to spend my whole afterlife nowhere.” Talia watched as Joanna ran back to her completely destroyed car and got on her hands and knees. She crawled back in, slicing herself on the glass, and curled up in what was left of the driver’s seat, which was not much at all. Talia followed her and squatted down next to the car. She reached out and tentatively, put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey. It’s not so bad. We could have gone to Hell... and honestly heaven always seemed like too much pressure for me. Always having to worship God and sing his praises and be, like, *stoked* to be in heaven...not for me” Joanna tried to hold back tears. “I don’t want to be dead. I don’t want to have to walk down an endless highway for the rest of eternity. I *hate* the highway.” “I’ll be your friend. I’ll do it with you.” “I don’t even *know* you.” “Well, you’re gonna get to know me. We’re gonna turn into skeletons together--like, literally. Have you seen some of these people?” Talia shut up for a second and let Joanna cry. She wasn’t sure why she was so calm. For some reason being dead almost felt like a relief. One of the skeletons passing by shouted to them in a voice like glass being broken with a brick. “Hey, you guys gotta move! The road disappears behind us--we’re not just walking for fun! If that darkness hits you you’re gone for good!” Talia lightly rubbed Joanna’s shoulder. “C’mon. We gotta move.” “I’m not moving. I’m just gonna let the darkness take me.” “No you’re not. We’re experiencing the miracle of life after death together.” Joanna breathed quietly with her head in her hands for a minute, crumpled up in the former driver’s seat of the car. Talia’s voice floated to her through the quiet dark. “Where were you going, anyway? When you were alive.” “I don’t know. I...didn’t have much of a plan. I was just trying to get away.” “Me too. And guess what? We’re here. We’re somewhere else.” Joanna wiped her tears and looked up at Talia, who looked even stronger and prettier in the strange light of a thousand dead-held flashlights. “I broke my flashlight. I’m not gonna be able to see.” “I got mine. And if we break that one--all we gotta do is walk in a straight line.” Joanna shook her head a little, then let Talia lift her out of the wreckage of the car. The two of them started their eternal walk together, surrounded on every side by lightly bobbing bubbles of light and the quiet chatter of those who had died on their way to somewhere else, even if that somewhere was nowhere at all.

Day 4, Journal Entry 1 Space exploration is the cause. We had to wonder what was out there. We had to venture into the void, and you know what we found, we found fucking ants. Giant fucking ants. You know what we discovered, we discovered that we are not the most ideal species, we are not the top. Ants! Ants are the top. Their bodies are the peak of evolution. All they do is conquer, dig, eat, and breed. Knife proof, gun proof, fire proof, gas proof, plague proof, bomb proof, mother fucking nuke proof, but I never planned for it to be giant ant proof. We have been down in this shelter for four days now, and I know it is only a matter of time before they find us. Their pincers will rip right through this door. I watched as a single ant tore through a tank like scissors through paper. And that was just one, imagine what an army can do. A single ant in all its savage precision destroyed my world. A single scout making a mark to prove the army is on its way. Millions of ants the size of Chevy Tahoe’s ripping through our town destroying our houses, our lives, our memories. I thought I would be safe underground, the superficial attacks of man all take place above ground. Not ants. Ants burrow. Ants mine. Ants dig. And ants will most certainly find us. Food to last for years, and it will all be untouched. And you know my biggest regret, my most disappointing piece of all of this? Is that I always appreciated the animated movie Antz............ this is Woody Allen’s Fault.

The king was only a young prince when war came to his lands. The castle, which was usually bustling with merchants, maids, craftsmen and soldiers, quickly became quiet when the smoky sky of battle appeared on the eastern horizon. The children, the old and the weak were the first to leave. Hurriedly pushed onto carts together with their belongings, they ventured off to find sanctuary elsewhere. The young prince watched his older brothers polish their armour in the empty courtyard. He watched the soldiers bid their spouses farewell, and watched his father pace back and forth in his warroom, beard greying with worry. When the smell of the slain reached the castle the prince understood that soon the time would come for him to leave behind the secure walls of his youth. Even at that age the prince knew what loss meant; he had lost his mother to illness only a winter before. She had left this world too soon, and the prince had not been able to say goodbye. He thought about her and her pale, breathless face as he climbed the winding stairs to his chamber. He had to say goodbye this time. From his tower the prince could overlook the endless fields and pastures, villages and lone farmsteads that were his fathers kingdom. It was nearly summer. In happier days the first sunflowers would be blossoming and turning their bright faces towards the castle. Now the bloody glow of fire turned the clouds red, and the abandoned fields basked in their gloom. With a heavy heart, the prince opened the window and let in the foul air. Then he carefully lifted the fishbowl from his windowsill, and held it close to his chest. With a feeling of relief he beheld the delicate, almost translucent scales his little petfish. They twinkled like silver stars, and seemed to be the only thing around him not yet touched by dread. The little fish lifted his tiny head above the water and looked up at the prince, his lord and friend, wondering about the grieve in his eyes. The prince wondered what words of comfort would ease the pain of their parting. He could think of none. He did not want to poison the mind of his beloved pet with words of war and sorrow. He did not want to think of what he would become when he left. So at last he turned to the little fish and said: ‘It is time you lived among your own kind, my friend. I cannot take care of you anymore. I will not be a child for much longer and I will have other responsibilities soon. I have to leave for a while.’ *When will you be back?* ‘I don’t know,’ the prince said. ‘But I promise I’ll come see you first.’ Then he hesitantly lifted the bowl from his chest, and let its contents spill out of the window, into the channel that surrounded the castle. ‘Be good now and wait for me,’ he whispered as the last glimmer of silver disappeared into the deep dark blue. The prince was gone. So was everyone else. The castle was empty. War ravaged the country. Dark and lonely nights turned into years. Where once sunflowers blossomed, the earth now trembled beneath heavy iron boots. Forests were torn down to light mighty forges, and metal, black with blood, screeched together with the crows that filled the sky. Blood and sorrow watered the wartorn lands, and nothing would grow, leaving the surviving people to turn on each other in their hunger and despair. Even the animals fled. Yet one fish remained, forever waiting in the inky waters surrounding the fallen castle. The scavenging crows called him the guardian, and that he became. More years went by. When there was nothing left to destroy, even war itself left the kingdom. And slowly, very slowly, life started coming back. Small saplings of oaks and ashes broke through the scorched earth, small animals dug holes in the riverbanks, birds and deer followed. The desolate fields where sunflowers had been trembled, became a wild forest. The guardian in the water felt the spirit of the world return and eager he awaited the sound of feet on the castle bridge. Yet none came. Round and round the guardian swam, feeling the channel shrink around his body. There were none like him, creatures of the water fled from him, birds dared not sing anymore when he surfaced. How lonely he was, waiting desperately for a friendly word, a gentle touch. Only at night the world seemed to be friendly again, when the forest went silent and the sky lit up like a tapestry of diamonds. The moon did not fear him, and so the guardian would lift his mighty head above the water to feel her gentle light. His beloved castle had fallen into decay. The roof had collapsed, trees grew through stone and spiders weaved their webs across broken windows. Even the beautiful flowers on the bridge had ruthless roots that ate away at its stone until it too, eventually collapsed. Never more would there be the sound of familiar feet on the castle bridge. And deep in the dark blue waters, the guardian grieved, and waited. *When will you be back?* One day, a great raven came from the north. She had had a long and lonely journey across many a snowy peak and frozen desert. The warm breeze of the southern wind was unfamiliar to her, the green woods strange and unsettling. She loved the cold white silence of its birth, the bitter lands where no cruelty could ever be hidden and no life was sacred, yet she had longed to see the world. And so she arrived and rested on the broken battlement of what was once a mighty castle. How strange it seemed to her, this great stack of stones. What purpose could it serve, what creature might it house? The raven flew and hopped around the castle, but could find nothing but strange southern birds, mice and spiders. Yet in the great hall she came upon a familiar image, the first familiar thing she had encountered in this strange country. On the wall, in dusty disarray, hung a painting with the likeness of a creature the raven knew well. These were the creatures that shrouded themselves in iron and gold, shouted like crows and used pointed sticks to kill one another. The raven knew this creature, it had waged its wars in her homeland too. One of the creatures depicted on the wall particularly struck her memory. It was the tall one, with a greying beard. Had she not seen this creature just days ago, on the northern road? At nightfall the ravens suspicion became truth. From the tallest tower she watched a man arrive at the broken bridge. He was ancient, his hair white as snow, his limbs were thin and his face bore the marks of a hard life. Around his shoulders a purple cloak was draped, the sign of kingship, now faded and threadbare. Yet the man still stood tall, taller even than his father before him, and in his eyes the light had not yet died. The young prince became a soldier at the age of twelve, the very night he left the castle. He saw his father fall in battle that same year, and then he watched his brothers fight and kill each other over the spoils of war. At eighteen he was all alone. He became a king in exile, but misfortune took his crown again and the road became his home. He was a warrior, he was a rogue, a hireling and a thief. He was a refugee, and no one at all. He knew many names, and left them all behind. It seemed as though the Gods had given up on him, but through glory and misery he battled on, losing hope but never heart, even though the faces of those he’d lost and killed haunted him at night. In foreign lands he slaved and fought, full of burning passion under the blistering sun of the south, cold and uncaring through the hard winters of the north. He choose loneliness over love and carved many regrets into his heart, but he became king again. Now he was ancient, for the gods where cruel and would not let him sleep. Had he been a good king, a good father to his children and subjects? He did not know. He had more scars left than memories. His skin withered around his bones and his mind became clouded. Things that were important he forgot, and things that were buried in the fog, suddenly came back to him. One morning he had woken up with a glimmer of silver on his mind. Though he could not remember what it belonged to, he knew it to be important. It had not left his minds eye ever since. He had felt himself drawn to the river, as if something was calling him from afar. And he had listened to the call, left behind the comfort of his riches to follow a raven south. One last journey. Now he collapsed at the foot of the broken bridge, his weary mind overflowing with memories. Childrens laughter on sunny days, hunting parties, his fathers eyes, his mothers touch, his brothers playing in the yard. The sound of wooden swords, click-clack, a dark rumour of what was to come. Now the wind rustled the trees that grew through the roof, and there was no way to travel those final steps to his old home. The water, dark and still, barred his way. He was forever shut out. A salt tear formed in his grey eye, rolled down his hollow cheek and fell into the water. A moment of complete silence. Then a tremor that shook the earth. The castle groaned, as though it had been woken up after a long rest. In the deep something moved, something monsterous made its way up, up up... Suddenly a great dorsal fin carved through the surface, splitting the blue in two, making its way to the broken end of the bridge. Yet the King did not flee. A torch had been lighted in his mind and cleared away the fog. He remembered. And so did the guardian, who’d never forgotten. It was a summer evening when they were reunited. The swallows flew low over the water, the sun still warmed the earth and the first stars appeared in the west. Even though life bustled on around them, time slowed when the guardian lifted his mighty dragonhead above the water and looked at his lord and friend once again. *I knew you would come back.* ‘You waited...’ *Of course.* ‘So many years...’ *Has it been that long? I have forgotten time. But not your eyes. Not your voice.* The Guardian softly lowered his head, let it rest on the lap of the old king and closed his eyes. Though his teeth were large as daggers, the king felt no fear and laid his hand upon the old head. *Have I done well?* The guardian asked. ‘You have been the very best. But I have failed you. I am so sorry.’ *You can never fail me.* ‘you have been alone for so long, and now that I’m old, I will be gone soon and you will be alone again.’ The great eye of the guardian opened, a black pool with golden speckles. *Fear not, for it is I who will say goodbye this time.* ‘No... you are not yet old. Your kind can live for a thousand more years.’ *I do not wish for such loneliness.* ‘I do not wish you dead.’ *There are no more wishes. I am ill with an old poison. War will kill even a hundred years after it has vanished.* The king was silent for a long time. He caressed the monster in his lap, and looked at the broken castle. The moon started to rise above the line of trees and towers, crickets and frogs sounded their choir and the world was calm. Large shadows crept out from under the old walls, creatures of the night climbed out of nests and watched with glittering eyes as the moon swept her light over the broken bridge. The scales of the guardian became silver once more. ‘Then let me go with you,’ the king said at last. ‘War has ruled en ruined my life, I will not endure more loss because of it.’ *If you wish, my lord.* ‘It will be my last wish, my friend. Take me home.’ Softly the guardian rose from the lap of the king. A primordial monster he looked, towering over the broken bridge, but when he curled his tail around the kings fragile body, there was nothing but gentleness in his touch. The guardian lifted the king from the bridge as if he weighted nothing, and softly, without so much as a sound, they both disappeared in the deep, and the water closed above their heads as if nothing had ever disturbed it. The raven on the tower waited the whole night, eager to see the wonderous creature of the water return once more. But it did not. It never would again. And even after a thousand years not a trace can be found of either guardian or king. The memories that once filled the castle have disappeared too, as there is no one left to remember them. Even the castle disappeared. Only if one searches underneath layers of bracken and earth, one can still find its hidden ruins. And maybe, if the ancient Gods will it, one can see a raven circling overhead, searching, waiting. Hoping for one more shimmer of silver.

P456 wakes up laying on the floor in his room. What he expected to see was what he always had- a steel window on the blank cream colored wall, an oak dresser, of course with all its drawers stuck shut, a bookshelf on the far wall, empty as always, and the door. Door? No. A door is used to go one place to another and as far as p456 knew, that was no door. It was a white extension to the wall that happened to have a stiff handle on itt. as p456 woke he felt the odd phenomenon of somthing being very very wrong. He looked for a minute at the flat cream colored cieling. He sat up. he was breathing heavy and sweating, and he was scared. He had never been scared in his life he always just stood from the floor and stared at the blank walls then when he felt tired he would fall to the ground and close his eyes. When they opened, he was back to staring. But now, as he looked down at his grey one peice, which now was soaked in sweat, he began to feel frightened. He stood and scanned the room. The bookself was to no surprise still empty. The dresser still there, drawers stuck. The walls still sat cream colored and blank. What was so terrifing to p456???? He turned twords the door and his eyes became huge, opening his mouth to scream but instead he collapsed to the ground. His breathing became fast and quick. He pussehed back to the cream wall and stuck his head in between his knees. He wimpered and teared squezzing his body tight to him. The shaking started after a few minutes taking over his whole body. He was twitching and spasming in between tears. four hours passed of the shivering and sweating and crying and wimpering. When p456 was all our of tears and body full of strain of being huddled he sat in the same spot and stared at what was terrifing every single nerve in his body. He stared and stared and stared he was still shaking but now he was laying crunched up on the flat stone ground. He became insane. He stood and started laughing. He laughed and stared and laughed. His right arm spasmed and he laughed. p456 decided to ram his head into the stone. He knelt laughing histarically. He leaned low then pulled back and slammed his head onto the grey stone. Again and again and again and again and again. His vision was the first to go. It was just after his jaw shattered to about 23 pieces. After his vision went it was about 2 more blows until he lost control of his body. He tumbled over onto his back. The skin on his head torn open and bleeding profusel. He chuckled and laughed. He coughed, spilling blood all over the grey meterial. He let out one last chuckle and muttered four simple words before he kelled over and died.

I love her. I love her and she’s going to be mine. Those were the thoughts that tore through my mind when I first saw her. I was at Sarah’s, eating with my mom. We always went to Sarah’s on Thursday nights. It was our little tradition. Perhaps, in reality, it was the only time I suffered the company of my own mother. On the other side of the restaurant sat a loud and obnoxious table full of people I’d never seen before. Most of the customers that went to Sarah’s were regulars, so it was highly unusual to see an entire table of new faces. Besides her , there was one other woman at the table, the rest were men. They had multiple bottles of wine and were sharing appetizers. I was mesmerized, I couldn’t look away. She ate so delicately, her big eyes wandered lightly around the table, a smile teased at her lips. She silently observed the loud group around her. My mother spoke, but I wasn’t listening. There was a flourish in my peripheral vision, and I finally came to. The waiter had removed the menu from the table and walked away. I looked incredulously at my mother. “What, you weren’t gonna let me order?” I said to her. She narrowed her eyes at me, “What are you so involved in?” “I- huh?” It was all I could do to keep my eyes from wandering, “What are you talking about? Involved in? What are you accusing me of?” “What am I talking about? What the hell are you looking at? That’s what I’m talking about!” she unraveled her silverware and placed the napkin in her lap, “Unless there’s something you are involved in that I should know about!” I thought about all the unsavory things I was involved in that would raise the hairs on the back of my mother’s neck. “I am involved in nothing out of the ordinary, mother.” I assumed this response would placate her, but she just stared at me. “What? What’s your problem now?” Her eyes flicked down and returned to my face with such conviction that I realized what she wanted. I grabbed my silverware and made a big show of unwrapping it. I put the napkin over my lap. “So, what did you order for me?” “I decided that I wanted pizza.” I knew this meant she ordered a single small sized pizza and expected us to share it. Cheapskate. I rolled my eyes, “Did you at least get a kind that I would also enjoy?” “I ordered you a salad.” “Mother!” “What is your problem?” she said. I wondered if she noticed the shirt I wore was tight around the arms and neck. Not because I had gained weight, mind you, but simply because she was the one who bought it, and she was still in denial about me having grown into a proper adult. Of sorts. Regardless, the ill-fitting shirt didn’t help my anxiousness nor my level of accumulating moisture. I pulled vigorously at the collar. My mother’s eyes flashed anger at me, “I spoke to your father this morning.” Don’t worry, she was only angry that I was pulling on her gracious gift. I released the shirt collar and returned my hands to their idle position, properly crossed in my lap. She continued, “He asked for money again.” It was always the same. Like clockwork, every other Thursday my mother attacked me with the information that she’d spoken to my father, which meant that he had asked her for money, which then meant that she would ask me for money. Then, she bullied me into submission and I gave her the money so she could give it to him. “How much did he ask for this time?” I huffed and crossed my arms defensively, which was obviously an act that I expected my mother to play along to. I was met with a stony silence and I realized I had been too involved in my own thoughts that I wasn’t looking at her. I wasn’t looking at anything, really. I didn’t want to look at them, at her . So, I looked at my mother instead. Her eyes were watery and her chapped lips seemed to quiver, although I tried to convince myself I’d imagined it. Her lips were always chapped, every time I saw her, even though I always offered her lip balm and once or twice slipped one into her purse. “Did something happen?” I asked. “Oh,” she shook her head and brought her napkin to her face, “It’s that woman again!” “Woman?” I couldn’t hold it back anymore, I meant to only glance over, but when I did, she was already looking at me . I thought she would look away once we made eye contact, but she didn’t. Her hair was dark and curly, it framed her face beautifully and made her look dainty and slim. Her lips were a deep color of red, tinted with, perhaps, purple? Maroon, was that the name? Or perhaps the color was called burgundy? It’s silly, but I started referring to her in my mind as Maroon then, so ensnared was I by her lips. Maroon’s dress was black. In fact, I noticed then that all the people in her party wore black. They were also dressed to the nines. I saw Sarah’s diner as a more casual affair. Even my mother and I always showed up wearing the clothes we wore that day. I couldn’t imagine decking myself out in a crisp black suit to come eat pasta or salad. Or pizza, I suppose I should mention. The man sitting next to Maroon noticed then that she was no longer engaged with the table. He looked first into her face and then followed her gaze, staring straight at me. I couldn’t read his expression, but it didn’t seem to be a happy one. He turned from me and leaned toward Maroon. He pushed aside Maroon’s thick hair and pressed his lips to her ear. His hand looked huge. His everything looked huge. He seemed to be all muscle. His suit was tight around his arms, but in an intimidating way, and not in a - his mother bought a shirt the same size as those he wore as a teenager - sort of way. Maroon laughed and spoke to the man and I strained my ears to hear what her voice sounded like but the restaurant was too loud. The man put his arm around her and she looked away from me and at him instead. It felt like my heart was shriveling up. Another flourish in my vision and the waiter stood there at our table, pizza and salad in hand. “Are you okay, ma’am?” Ma’am? I blinked and turned my attention back to my poor mother, who was dabbing her eyes. “Yes, yes,” she waved her napkin at the waiter, “I’m fine, just leave me be.” The waiter plunked the food down and drifted away like they were never even there in the first place. I watched her in astonishment while I tried to remember what we had been talking about. Oh right, my father. The money. Same old stuff. Why was she so upset? This was a tactic I had never seen before. I said, “Don’t worry mother, I’ll give you the money, just tell me how much you need.” “It’s not about money Henry, I told you it’s about that woman!” Her tears were all dry now at the sight of her pizza, which she took such a forceful bite of I worried briefly for her dentures. “Woman?” I said again, and my eyes shot to Maroon. I almost jumped out of my seat. Maroon was looking right at me. I worried the whole process would repeat again but this time she quickly turned her gaze away. I was able to avert my eyes as well but instead of looking at my mother, I looked down at my salad. I had understood the gist of what my mother was saying. “Is it the same one as before?” I asked tentatively and busied myself with drowning my salad in dressing. “It is my understanding that this is the same woman as before,” my mother answered in between bites of pizza, “I think it’s getting serious this time.” “Well.. that’s okay, isn’t it?” “Oh, Henry, it’s all just so new, isn’t it?” My parents were getting divorced. It wasn’t fair that my father asked my mother for money every other week, when he was the one out there meeting new people but living in our house. My mother’s house. The house I grew up in. The house he now lived in alone. My mother is old, but she’s gone back to work. No one cares, not even her son, who peddles drugs and tries not to get STDs at the college parties he goes to every weekend. Parties he knew he was too old to keep going to. But hey, at least he gave her a measly couple hundred every other damned Thursday. Anyway. I’ve done bad things. I’ve been in bad places before with bad people. Bad situations where people got hurt, got into things they shouldn’t’ve, things that the average person would likely deem regrettable. I might even admit to regretting some of it myself, some day. But I had never seen a dead body before. I had also never dealt with a real, legitimate mob, but somehow that sounds less impressive. What happened next just might have convinced me to get my act together. I’m not entirely sure how it all went down, but I do remember the bright headlights that shone through the windows of the restaurant when a car rolled easily into the parking lot. Later, the news had said that it was one mob attacking the other. Italians, I guess. It also turned out that Maroon and her mob were regulars at Sarah’s, they just never showed up on Thursdays. The news suspected the attack wasn’t entirely a surprise. Three men with big guns busted through the door and started shooting anything that moved. I don’t know if I jumped or fell out of my chair but I ended up on the ground and I just laid there, hoping I wouldn’t get shot. I searched frantically for Maroon, and was shocked to find her holding a gun and shooting at the intruders. I wished I was beside her until the big man who had whispered in her ear fell onto the ground like a giant, muscley bag of potatoes. It was over as fast as it had begun, and I’ll never know why the opposing group only sent three people to take on Maroon’s mob. All was quiet for a moment, and with a start I remembered I hadn’t been sitting at my table by myself. On the floor a few feet away, was my mother. My mother. Her little oval wire glasses had been knocked off of her face and she sat there on the ground, squinting at the world around her. There was a small gash on her forehead that was beaded with thick globs of blood. She was fine, mostly, but she looked scared. Then there was noise and people were yelling, screaming, running. A couple of regular restaurant patrons had been hit, I didn’t pay attention to the part of the news that said how many or if they lived. Only two of Maroon’s mob were killed. The surviving mob members quickly gathered themselves and carried their wounded away. Maroon headed for the door but stopped when she saw me. She glided toward me and held out her hand. I grabbed it and stood up and then didn’t let go. It was cold and sweaty. She didn’t let go either. Her eyes glistened. “My love,” she said. My heart was pounding out of my chest, “Please, your name?” “Aphrodite.” It seemed like a cruel joke, and when I looked pleadingly into her face she laughed, her expression kind. “I’ll tell you,” she said, “next time.” Yeah, so what? Did you really think there was a next time? No, of course not. And you’d be right. There wasn’t a next time. I never saw her again. I returned to my mother and found her glasses. We sat back at our table and I was glad to see that the pizza had survived the scuffle. I handed my mother the best slice and picked up a piece for myself.

It was a great day. I had just finished my last day of work before I go on vacation for a month. This year, I decided to take my vacation during the month of November. Why? Maybe because I am a Scorpio. Maybe because I enjoy Halloween (my vacation starts on October 29 th ), maybe because I love the fall weather, or maybe because, it is the time of the year that covers Halloween, Thanksgiving, Black Friday, and the beginning of the holiday season. Simply put, all of the above maybe... My girlfriend, Jennifer, wanted us to get costumes for a special, a VIP event, for a Halloween party held in downtown. The entrance free was $120. However, several prizes were to be awarded at the end of the night. Especially for best costume and best couple costumes. Personally, Halloween has always been my favorite time of the year. The mystery, the supernatural, the paranormal, the unexplained, the death, the ghosts, the spirits, the goblins, the horror, the suspense, its movies and tv shows related to it... What was I to wear for Halloween this year? No clue. Jennifer kept telling me we should dress up in characters that come as a duo, a team. Some famous people. A famous couple. I was into that idea. I thought it was a good idea. Why not? I love her so much, and this would be a great opportunity to be closer to the love of my life. I am soon about to propose to her. That would be after the holidays... It was Friday afternoon. The party was held on Saturday night. We have a little more than 24 hours left. I am thinking that Jenn probably has booked or bought the costumes already. If not, I doubt we will find unique looking disguises for the party. My cell rings. ‘’Hun, did you get a call from the store?’’ It was Jenn. ‘’Which store? You mean for the costumes?’’ I reply. ‘’Yeah. I gave your cell number in case I miss the call.’’ ‘’What are we dressing up as babe?’’ ‘’Ah, that...I will let you find out with the call...’’ ‘’Oh yeah? Hahaha! All good. I hope you got something good, unique, original, so that we can win maybe a prize or two.’’ ‘’You will not regret it. I promise my love.’’ ‘’I trust you, Jennifer. If they call in, I will go pick up the costumes. You should be home within two hours, right?’’ ‘’Yes darling. I see you soon. Later then.’’ My work is done. I am closing my laptop. Yes, I work from home. I was just wrapping up my email account to setup the auto-reply that I am gone for a month. I don’t want to be bugged by my colleagues. Now, if Jenn does not get the call for whatever reason, I shall get it on my cell. She will be home soon and be on vacation also for a month. At around 4 PM, I get a call from the costume store. ‘’Hi there. May I speak to Jennifer or Bruce?’’ ‘’This is Bruce. Whom am I speaking to?’’ ‘’This is Jim from Party Cos Inc. I have the costumes ready’’ ‘’Ah awesome!!! When can I come pick them up?’’ ‘’Before 9 PM tonight, if not tomorrow before noon. Also, your wife told me she would like to dye.’’ ‘’Pardon??? Die??? What are you talking about?’’ ‘’Jennifer told me that to bring the characters to life, you will need to dye.’’ ‘’No one is going to die. I think you are drunk or confused Sir.’’ ‘’No, no, I have clear instructions that were given by your wife...’’ ‘’Stop it! She is not my wife!’’ ‘’Oh, I apologize! Did I misdial perhaps. I think I got the wrong person.’’ ‘’Well, what is the name of the client and the phone number you dialed?’’ ‘’Is it 250-644-068 and it is under Jennifer and her husband or boyfriend, Bruce?’’ ‘’Yeah, that is me, Bruce, the boyfriend, but no one is dying here!’’ ‘’Your girlfriend told me that some green would look nice to match the costumes and the origins of the characters.’’ ‘’First tell me who Jennifer and I will be?’’ '’She is She-Hulk and you will be the Hulk. So, a little green in the hair will make you guys look great. Also, your girlfriend told me that your height is 6’6’’! So indeed, you can make a great Hulk. She told me you used to play volleyball at the national level and you have stayed in shape,’’ says Jim. ‘’Damn it! Why did not you just say dye hair! I thought dye meant as die, meaning as to cease to live,’’ explains Bruce. ‘’Pardon me Bruce. My error.’’ ‘’If I understood well, you offer also make-up and dying services at your shop?’’ ‘’Yes Sir! We are extremely busy this time of the year and people go to extreme length to look like a character from a novel, comics, books, tv, series or movies.’’ ‘’Tonight, will be to late to pick the costumes, accessories and get the hair done. How about tomorrow? Then from your store, we can go straight to attend our party.’’ ‘’Sure, so tomorrow, be here by noon. We close at 12 PM but to try on the costumes and get the make up and dye your hair, we will need more time. For clients with an appointment, we will close at 5 PM.’’ ‘’Thank you, Sir, and sorry for the misunderstanding.’’ Finally, all this is sorted out. I felt like this was a prank. Once Jennifer was home, I explained to her how the call went... She started laughing. Also, maybe she did not know, but I reminded to her that we will be going to the Halloween party as cousins. ‘’What do you mean?’’ Asks Jennifer. ‘’Well, She-Hulk and the Hulk are related in the comics. They are cousins. Also, the irony is that Bruce Banner is the Hulk and Jennifer Walters is the She Hulk. So...’’ ‘’Oh wow! I honestly, did not know all these!’’ The costume party on this Saturday night went well. We did not win individual prizes but we won a prize as a team/couple category. A weekend trip to Whistler, for the holidays. That is when I decided to ask Jennifer to be my wife. She said a big yes!

"We stood there, looking east, in disbelief. We had been on the trail ten days now. Tired, hungry, and dirty. Dark clouds rolled up the valley towards us. A flash and light would rip through the sky. When it folded back into itself, the sound was deafening. Wind gusts tore the stakes to my shelter out of the ground. I was scared, really scared. Darted towards my shelter to secure my rain protection the best I could. The drops got heavier and faster. The wind whipped through the tree tops. Made a blood curdling sound. Again it flashed and roared. It sounded as if the Earth was falling apart around us. I walked out of the grove and looked over at Thomas. "This is going to be bad," I said. "I know," he replied. Softly and quietly I began to repeat per ardua ad astra, per ardua ad astra. Through adversity to the stars. The storm raged further up the valley, inching closer to us. Another flash! Another crack! It appeared as though the Kraken had found us hidden in the valley. The Kraken was going to kill us for trying to hide. Thomas and I sunk into the tree behind us. We gave each other an awkward glance. Together we were facing a monster, impervious to bullets or even a cry for help. Per Ardua ad Astra. Another flash, thunder clapped around us, the wind got stronger. Fear paralyzed me and I watched in utter disbelief. The storm drained in its intensity, quickly broke up and oozed over the ridge on our left, into the next canyon. We could still see flashes of light, hear the cracking whip of thunder." Author's Note: This is a test write, I was going for a very specific feeling. I would love everyone's opinion on this short little piece. Good or bad! I really would appreciate some feedback.

Lauren sat in a circle with the other freshmen who had gathered for the orientation day festivities, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her neatly pressed blouse as they waited. This moment was months of hard work in the making. Lauren had fallen in love with the university unexpectedly the prior spring during a trip with her high school band. It was her state’s oldest university, and though not on her original list of considered institutions, she was unexpectedly charmed by the historical campus. Owing to its pre-automotive era construction, the university had no streets and students were required to traverse the paths by foot or bicycle. Despite the important role this placed on the footpaths, their layout was, at best, chaotic. The earliest design of the university consisted of a large central hall, a small church and cemetery which resided in the centre of the grounds. Throughout the years, a spattering of now centenarian trees were planted across the campus, and buildings were added to suit the needs of a growing university. Owing to a respect for the historical significance of these sites, all structures and plant life had been maintained where possible. As she lagged behind her band peers, Lauren observed that the footpaths were a complex network of new and old trails. While many paths connected to existing structures, some directed to sites that had been long vacant, and others elaborately curled around or were broken down by expanding trees. Although the path appeared to be a navigational nightmare, Lauren noticed the ease with which others strode towards the brick buildings. Groups of two or three would emerge from the trees and disappear in buildings or down sloping paths, their laugher lingering in the distance. Prior to that trip Lauren had been prepared to give up the clarinet in favour of laboratory instruments. Science had been her school passion, and she had been looking exclusively at universities which specialised in pharmaceutical sciences. Yet when she returned home that night she reflected on the old cemetery, the smell of steamed oat milk drifting from cafes onto the footpath, the students little older than herself chatting, as though peers, with proper adults. She thought of the generations of important people who’d walked the old paths, and badly wanted to count herself among them. Lauren has been revisiting and amending this memory all morning. She had contrived a long list of questions she was likely to be asked by her new peers, and she wanted to ensure her answers adequately captured the enthusiasm she felt towards her new life and interests at the university. In preparation for her first day, she’d spent the summer disposing of her awkward and childish belongings and transforming into the role of university freshmen. She had transitioned to full vegan and redid her wardrobe in sustainable fibres. She’d spent the weeks prior to moving on campus researching the nearest (and best) op shops, and had found some fantastic used bookstores within walking distance of her dorm. The weeks leading up to her move felt painfully slow while she dreamed of cosy evenings spent studying in cafes, and weekends filled with exploring the historic corners of the campus. Lauren leaned against the old oak tree towering above the group. She knew from her investigation of the university’s website that it was a rare white oak, planted by a graduating class in 1899. Such species only last roughly 100 years, and Lauren appreciated the privilege of being counted amongst the decades of fresh-faced newcomers that were inducted under its branches. “Who wants to begin by telling us their name and their major”. When Lauren returned from her band trip, she quickly learned that the University did not offer pharmaceutical sciences. Undeterred, she took inspiration from the leafy oak prominently featured in the cover photo of the information package mailed to her house. “Lauren, environmental sciences”, she announced to the group. “in fact”, she continued, “I selected that major because of this very...” “Clare, English lit” interjected a tanned girl to her left. “Excited to be here”, she said in a tone indicating that she was not. The group moved on and continued introductions until the last of the group had spoken. Student orientation leader, a somewhat frazzled looking girl a few years older than Lauren, then gave the group a few moments to chat amongst themselves before they began the campus tour. The circle jumped around with the usual sort of questions. “where are you from?”, “what class are you most excited for?”, “are you staying off campus or in dorms?”. A moment of awkward silence arose and Clare abruptly turned to Lauren. “Environmental sciences”, she said, “If you could be a tree, what type of tree would you be and why?” “Oh! I suppose... I don’t know “ Lauren responded shakily. “I’d be a pineapple tree” Clare responded. Lauren processed this while a few snickered. “I don’t think pineapples grow on trees”. “I used to spend the summers at this this resort in Seaside called Pineapple tree”, Clare continued. “they had this like massive tree statue out front. It was this major silver shiny thing, with golden pineapples hanging off it”. “Wait, what!” a freshmen in a Vans 1966 beanie interjected, “I’ve also been to Pineapple tree”. Several others began chiming in. It seemed as though more than half the group had spent time at Pineapple tree, Seaside or one of the neighbouring coastal vacation towns in their state. An excited chatter overtook the group as students began pairing up to chat about their beachy experiences. When Lauren interjected with the odd fact or correction, she found her words lost amongst the chatter. Her gaze shifted towards the original university chapel, now retrofitted to house a Quiznos. Lauren’s family had never vacationed at the beach. Her mom didn’t like the sand, and Lauren did not care for the sun exposure. Eventually their leader interrupted the discussion and rose the group. Lauren trailed behind the chatting students as they began their introduction to the campus. She already knew the paths, and she knew a good deal more than their guide about the local trees and shrubbery. At the end of the tour Clare and the few of the other approached Lauren. “We were going to grab some burgers if you’d like to join?”. Lauren had not prepared an answer.

This all happened last November, and I've finally had time to process it, and want to get it down on paper while the details are fresh in my head. It was two in the morning. I was casing out an alleyway in the city nearest my home, I'll admit it. I was looking for open doors, unlocked doors, and access onto the roofs and into windows. I didn't tell the police about that part. This particular alleyway was awash in doorways, leading to the kitchens of many restaurants (some of) which weren't very diligent about making their drops after closing. I know I would have snuck into a grease pit and snuck out with the daily take (minus tip-outs, as the staff generally had left by this hour), had luck been with me that night. But I was not lucky. I found an open doorway, a barrel lodged between the doorframe and the door, the wind whipping through the dish pit. It was an eerily easy looking target. Had I then discovered the restaurant to not yet be closed, I could have just hid and to outwait the wait staffs leaving for the night. But something about this scene rang hollow, as I gingerly eased the door open and stepped through the threshold. I heard nothing, no talking, no walking, no anyone, as I made my way through the silent (and now noticing) darkened kitchen. I walked past the line, and quickly ducked down, as I beheld 5 diners casually chatting in the empty and darkened dining room. The only light had come from a candle on their table, and were talking with great animation, gesticulating wildly. It was obvious that they had not spotted me. I needed to get across the room to the cash register, but it was across the room from these people. Why were they here, and where was the restaurant staff? I hunkered down in a quiet corner, to wait them out, and to hopefully, still find my payday. It seemed like I would be able to sneak out again if they decided to stay the night. They must have deactivated the alarm system themselves to even be in here at this hour. It seemed that they were authors. The first man produced a notebook from his pocket and declared that he had written a short story. The third man laughed. The second man declared that he had recently began writing poems, his rhyming dictionary popping comically from his front pocket. The third man laughed again, I couldn't quite hear what he was saying, but he mocked the first two men. Then the third man was knocked down by the fourth man, who went on somewhat of a speech about the nature of writing, all of which seemed incredibly confusing to me. The fifth man produced a novel, and smacked it on the table with a flourish, silencing the other men. They stared at him spell bound. "I have been published", he declared, and the other gaped at him incredulously. They began to comment on his work, denigrating his choice of font, or his cover art. The fifth man took it in stride, and began to extol the plot of his book. "It is about a stranger, a man who strangles, and that I am he!", he declared. The other men seemed rather impressed, and went on to read the jacket of the book, and congratulate the fifth man on his choice reviews and excellent typesetting. It was only then, when I noticed the sixth man. The one who now snuck behind the third man and began to choke the life out of him. The other four men around the table looked on with some disinterest. "I thought him rather annoying," said the fourth man, after the sixth man made his exit. "And his choice in novelists is, WAS! somewhat poor", commented the second. They extinguished their candle, and made their way out of the back of the restaurant. I couldn't have stopped them, if I wanted to. In truth I found the third man to have been a bit much myself. I took the take (they had left two days worth of money in the register), and made my police report, saying I was walking by and saw light in the window. From a pay phone, of course. I still don't know what to think about that night, other than that I'm glad I don't have many friends.

"Every single day there is a problem with this line," Romero complained to the commuter across from him. It was not the first time Romero had seen him. It felt like they knew one another already just from the fact that they took the same subway line every day. "And they told us they would fix the MTA," the man replied in agreement. "It makes you wonder how this city is still running." They both listened as yet another announcement was broadcasted on the intercom. It provided little information on when the metro car would move forward again. "I'm Romero," Romero introduced himself, extending a hand. "Oliver, nice to meet you." They shook hands, and a conversation was started. Romero was an accountant in a firm in midtown, Oliver, a pastry chef in Brooklyn. For a while they exchanged about their problems with the MTA trains, trying their best to laugh about it. They both knew there was not much they could do but complain. They were bound to the subway with no other alternative to get to their respective works. Finally the train restarted, and they got back to their routines, watching YouTube while ignoring just about everyone else on the train. A few days later, Romero noticed Oliver again as he stepped into the subway car and went to sit at his usual spot. He waved at him and said hello, but Oliver didn't reply. Instead, Oliver looked visibly disturbed, making it a point to sit somewhere else at the next stop. Romero, who had been in a good mood up to then, felt a little wounded to be forgotten so easily. He cursed at the subway and its zombified commuters, each in their own bubbles. He pondered Oliver?s reaction throughout the day, wondering whether he might have been responsible for it in any way. For several days after that, he didn't see Oliver again. That was almost a relief. Until a Friday when he entered the subway to find Oliver and a man looking just like him sitting by side by side. They seemed to be talking actively. Romero was too amused not to interrupt them. "Hey there," the man said enthusiastically as he noticed Romero. "Romeo right?" "Close enough," Romero replied. "Oliver?" he asked back. Oliver confirmed, and Romero proceeded to explain what had happened a few days back. He then learnt that Oliver had a twin, and that it had been Oliver's twin, Benjamin, that he'd encountered back then. The three of them had a good laugh about it before parting ways. Romero went on with his days lighter and entertained. The subway was not that bad, after all. Another few days later, Romero entered the subway to find that Oliver was not sitting next to just one person that looked like him but two. Unable to contain his surprise, he started laughing fairly loudly. A few people turned around, lifting their eyes from their screens, looking at him sideways. "How many times are you going to do this trick?" Romero asked as he approached the three men. He looked at all three at the same time, unable to recognise who Oliver or Benjamin was. "We thought he'd be funny if I showed up as well," one of the men said as he got up. "I'm Lucas, last and third of the triplet. I promise I'm the last." They all laughed together and rode the subway, chatting along. That night Romero went to bed marvelling at how the subway would always manage to surprise him, one way or another.

Meredith couldn’t help but think the Carnival of Mirrors lacked something essential: the mirrors. She stood by the edge of the crowd, her small hand tightly gripping her mother’s. ‘If you get lost in here, mija, there’ll be no chance of you finding your way back to me,’ her mother had told her before coming. There were no gentle, sugarcoated warnings with Meredith’s mother. She didn’t reassure her by saying she’d look for her if they were separated, or give Meredith false promises of them reuniting again should something happen. No, it was always Meredith’s responsibility to hold on to her mother’s hand. She was the one that couldn’t get lost because she was the one who was too young to know what to do on her own. Meredith held her breath and tightened her grip on her mother’s hand as they entered the crowd. At first, the sheer size and amount of adults bumping into one another as they passed was nerve-racking. The oppressive heat of the sun and the proximity of the crowd made her feel like she was suffocating. But as she grew used to it, her fear of separation began to dissipate, and she started looking around her surroundings in amazement. The bright colours and movement of the people and attractions at the carnival were almost dizzying. Meredith dragged her mother from tent to tent, wanting to see it all. After they had stopped to buy cotton candy and popcorn at a stand and seen just about everything hidden within every decorated tent--from seers who communed with the dead and glimpsed the future, to graceful acrobats dancing through the air, to lions, zebras, elephants, and other exotic animals--Meredith came to a sudden halt among the crowd. Her mother looked down at her in concern. " Qué pasa, mija ?" she asked. "Didn't you say this was called the Carnival of Mirrors, mami ?" Meredith inquired, puzzled. "Yes, I did." "But we've not seen a single one!" Meredith protested. Meredith's mother smiled down at her. It was the kind of smile she used to give her whenever she thought Meredith was asking the right questions. "Ah, you're right," her mother said. "But that's because we've yet to go into the most important tent in this whole carnival." Meredith let herself be guided by her mother's hand into an enormous tent at the far end of the carnival. The outside of it was made of deep purple velvet material; the flaps concealing Meredith's view of what lay inside. As they neared the tent, she thought she saw a flash of silver. Once they were inside, however, Meredith realized she had seen a reflection, for the interior of the tent was covered almost entirely in mirrors. It seemed as if all four walls were made out of glass, and there were even a few mirrors positioned in the tent's roof, giving Meredith the impression of standing at the center of a giant mirrorball. She turned in a circle, overwhelmed by the bewildering sight of the smooth glass surfaces, clear as cool water, and the reflections splashing through them. The littlest movement caused a rippling effect as it was caught by every mirror around her, seeming to multiply it tenfold. Meredith grinned at the fifteen versions of herself in the mirrors. As surreal as the tent was, however, there were surprisingly not many people inside. Meredith and her mother made up two of a grand total of five people in the mirror tent. "If it's called the Carnival of Mirrors, and this is its main attraction, how come there aren't more people here?" Meredith asked. She could see fifteen pairs of her mother's brown eyes looking down at her as she answered, "You ever wondered why they're called mirrors, Mer?" Meredith shook her head. "The Spanish word, espejo ," her mother went on, "comes from the Latin word specere, which means ' mirar '--to look. Mirar sounds quite a lot like 'mirror,' doesn't it?" Meredith nodded. "Well, there you have it," her mother said with finality. "There I have what?" Meredith asked indignantly. Her mother hadn't even come close to answering her question. Meredith told her as much. "Most people don't look . They see, but they don't look. You can tell them something is called the Carnival of Mirrors, and then distract them with acts and games and food, and they'll never question it. Never question why it has that name and yet there's not a single mirror in sight. Only those who look for them, who make it to the very end of the carnival, find the mirrors." Her mother smiled at her in approval. Meredith smiled back. * Meredith came out of the tent feeling very pleased with herself for having looked for the mirrors. She was so pleased in fact, that she didn't notice the crowd thicken as she and her mother made their way back to the chaos of the main road. The heat of the day had made Meredith's hand sweaty and slippery in her mother's grip. All it took was for Meredith to stop paying attention to where she was stepping for half a second, and she tripped, ever so slightly. She didn't fall to the ground, but it was enough for her to finally lose her hold on her mother's hand. The crowd came in like a tide between them, drawing them apart faster and more forcefully than Meredith would have thought possible. In an instant, she was drowning in a sea of people. She shouted for her mother, and she could see her mother's lips in the distance, forming her name. But Meredith could not hear her, and her mother didn't seem to be able to hear her either. A single phrase starting repeating itself over and over in Meredith's mind. It took her a moment to listen to it and identify what it was. " ...y me oyes desde lejos, y mi voz no te toca. " 'You hear me from afar but my voice doesn't touch you.' It was the line of a poem by Pablo Neruda that her mother liked to quote at her whenever she knew Meredith wasn't paying attention. But in reality, it was a love poem. Her mother had read the entire poem to her once, and though she had explained, Meredith hadn't really understood it. She understood that line, though. It was about two people being physically near enough that they could hear each other, but too distanced at the same time to really listen or be reached. The last Meredith saw of her mother was her dark brown hair disappearing into the crowd. Alone and frightened, she looked around trying to find an opening from the multitude of people. Meredith's breathing was hitched and her cheeks were wet with tears. Some adults glanced at her curiously but none stopped to help. She didn't know what she would have said if they had. Her mother didn't have a phone and Meredith didn't have any other relatives. All she had was her mother. Eventually, she gave up and stopped wandering around. Staying in one place seemed safer; all she had to do was wait for her mom to find her. Meredith sat on a bench outside a seer's tent and thought of what her mother would say when she came. " Qué te dije, mija? Te dije que no me sueltes la mano, porque te ibas a perder. Sabes lo peligroso que es que una niña de tu edad este sola en un sitio con tanta gente? Te pudieron haber raptado.. ." She'd be furious, so she would switch entirely into Spanish. Meredith would feel terrible but would take the scolding eagerly if all it meant was that her mother was there to shout at her. Her heart beating furiously with the terrifying helplessness of being lost and alone in the world, Meredith waited. *** Years passed and she's back at the Carnival of Mirrors. It's not quite as grand as she remembered it. She recalled there being colour and life and finesse that was lacking now. The crowd is pitiful in its size; she wonders how the separation even happened that day. How small must she have been to have been so helpless against a tide as weak as the one she was in front of now? Maybe there had been more people back then. Maybe, like all things lose their charm, the carnival had too. She never did find her mother. After that day, wandering around from foster home to foster home, she had never felt like she belonged anywhere again. She had been fluent in Spanish at some point. Now it tasted like foreign food in her mouth. The only word she did remember, after all these years, was ' mirar .' That's what brought her back to the carnival. On that very last day, her mother had told her that to find something, you had to look for it. Some people don't even know they're supposed to be looking. But after that day, she decided to never stop searching and questioning. She looks for everything since. Now, she looks for answers. The tent, to her surprise, is still velvet, still purple, and still tall. She braces herself for the inevitable disappointment that will come as a result of childhood illusion and the unreliability of memory. But as she goes inside the tent, she's surprised at the fact that she finds it every bit as fascinating as she did the first time. Unlike everything else outside, the mirrors haven't suffered from time and decay. They're as smooth and pristine as they were back then. The thing that's changed is her. She doesn't feel joy at seeing her multiplied reflection now, but doubt. The little girl she was when she was last here wouldn't recognize the person she had become. She didn't think that was a good thing. "It's called the Carnival of Mirrors because most people come to find themselves in their reflections," a voice says from behind her; as if reading her thoughts. She doesn't have to turn around to see the speaker; she can see her in the mirror. The woman is nearing her fifties, the same age her mother would be by now. She has greying brown hair and kind brown eyes. "That's not what I've heard," Meredith replies. "It's called the Carnival of Mirrors because it forces you to look for things and not just see them." She turns around to look at the woman. The woman smiles warmly at her. It's the kind of smile she used to give her whenever she thought Meredith was giving the right answer.

PENNY WISE A Harry Bartlett Short Story Northborough, Massachusetts Tuesday morning Hello, Reader. My name is John Watson, and I am a retired British military doctor who served in Afghanistan. I met Sherlock... Dammit, that’s been done before. And it’s not the truth anyway. I’m Steve Malarkey, editor of the Nantucket Observer and Harry Bartlett’s founding partner in the Fraud Detective Group. I’m writing this because Harry and a few others thought I needed a hobby due to 3 new places I find myself in: a wheelchair, a detective job, and a city, Boston. My getting hammered every day may have also contributed to their suggestion. Their idea was to write about our fraud cases and publish them (if it was good enough for Arthur Conan Doyle, it’s good enough for me). It would get the word out about avoiding scams, get us some publicity, and maybe generate a client or two. And maybe I’d be too busy to get sloshed; all commendable results. One thing before getting to this case, and it’s for you literary-type folks. I don’t like writing in the first person. Never did in my newspaper gigs, won’t do it now. Writing “I, I, I” sounds like a sailor obeying an order. Hope you enjoy the story. *** Business had been slow for the Fraud Detective Group since exposing the Nantucket scams. The hope for a steady stream of clients from the publicity and law enforcement referrals had vanished quicker than a casual fan down after the 6th inning with the Red Sox down a few runs. Harry, Steve, and Uncle Louie decided a road trip to civic organizations would be a good idea. They’d educate folks about avoiding fraud, maybe generate a new client or two, and find new walls to look at; the ones at 221 B Brookline Avenue were giving them headaches. Today found them heading to Northborough, a suburban town of 14,000 forty miles west of Boston. Steve was cruising in the left passing lane on the Mass Pike; the handicap-enabled van hadn’t slowed his driving following the hit-and-run attack while biking. “Guess who came from Northborough?” Uncle Louie asked from the back seat. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Mark Fidyrch, that pitcher nicknamed The Bird because he looked like Big Bird from Sesame Street.” “Not sure how I can work that into the speech,” Harry said. “How about John Kellette, the guy who wrote, “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles”? “Strike two.” “I like this one. Daniel B. Wesson, founder of the Smith & Wesson gun company.” “You trading in your .357 Magnum?” Steve asked. “No way,” Uncle Louie said, patting his black suit jacket. “But maybe we can visit his summer home, the White Cliffs house?” “Swing and a miss, strike 3,” Harry said. “Steve, can you stop for throat lozenges? I’ve got a tickle in my throat.” Steve turned into a convenience store on Route 20, the main road through town. Harry looked sheepish when he returned. “Do either of you have 2 bucks?” Harry asked. “You’re broke?” Uncle Louie asked. “Sort of, it’s an all-cash business, and I have $0 in my wallet,” Harry said. Uncle Louie rummaged in the pockets of his black suit for his wallet. Steve had fewer pockets in his well-worn jeans and won the race. Harry thanked him and returned to complete his transaction. Ten minutes later, Harry stood at the wooden half-podium placed on a table, a lozenge swirling around in his mouth. Given the Senior Center audience, he decided to focus on avoiding elderly fraud scams using the telephone: the grandson needing money to get out of jail, the call asking to confirm your Social Security number, or the IRS demanding payment. People were settling down from their continental breakfast, so he passed the time by calculating the average age of the 23 attendees; the answer was 73. His calculation would’ve been higher except for one fifty-ish man standing in the back. The man was short, maybe 5’ 5”, a Joe Pesci doppelganger with a jutting jaw and a bulldog scowl. He approached the three of them after the talk. Harry expected to hear “yutes.” “Rick Pound,” he said. “Hey, yuse gize are pretty good.” Harry stifled a laugh. “We try,” Harry said. “You have an elderly parent here?” “Nah, didn’t want the guys seeing me talk with you. I got us a room,” Rick said and started down a hallway. He turned around after a few steps. “You coming or what?” “What,” Harry said. “Fine. You know profits and all that fraud stuff, right?” Rick asked. “I know you do, I looked you up, just being careful.” He violently wrung his hands while he talked. “Profits suck at my new store and I can’t figure out why. Think you can crack it?” “Can’t someone on your staff check it out?” Harry asked. “The wife, Penny, keeps the books. I pay her zilch,” he said and made a zero with his thumb and forefinger. “She thinks she’s so smart, change this thing, spend money on that. Bullshit, money don’t grow on trees.” “How about hiring a CPA?” Steve asked. “He rips me off doing my company taxes. Two hundred bucks an hour for Christ’s sake,” Rick said. “But I get him back. Volunteers here do my taxes for free. They kinda don’t want to, but they cave and do them anyway.” “What kind of business do you own?” Uncle Louie asked. “Convenience stores, six of ‘em. Local places, sell Pepsi and pretzels and Playboy,” Rick said. “The new one makes 10% less than the others. Opened it a year ago.” “Rick’s Rest Stop?” Harry asked. “I bought throat lozenges at the Route 20 store this morning. Nice place.” “That’s the new one,” Rick said. “Don’t forget you owe me two bucks,” Steve said. “I won’t,” Harry said. “But that reminds me. Why don’t you accept credit cards?” “And pay them crooked credit card crooks a billion percent? No way. That’s my money, I earned it, I’m keeping it,” Rick said. “So, can you find my missing profits?” “Yes,” Harry said. He sat still. So did Steve and Uncle Louie. Rick got a confused look on his face: eyebrows down, head tilted, lips scrunched together. He looked at each of them in succession. Suddenly, his face changed. Light had dawned on Marblehead. “I get it, you want to get paid. I respect that,” Rick said. “How much?” “First, answer a few questions,” Harry said. “Shoot,” Rick said. Harry asked him a series of questions about the six stores: the items sold, pricing, the store size, the hours. He got machine-gun answers in return; the stores were precisely the same. “Each place has a manager and an assistant manager; they cover the first two shifts with clerks. Other clerks handle the overnight shift,” Rick said. “When are the shift changes?” Rick said 6, 2, and 10. “Excuse me for a second,” Harry said and went to the front desk. He returned with a sheet of paper and an envelope. He wrote something, sealed the sheet in the envelope, wrote “Rick” on the front, and placed it on a table. “The answer is in there. The price is $1,000 today or $5,000 tomorrow, plus a $500 donation to the Senior Center,” Harry said. “You’ve got thirty seconds to decide. Steve, will you time this?” “Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight,” Steve said. “Oh, and the $5,000 is a fixed price until we find the answer.” “Twenty-five, twenty-four.” “You bustin’ my balls?” Rick asked. “No, dead serious,” Harry said. Rick rubbed his chin, weighing his options, trying to calculate what he should do. “It’d be stupid to pay you a grand for nothing.” “Eighteen, seventeen.” “If he’s right, you save the lost profits starting today, and it’s $4,000 cheaper,” Uncle Louie said. “But if he’s wrong. I lose the grand and keep losing the profits.” Rick rested his chin on the back of his right knuckles. His right elbow was on his left knee, his head slightly bowed. “The Thinker,” Uncle Louie whispered to Steve. “Eleven, ten.” “Nope, I ain’t paying $1,000 to some guy who looked at nothing. And I like the fixed price thing.” “Your call,” Harry said. “We need a rental car.” Rick called the green logo’d company. “It’ll be here in an hour.” “Give me read-only rights into your accounting system, internet access, and a printer hookup,” Harry said. Rick gave Harry the password and arranged the other items with the Senior Center manager. Harry was active in two minutes. “I need your cell number so your store managers can call to confirm who we are.” Rick produced a business card. “24/7.” Harry typed into his laptop and printed out 2 sheets. “Sign these,” Harry said. The first sheet was a client contract. Rick made his scrawl on it. The second was Rick’s requirement that employees allow Harry to pull their credit report. “I don’t care what their score is,” he said. “Humor me,” Harry said. “Whatever,” Rick said and signed. “See you tomorrow, here, 4 PM,” Harry said and stood up. “And bring the $5,000 and $500 checks.” They shook to seal the deal. “Make them bank checks,” Harry said. Rick waved his okay as he walked down the hall. Harry let him get out of earshot, then asked Uncle Louie to get 4 reliable watchers to Northborough asap. “No, make it 3. And they need to blend in,” Harry said. “Hey, something wrong with my black suit ensemble ?” Uncle Louie asked. “In Boston, no, out here in suburban utopia, yes. I want jeans and t-shirts and sneakers, maybe sandals.” “That stuff ain’t part of their regular haberdashery,” Uncle Louie said. Harry tossed a credit card at Steve. “Go to the Solomon Pond Mall across Route 290. Find some regular store, not some teenage place like the Gap, and buy 3 sizes of everything and 1 set for Uncle Beau Brummell here.” He turned to Uncle Louie. “You’ve got an hour to get those guys out here and dressed.” Uncle Louie was making calls before Harry said, “guys.” Harry made a call. “Megan, how fast can you get to Northborough in jeans and a t-shirt?” “Soon enough, why?” Megan Webster asked. She and Harry had a good thing going after the Nantucket case; she was also the source of Harry’s tv publicity as the fraud and consumer rip-off reporter. Harry explained his plan. “It’ll last 24 hours, and, yes, you get the perp walk if there is one.” “Am I a soccer mom or an office worker on break?” Harry picked the second choice. “I’ll be there in 45 minutes,” she said and hung up. Harry guessed she’d red-line the Mini-Cooper and get there in thirty. “How sure are you that...?” Steve asked. Harry shot him an “are you shitting me?” look. “Okay, okay, just asking. Let’s go shopping, Uncle Louie,” Steve said. Harry started typing on his laptop. He grabbed the completed sheets from the office printer, flashing the bemused, elderly staffers his best altar-boy smile each time he invaded their office sanctuary. Steve, Uncle Louie, and the posse arrived back at the Center on time. Megan was already sitting comfortably. Harry asked Steve to stuff $10 into the donation styrofoam cup; the office ladies had cheerfully delivered the group a tray of hot joe with cookies. “That’s $12,” Steve said. Harry looked over his assembled watch team. They looked slightly uncomfortable in their new outfits of jeans with Nike logoed shirts and New Balance sneakers. He figured that was because their usual jackets covered their firearms. Megan would blend in perfectly. “Thank you all for getting here so quickly. This is a one day job, twenty-four hours. We’re working in teams, finding everything out we can about 6 convenience stores and the employees. Rule number 1: no guns. Stow them in your trunks. This is strictly talk, watch, and record,” Harry said. “Rule number 2: Shifts change at 6, 2, and 10. Sleep between shifts if you have to, but not in the store parking lot. Find some 24-hour place. Rule number 3: do the same thing, ask the same questions at each place. Write the answer or observation down as soon after it happens as you can. This is going to be like spending a day looking at open houses; pretty soon, they blend together. Rule number 4- take pictures and label them by the store number. Any questions?” Harry asked. “The idea is to hit a store, observe things, talk with the workers in regular chatter, then move on. Two at each shift change; one stays, the other follows the employee home, observes, then returns.” Harry handed out sheets with the store location and specific questions and observations. They went through each one in detail. He handed out felt-tip pens from the Senior Centers supply closet; this time, Uncle Louie forked over a $10 bill, and Harry supplied an even bigger smile. “Why me?’ Uncle Louie asked. “I like to distribute my debts,” Harry said. The stores were on main roads in neighboring towns. Harry’s posse descended on the first location like a swarm of locusts. Uncle Louie’s job was determining square footage; he asked for the restroom key and paced off the distance from the front registers area to the back of the store. He noticed that the flooring was one-foot square tiles and counted those on the way back as a double-check. He wrote the numbers on his hand. Steve’s job was inventory evaluation since his chair hid him behind the rows of products. He rolled up and down, snapping pictures with his cell-phone, coughing to hide each click even though it wasn’t deafening. When he finished, he moved his van to the back of the building and observed the food deliveries. Megan was in charge of interrogation; Uncle Louie’s guys spoke in single syllables and she talked for living. She chatted up the employees about their kids, upcoming summer vacations, and cars. She also was the final step: get permission to run credit reports. One of Uncle Louie’s friends had a construction background; he did not need a tape measure to estimate the food shelves’ and refrigerator dimensions. He followed the workers' home and estimated the market value. He checked his estimate with a real estate pricing app. Friend number 2 counted customers, noting age and gender. Friend number 3 was an ex-cop with on-the-job contacts to run the workers' criminal and driving records based on their license plates. He also did a fixed asset inventory of shopping carts, hand-baskets, the registers, the safe and cleaning supplies. Timing was crucial; Harry wanted someone inside to watch the register closeout and reopening. The group exchanged cell phone numbers to coordinate their movements. Harry got a room at a local hotel and downloaded daily revenue and bank deposit information and analyzed it on a shift and store basis. He looked at electricity, trash collection, and delivery fee costs. The data called in by the posse allowed him to calculate revenue per customer, customers per hour, and other ratios. He also pulled a credit report on each employee. One manager didn’t head home; Harry authorized the tracker to get into a minor fender-bender to get the address. He paid $200 on the spot to not report it because it would kill his insurance rates. They were done by noon the next day; they’d witnessed 24 hours of activity and every shift change. Harry paid the 3 watchers $500. Harry had 4 hours to finish the data evaluation. He finished in 3, and they went to nearby Uhlman’s Ice Cream to kill the hour before meeting Rick. Rick walked into the Senior Center. Harry, Steve, Megan, and Uncle Louie were playing pool. “Who’s she?” “A friend,” Harry said. He wasn’t lying. “So, you been to the stores?” Rick asked. “You have the checks?” Harry asked. Rick waived the rectangular paper. “You got my answer?” Harry waved the envelope. “Let’s take a trip. We’ll be back soon.” They returned to the room in forty-five minutes. “What the hell just happened?” Rick asked. “We walked in, bought a beef jerky, then left.” Harry stood at the semi-podium with a laser pointer while Steve operated the laptop’s projection onto the wall. “Your new store manager and assistant manager are ripping you off,” Harry said. “But you could’ve known this before you hired me, and definitely before you hired them.” “No way this is my fault,” Rick said. “It’s absolutely your fault,” Harry said. “Steve, start with the credit scores.” Numbers appeared on the wall, two for each staffer. The first was their credit score a year ago, and the second was yesterday. Most pairs were consistent and over 600. Two were over 800 now, but under 500 a year ago. “Steve, home values next, please.” Only 4 numbers appeared. “Most of your employees rent. 2 own 500k homes. Guess which ones.” “Let’s look behind door #3 for store stats, Steve,” Harry said, and rows and columns of numbers appeared. Store #6, the new store, had lower revenue per customer. The numerator, revenue, was lower for that store. The denominator, number of customers, was the same. Rick was getting anxious, tapping, and fidgeting. “Get to the point.” “One last slide: physical assets inventory,” Harry said. Each store had the same items except one- Store #6. Rick bounded up to the wall and smashed his fist into Store #6’s numbers. “What’s with the 3?” “Your manager and assistant manager installed their own register when they opened the store,” Harry said. “They don’t take every dollar through their register because it would be too suspicious, but they take enough to explain the lower profits.” “I hired them before the store opened; they wanted to learn how to start one from scratch,” Rick said. “They already knew,” Harry said and brought up their resumes. “By the way, I talked with Penny. Wise woman. She had the same ideas I did,” Harry said. “And why is this my fault?” Rick asked. “Because you’re too cheap to hire enough accounting staff,” Steve said. “Or to hire a CPA,” Uncle Louie said. “Or to have registers that track inventory and accept credit cards,” Harry said. “My guess is you’d increase revenue by 15%, way more than the 2% fee. And you’d reduce the security company pick-up fees,” Harry said. “And you’d know if different stores need different items.” “Or to trust an expert who knows what he’s talking about,” Megan said. Harry handed the sealed envelope to Rick. He ripped it open. “Read it out loud,” Uncle Louie said. “Manager and assistant manager.” Jesus H. Christ,” Rick said. He looked at Harry, then at Uncle Louie. They could almost see the gears grinding before he eventually handed over the checks. “Those bastards screwed with the wrong guy.” Rick whipped out his cell phone. “Get me the Police Chief,” he yelled as he ran down the hallway. Megan sprinted after Rick. “I’ve got an arrest to film. Dinner tonight, Harry?” Harry, Steve, and Uncle Louie packed up. Harry asked the receptionist for an envelope, then placed Rick’s check in it. On the way to the Mass Pike, they stopped at a Post Office. He addressed the envelope to the Senior Center Director and added a note from Anonymous. *** An empty pizza box joined the empty Sam Adams bottles on the FDG conference table. They’d finished rewatching her tv segment on the arrests. “Do I get to hear how you knew it was the store manager and the assistant?” Megan asked. “Rick’s answers eliminated most of the possibilities. After that, it was a science experiment: all of the variables were constant except the personnel,” Harry said. “What about the locations, different areas might buy different things?” Megan asked. “Maybe that might change things, but not by much,” Harry said. “The only possibilities were Rick was stealing from himself, which has happened- check out Crazy Eddie, or it was the staff. He didn’t seem sharp enough to pull that off, so that left the staff. Clerks likely didn’t have the access, so that left management. I wasn’t sure how they did it until the inventory came back with the extra register. Very clever on their part. They saw an opportunity, made a fast decision, and implemented it. The All-American success story.” “Except for the stealing part,” Megan said. “You have a limerick for this one?” “I worked on it while you all were at the stores,” Harry said. He cleared his throat. A store owner was acting quite devilish His love of profits was nearing a fetish He held every sou So tight it turned blue And Rick was the Pound that was foolish.

Inner Voice Rohan opened his eyes slowly to see himself in the mirror maze. He thinks, “How did I end up here”. He looks around and sees him surrounded by his own reflections. He tries to remember how he ended up here. He gets a glimpse of his chemistry class. He mildly remembers that he was in the chemistry lab doing some classwork. He can say by the look it is mirror maze, but this does not belong in the school. He slowly starts to walk forward and tries to find a way out of the maze. As he passes by many set of mirrors, he notices an odd thing. There were three mirrors that did not reflect him; instead, he saw his sixth-grade chemistry teacher “Mr. Rahul”, his crush “Riya” and his best friend “Rohit”. Rohan wonders why these three mirrors are not reflecting him. And why is it reflecting these three person in peculiar while the other mirrors are reflecting him. He moves towards those mirrors. And takes a glance at all three and he decides to first approach his Chemistry teacher’s mirror. So he first approaches to Mr. Rahul’s mirror and touches it. Soon a bright light blinds him. Then it fades away. He could see his sixth-grade chemistry lab and see his own childhood self, trying on some chemical combination. He then realizes that he is in the body of his chemistry teacher Mr. Rahul. Though Rohan was in Rahul’s body, he controlled neither his body nor mind. Rohan was able to hear Rahul’s inner voice. “Every year, I come across many new students. Though they remember me or not but I still remember each one of them” thinks Mr. Rahul. Then he looks at Rohan as the chemical apparatus slips Rohan’s hand and falls down. It shatters into pieces. Rahul approaches Rohan. “I know this part,” Rohan thinks. “This is where I get scolded like never before till now in my life”. Then Rohan hears Mr.Rahul’s inner voice. “Poor child is he ok, I scolded him very much. I feel sorry for that, but he has to be more careful. He reminds me of my son. That is why I had to scold him. I am not sure how he took it. If my son was alive he would be the same age of his.” “I thought him to be the worst teacher in my entire school life. I thought he never had a conscience and the rudest teacher. However, he considered me his son. I never knew he had a softer side. Moreover, I feel sorry for his son. After this my thought on him has changed”, thinks Rohan. The surroundings slowly fade away and he returns to the mirror maze. Next Rohan moves towards Riya’s mirror and touches it. He sees the same chemistry lab from Riya’s perspective. “Should I ask him for a group study? I am so afraid. What if he rejects me? But he studies better than me and has good grades. Only once, he had helped me with the chemistry lessons. I have not spoken to him other than that once. He is the only person that was kind to me.” Rohan listens to Riya’s inner voice. “Everybody thinks me as bad luck. If I am to speak with him, nobody will be his friend ever again. I know how it feels to be alone and would not let it to happen to anyone. Even my mother thinks of me as a curse and my father died because of me”. “I never knew Riya wanted to become my friend. I thought she only like the sportive boys, but never knew she had this bad luck idea in her mind and even her mother believes in it. She thinks me to be the kindest person in the entire world. But I have been mean by not understanding her feelings.” runs in Rohan’s mind. Riya makes up her mind to ask Rohan for a group study. She slowly approaches him. Then she sees Rohan dropping the apparatus and Mr. Rahul approaching him. Riya stands a few feet away from Rohan and watches everything happening. She feels sorry for what happened to Rohan. She thinks she is the reason for the things that happened to him because of her bad luck. She decides not to think of him ever again, for his own safety. Rohan slowly comes out of her inner voice and back to the mirror maze. Finally, he approaches Rohit’s mirror. Again, Rohan is back to the same chemistry lab but now in Rohit’s mind. Rohan sees Rohit applying some kind of lubricant to an apparatus and placing it unnoticed on Rohan’s table. Rohit thinks, “Rohan do you think you are so intelligent because every time I get a lower grade than you, my mother always scolds me when comparing me with you. Everyone wants to be your friend. So I have filled this apparatus with toxic gas, so when it falls down and breaks. Everyone in the class, including you will be affected by the gas. You have to take the entire blame.” Rohan returns to the mirror maze. He thought Rohit to be his best friend in the entire world but he has betrayed him. “Just because I am a bit better than you doesn’t make you worse. Your mother scolds you by comparing me to you, is to make you take the effort I take. But not to take a revenge on me”, thinks Rohan. Rohan finds himself in an ambulance, because of an accident in the chemistry lab. He asks the treating nurse if everyone is ok. She replies, “You are the only one who is most hurt, others are only mildly hurt”. Rohan thinks, “I am not hurt by the wound but I am hurt by the betrayal.” The entire world is seen from our perspective. However, once when we start seeing from other's perspectives, we will be astonished by the secrets that it holds.

# (FINISHED) # # How can I help you? I am lost. I can't tell if I'm in a desert, or a forest, or even an urban environment. # Do you know how you got there? No. I woke up blind and with strange sounds and smells around me. # What kind of sounds and smells? Loud sounds, yet quiet at the same time. Ugly smells, yet ones that I could grow to like. # What else can you sense? I think I feel hard ground beneath me, the kind of hard that gives way over time and can become soft. # Are you sitting or standing? I am sitting on the hard ground. I trust it will become more comfortable. # Is there anything else you can touch? I think there are large objects around me, warm to the touch yet harder than the ground beneath me. I think I shall stand, see if the large objects are bigger than I. # What did you find? They are not as large as I thought; half the height of a man. They are very warm. They are all around me. # How is the air? I can breathe fairly well, the air is cool but the ugly smells already seeming less ugly make the air seem warm. It is thick, the air. I can feel it. # Have you sorted out the sounds? They are growing louder yet quieter as I stand. They are like no sounds I have ever heard. High-pitched, with a low undertone that makes it seem the whole sound is meant to be low. Nothing alive could make such a sound, I am certain. # Can you move? I am able to move. # Could you move in a forward direction? I am trying to get past the large objects that surround me on all sides. I am trying to step over them, and they seem to be much wider than they are tall. # Are they flat on top? They are mostly round on top, but flat enough that I can walk across. # Can you make your way over them? I am attempting to cross on the tops. The warmth is heating me and the smell and sounds seem to be coming from the objects. It is difficult to walk across without seeing my path. # Is the object continuous? As of yet, it is, like a platform. I find I can appreciate the smell more now. It is easier to breathe. # Does this worry you? Not in the least. My fears are fading with the cool air made warmer with each step I take. # Is the smell toxic? I’m not dead, am I? # Does it seem like a drug? If drugs make the air around you a mixture of temperatures that clash without mixing, a symphony of contradictory noises, and a plethora of smell that is unpleasant yet you long to smell it. If this is a drug, I am most likely far from home. # Can you tell anything else about your surroundings? Not at the moment. I am still blind. How I’m not sure. I cannot reach my arms to my head. # Are your arms broken? No, just held to my sides as if by magnets. # Do you have any other impairments? My neck aches and I cannot feel my ears, but that is all. # Is there any pain? No, and I can hear fine. Other than my neck, I am growing quite comfortable. # Are you still moving? No, I have sat down for a rest. The objects are warm and no longer hard. I shall sleep for a while and perhaps wake in safety once more. # NO! DO NOT FALL ASLEEP! Why not? Don’t you wish you could rest those weary eyes? It’s warm and soft here. I’d like to stay. Who needs vision when you can have this symphony, this aroma...? # STAY AWAKE! You were supposed to help me. They told me you would help. Let me sleep. It’s all I need now. That’s how you can help me. # Who told you we would help you? They did. Voices. Before I woke up. I had this device in my hand and your number on the screen. I was told you would help. Now let me sleep. # Ask them where you are. Ask whom? # The voices. Whomever. They only answer in dreams. Let me sleep, and I’ll tell you. # Use caution. Sweet dreams. # Are you there? # Are you still there? # Hello? &#x200B; I am here. # What happened? I know not what you speak of. # Why didn’t you answer right away? I am governed no longer by time; cease your complaints. # What are you talking about? Something marvelous has occurred, and I am free. # Did you fall asleep? For one thousand years, then I was woken and all hindrances were gone. # Do you have your sight back? I need not mere sight from physical eyes, no, but I know now where I am. # So you don’t need my help anymore? No, but I have enjoyed conversing with you. Would you like to know where I am? # Where are you? I am deep in the quantum realm and the Quantum governors gave me a deep quantum communicator to get in touch with you. They said you would help me, at first. I no longer need your help, of course, since I am now one with quantum energy and am far superior to anyone, anywhere, and anything I have ever been or done. # Really? No! I’m in my backyard! Psyche! Now you can hang up, helpline. You guys need more practice. Bye now. \~LINE DISCONECTS\~ What dumbos. You can get anyone to believe anything nowadays. ☻║-▌¢Ñ¿┘⌂æ¿┬ën↓$↓♫2û┴b∟Ω£δ╖≈≈¬↑ What was that? It sounded like...now that I think about it, a high-pitched sound that has a low undertone that makes it seem like the whole sound is supposed to be low-pitched... **HELLO, CHILD**. Who is that? **EVERYTHING IS NOW ABOUT TO COME TRUE**. What? What “everything”? **YOU WILL SEE**. **BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY, CHILD**. **WE DO NOT TAKE THINGS LIGHTLY IN QUANTUM SPACE**. What? No, it was all a joke...I didn’t mean anything by it! **NOTHING IS A JOKE IF ONLY ONE PERSON FINDS IT FUNNY**. **COME**. No! Aaah! Help! Someone! \~STATIC\~ ...Where am I? What is this? Why aren’t my eyes working? Hang on, maybe my phone works... # Hello, this is West End Helpline #46. How can I help you? Am I ever glad to hear your voice.

Of all the things you’re sure the mind would cling desperately to, the strange desire for companionship is the first to go. I am alone, yet I do not feel lonely. Of course, it wasn’t like that initially. Blind panic struck and both my body and mind scrambled frantically for an escape, back into the arms of those I loved. I’ve never thought much of humankind, yet I’ve realised just how adaptable we can be. How, like water poured into any container, we can take the form of our environment and exist comfortably within it. I suppose there are people I miss. Yet, and I feel a pang of guilt admitting it, it’s not as much as I expected. If I made a list of the positives and negatives of my situation, I’d unfortunately have to admit that the loss of those I loved isn’t enough to tip the scales. I’d been so obsessed with filling every second of every day with what I viewed as progression, that I hadn’t realised the truth. I wasn’t trying to live a rich and full life... not really. I was running from it. I was so scared of what may arise in my mind if left unstimulated that I spent every waking moment trying to distract it. Distraction took many forms, be it meaningless sex, alcohol, or acting out the role of adrenaline junkie. I should be grateful for being consumed by the latter, because that’s what landed me here. The truth was, after the initial trepidation of my situation had passed, I realised that being alone with my thoughts wasn’t the all-consuming terror I had once believed. It was, in fact, incredibly peaceful. I never understood William Henry Davies, I thought his words were ridiculous, but I understand now. At first, I would mark the days by carving into the walls. After the first month time seemed an irrelevance, so I gave that up and I’ve decided to carve these words instead. I hope when I’m found that these words are passed to someone who needs them. Don’t be the donkey that chases the carrot, don’t waste your life trying to chase impossible goals. I also hope that when these words are found I have long since passed. There’s a stream of fresh water and enough insects to sustain me. It’s dark in this hole, only a dim glow from where I fell in penetrates and fills the cavern. Light is another surprising addition to the list of things I do not miss. I don’t want to return to civilisation, that is a rat race I have been glad to see the back of. I see no sheep or cows, no squirrels hiding their nuts. I cannot see streams of stars, nor the sky that they reside within. Yet there is a peace within this hole that I have never felt before. There is peace within the darkness. There is peace within the silence. There is peace within the void.

The woman was sitting by the window of the crowded train. She had a medium sized bottle in her hand with a rolled up paper inside it. She thought twice and thrice if she should open up the rolled stuff which belonged to someone else though it somewhat interested her. She was traveling with a 'Happy camp' team to a well-known Sea site. She joined them in order to relieve her stress that was upsetting her from the past few days. Genuinely it was suggested by her husband. This time they were on their way back to the capital city were they live. Initially, they all had the same motive " To reduce stress and depression ". It seems it all worked for most of them except her and few couples of people who were still silent with shrunken expressions. While paying a visit to the sea shore following their camp schedule, she was having a lonely walk all by herself and her teammates were busy running back and forth playing with the waves like teenaged kids letting their souls free of all tensions that gave them the reason to join the camp. That was the time when she found this bottle partially dipped into the sand. It made her thoughtful. She knew, people from years ago used to leave bottles with rolled up papers by the sea shores. Letters not papers, to be precise. She wondered if it was a letter or was it someone’s marksheet with failures and low grades that was left behind to avoid some kind of embarrassment. But leaving it here would make no sense. Some sort of feelings raised inside her that made her pick the bottle up. She kept it with her till they finished the night camp by the fire with a dinner consisting of sea foods. She was asked by another woman while sitting by the fire “Oh, is that a newspaper rolled inside that bottle in your hand?” “I am not sure”, she replied with a weak smile, “I found it by the shore.” “Hmm, seems like a letter”, the another woman giggled, "a love letter perhaps!" “I wonder”, she threw back. They were suppose to pass the night inside tents at the beach which was too a part of the camping schedule. When she finally washed up and was ready to sink into her sleeping bag she recalled she wanted to unroll the paper from the bottle that she had preserved safely inside her backpack. Should she? Why did she even picked it up? The night passed. Now, sitting in the middle of crowd with the instrumental noise of the train mixed with an old song played inside the train she wondered if it was the perfect place to pull the paper and unroll it. She kept hesitating. Should she? At length, the woman pulled out the paper and unrolled it as her curiosity was at it's limits. It was A LETTER . " Dear Mother , I hope you are doing fine wherever you are. I am fine too! You will be glad to know that I found a job. They say getting a good job was my luck as I could not continue attending high school because I had no money. That day I saved a tourist from sinking into the sea who was shoved by the waves and was not a good swimmer. I was able to seek attention from the head of lifeguards who offered me to join the rescue team that was eligible for a student like me. I had to take few strict trainings hoping to see better days than chopping onions at the sea side restaurants . I realized that you lied to me when we had little food and you offered me to eat the whole part claiming you are strong enough and so you do not get hungry, you lied about buying clothes for me that was actually the cut and sewed portions from your own clothes, you lied that you will pay my school fees soon and it were not a burden to you, you lied that father was not dead and either he will come back himself or he will be sending us money soon. Also the last time when you asked me to play and wait by the sea shore and said you will be back within a couple of minutes, I realized that you lied. Even your beautiful smile that was forced from your side, was a beautiful lie. I know it all. Mother, I'm grateful that you lied to me when I was a child and so I lived happily believing you without understanding or feeling the hardships back then. I want to return this favor. Now nothing is like before. We do not need a father either. If you ever find this letter, come back. I will wait by the sea shore just like you had asked me to do years ago. -Shima" The woman rolled back the letter and pushed it inside the bottle. She decided to get off the train on the next station. She will board on another train ensuring that it will take her back to the coastal site. She was going to leave the bottle were it was because Shima must be waiting for her mother to receive the the letter. All she needed to do returning home after this was to revisit the asylum where she left her son because her family suggested to. She is going to bring back her son, he must be waiting. She will fight her In-laws and wait for her husband to join her realizing that every child awaits their parents to protect and love them and they want to return the same out of gratefulness. It was what she learned from the letter of the liar's child. The woman looked out the window, the gentle breeze was pushing her hairs back. That greenery scenery outside the window takes her back to the days when she often found her son dipping seeds inside plastic bottles filled with soil trying to plant saplings. He had a beautiful mind even though he acted stupid .

December 21st, 1918 Adelaide, I cannot live alone with the knowledge of what has happened to Levi. It has been forty-six days and no other man has uttered a word, not even an indication that Levi existed. I’m almost certain you are aware of the war's end. Conflict between us and the Germans has been long gone yet the feeling of hopelessness and terror looms over the select few of us. We landed in France in late October. As we arrived in Le Mans the morale between men who had been stationed there quickly transferred to us. Levi though never changed. He spent every moment he could trying to raise our spirits. A few of the men resented him for not being as miserable as them. I found it charming. The trenches are more unbearable than imaginable. Levi’s attempts at humor became quiet sobs in the night. None of us could have anticipated the conditions in which our French friends had been fighting in. I often saw Levi staring into the walls of the trench with such intense focus. I was somewhat jealous of him if I’m being truthful; he seemed as if he was ignoring the war altogether in those moments. Within the days leading up to the war's end, Levi spiraled down to a deep despondency more and more with each mortar shell. Men who had been in the trench for months looked on as Levi fell victim within a few weeks. His sobs late in the night became rarer. He simply did not sleep. He came to my side the night before, smiling. At first, I had hoped that we might be able to get the Levi we once knew back to his former self. Levi put his hand on my face and began to whisper to me. He kept repeating to me that he had “finally heard” and that I needed to listen. Confused and still dazed from my sleep I told him to tell me in the morning. He wept to me while still smiling. “I’m going home, Beau.” These were the last words I spoke to Levi. On the morning of November 5th, we began to charge forward. I wish to not remember the sight of men being ripped apart by German artillery. We blindly ran forward ducking as if we knew when to dodge. It was useless looking back at it. Levi, myself, and the few men we had become acquaintances with over the weeks took cover in a large crater caving in on itself. As we lay there looking up at the sky as mortars passed over, Levi began to hum. The noise of our peers dying around us rang out louder than any sound I’d heard, but Levi, he just kept humming. He was cheerful and full of life. Eyes closed, he sat up and began to rise, putting himself in direct line of fire. Yet he slowly walked forward still humming his tune. It was a deep foreboding melody he repeated. The song pierced through gunfire and chaos and sunk deep into us like we had known this melody for our whole lives. With each step Levi took toward the top of the crater, his song rang out ever so slightly louder. Cutting below Levi’s hum was a deep rumbling like that of war drums. Could it be the tanks distorted from fear? Could it have been the beat of my own heart pounding in my head? I truly don’t know. I don’t want to know. Levi’s hum was now drowned out by that of a soft choir of trumpets playing the same melody he had been repeating as if a legion of angels were announcing the end times. I can only describe the horror that occupied no man’s land as inhuman. Deep in the fog of the German line faint movement was taking place above the ground. As Levi got closer to the edge of the crater, almost as if to join it, the figure made its appearance known. I do not know where the figure stopped and the sky began. Its arms outstretched displayed what could have been miles of darkness hanging from its limbs. My soul was filled with dread on a scale I’d never imagined. I can only assume the other men felt the same as they looked, stunned, in pure horror. A gunshot fired a meter away from me aimed not at someone else. As Levi crested the edge of the crater the trumpets roared, consuming our senses; a triumphant score for an incomprehensible abomination. He reached his hand out yearningly towards the sky. In only a moment, there was silence. The trumpets had subsided, the drums had ceased, and the roar of the battle around us had stood still. In the instant that the deafening noises came to a halt, Levi was gone. There was no fanfare, no goodbyes, nothing. He was gone; as if he was cut out of existence itself. I stared at the spot he had previously stood for an eternity. The sound of gunfire returned and I was dragged from the crater. I do not know what to make of this happening. The men who witnessed this have been silent as of writing this, as have I. Returning to camp to find solace has proved ineffective. Upon seeing the doctor I’ve been given the diagnosis of shell shock, but I know that to be wrong. I write this letter to you in hopes Levi’s memory will still subsist as any trace of him here has since gone missing. This will be my last correspondence.

I’ve decided that tonight is the night I’m going to kill myself. It’s time to finally say goodbye to the world. I’ve thought about how I would do it so many times. I decided that pills would be the easiest option. I considered trying to get a gun, but apart from having no idea how I would go about that, I’m far too squeamish for it. Knowing my luck, the bullet would just blow my face off, leaving me horribly disfigured in addition to being eternally miserable. No, pills are easily obtainable and I can fade away in the comfort (if you can call it that) of my own home. I’ve done my research and know roughly how many paracetamols I’d need to do the job. It’s been an effort tonight; nowadays you can only buy two packets at a time. It’s a small town and I’m almost running out of shops. I know of another two chemists, but they aren’t walking distance. I return home, get in my car and drive over to the first one. As I pull into the carpark I see the sign, ‘Closed due to emergency’. “Dammit!”, I shout, thumping my foot against the accelerator, tyres squealing as I leave. I get to the last place and it's open, thank god. I make my way down the aisle, looking up and down at each shelf. My heart sinks as I see an empty space where the paracetamol should be. A store assistant must see my anguish as she calls out “I don’t know when we’re due anymore in love, there seems to be a shortage just now!”. I nod weakly, and head back to the car. I think about other pills that I could take but I haven't done any research and again, knowing my luck, I’d end up seriously fucked but still very much alive. ************* I’ve woken up feeling quite opposed to pill taking as a means to an end. The setback last night made me realise there are just too many unknowns with that option. I decided that the best way might be to jump off the Tay Bridge. I actually considered it a while back, and being me, I did my research. I know the right spots to do it fairly undetected, and the right time of night to go. As I get ready to leave, I make sure the flat is looking tidy. I know people will be in here at some point after I’m gone and I don’t want them looking down their nose at the state of the place. I consider writing a note for whoever turns up, but I don’t know what to say. I guess the fact I’ve done this to myself says quite enough. I get in the car and drive; the wind is howling and I have to fight to keep the steering wheel steady. As I reach the bridge, I’m confronted with a sign, ‘Bridge closed due to high winds, diversions via M90’. I pull the car over and sit there in silence for a long time. After a while I start to cry, and begin the drive home. ************** I feel at a loss. Perhaps someone up there is trying to tell me something. Well, if they are, my life is still pointless so I won’t be changing my mind. I walk to the local shop, my mind racing. There’s a busy road I need to cross to get there and as I stand on the edge of the pavement the lorries and cars whizz past me at dizzying speeds. I glance over to the zebra crossing further up the road and see a couple standing together, laughing and joking with their two young children. They don’t seem to have a care in the world. I think back to when I used to have a family and that familiar raw pain hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. I squeeze my eyes and fists shut, and start to psyche myself up for what I need to do next. As I begin to count down slowly from ten, I’m startled by the sound of shouting. I look up and notice the child out of the corner of my eye, running past the zebra crossing and across my path. It takes me a second to realise what’s happening, and with the screams of the parents ringing in my ears, I race without thinking into the road and grab the young boy. In a split second I’m aware of the horn blaring ahead of me and the truck roaring down the road towards us. I push the boy hard towards the pavement then everything goes black. ************* They’ve given me something for the pain. I’ve been out cold for a couple of days but I’ll live. The paramedics worked hard at the scene to bring me back, I’m told. How ironic. At least the boy is ok - the parents came in earlier to thank me, said I was their hero. I don’t feel like a hero. I still feel like the same coward I always was. I look around at all the wires and machines surrounding me. If I could move, maybe I could dislodge some of this, make it stop saving me. Although I don’t actually know if I have it in me anymore. It shouldn’t be this hard to kill yourself. As I contemplate my future, the ward door swings open and a familiar face appears in the room. It takes a minute for me to realise that it's my daughter Rachel. She comes over to the bed and I can see she is pregnant. “Hi Dad’, she says tearfully, taking my hand. We talked for a while, about how the hospital called her as my next of kin, how the thought of losing me had made her scared, how she wants me to meet her family, how all of the fighting just didn't make sense anymore. As I listen to her talk, I realise I don’t want to say goodbye to the world. Today is the day that I choose to keep living.

There is a story in the first book of the King James Bible. A book called Genesis. The part of the story that I am referring to is found in the 19 th chapter.” The sun was risen upon the earth when Lot entered into Zoar. Then the LORD rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the LORD out of heaven; And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground. But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt. I often think upon that whole story when I remember my friend that left me and can never return. The way this story really starts is on the month of November in the year of our Lord 1965.You see there was a country known as Vietnam that for many years had been known as a colony of France. In 1941 a leader arose there by the name of Ho Chi Minh. He raised up an organization known as the Viet Minh. During WWII they were friends to the Allied Forces. Once WWII ended the Viet Minh felt that Vietnam had the right to independence. This led to a conflict first known as Indochina War. But back to the US. You see the congress of the United States enacted a daft on December 1 st 1969 to send American citizens to fight in a war the was never declared a war. Outrageous, vile and contemptibly illegal. Yet it happened. My friends and I suddenly became aware of all the senior male student in our high school. We began to hear things like draft dodgers, moratorium, and peace rallies. Our young people were in defiance of this draft. Suddenly a young man turning 18 in the US was a challenging thing. Even frightening. Throughout the country are citizens of the age of 18, who at that time did not have the legal right to vote, were being told you are going to a country that is fighting off colonial rule and you are going to kill those people weather you want to or not. Now while all of this was going on I attended, with my family a Presbyterian church in a sweet little city called Rye NY. The minister at the time was married and he and his wife were both very active in the community. They also had two sons that would be affected by the draft. The church had a choir, youth fellowship and it opened its doors to visiting ministries from other churches. So needless to say, I had a rather large number of friends. Not only did I attend this church but I was a part of something that “Life” magazine called. “The groove Christians of Rye NY.” And of course, being a young female, I had a lot of crushes on a lot of older guys that were going to have to deal with the draft. I began hearing things like. ‘Did you get your draft letter yet/’ Hey are you going to go sign up before they draft you?’ Mother, fathers, aunts, uncles, cousins, godparents, and siblings were all becoming very concerned about what was going to happen to the male youths that would be 18 in 1969 through 1975. The total military causalities of the war that was never declared a war by our congress, about 58,220 souls. I, who had two brothers, was very much opposed to the draft. So, I became what was referred to as a dove. Those who approved of the war were called hawks. We doves were known to hippies and love children as well as Jesus freaks and all of us began to demonstrate and protest the governments actions. We were seeing footage of the war on the news. Napalm or liquid fire was being dropped on the Vietnam people. Families we knew were getting telegrams about the young men dying. Yellow ribbons were sprouting up everywhere to represent those missing in action. All of these activities and people I meet kept me very much informed and before you knew it, I was going on 16 and it was1972. My very close friend was going to be 18 in a few days and a group of us were discussing what to do if he got his draft letter. If he dodged the draft, he’s probably never see his kin again and could even get shot and killed just for doing it. If he got called up and went to NAM, he might not make it home. If he obeyed, he would be able look back if he, didn’t he would not ever be able to look back. It’s just how his people are. It was late one night, a few days after this debate my friends had about it all. I was walking down Stuyvesant Ave and turning down Halls Lane when I felt A wall of silence. I couldn’t hear a cricket, dog, car or anything else. I stopped walking and tried to figure out what was happening. A bat fly past chasing some bugs and in the far distance I started hearing cars. It was the weirdest experience. The next day I went to school as usual. My friend wasn’t there. After a week of him not showing up I went by the house and asked if he was okay. The younger sister had answered the door when I rang the bell. She looked both angry and sad at the dame time. “He came home from school last week and his draft letter had arrived. Mom and dad figured he must have left that night. We haven’t seen him and don’t want to see him.” I nodded my head and quickly turned and walked away. I didn’t want her to see me cry. All they way I kept thinking about the 4-student killed at Kent State University over protesting the war. I though about things that had happened to anti-war activists and I tried to image my friend safely across the border and free from all of the BS. I made it home, went up to my room and cried. He was gone and would never be able to come back

Author note, Trigger warning, explores emotions following a miscarriage. They say third time lucky, but as the survivor of three miscarriages I could definitely bust that particular saying. Is survivor too dramatic a word? No, I don’t feel it is. I mean, no my life hadn’t been at stake, or had it? Maybe not in a physical way, but emotionally it definitely was, as each loss had taken me closer to the brink, I often worried that each loss was erasing a little piece of me, and what would finally be left? And what of the future life that I had lost, all those experiences of raising a child, that now I would never know. I felt traumatized , so yeah I damn well classed myself as a survivor, although at that moment in time, I wasn’t entirely certain that I would make it through to the other side. But there was a glimmer of hope, as after days of sitting in my dressing gown, staring blankly at the wall opposite, I had managed to rouse myself and muster the energy to get dressed, which was a shock to my system. The next part is still a mystery, but somehow on autopilot I managed to drag my sorry carcass out of my street door and along the road, towards my chosen destination. As I walked along, crisscrossing pavements periodically to avoid coming into contact with women passing by pushing prams, my mind pondered upon the word miscarriage. Such a benign word for such a soul destroying event. Before going through it, I had only ever briefly wondered about it. But now it seemed I was unable to think of anything else. Almost three years of my life sped by with me living in a perpetual cycle of hope, anxiety, fear and guilt. Three years of fending off the commiserations of the World and his Mrs. Everyone seemed to have an opinion, I’d heard it all, from “You're better off with a dog, kids just disappoint you?” to “May you’ve had a lucky escape, might have grown up to be a mass murderer.” Neither of which gave me any comfort. But then neither did the more sensitive comments, because let’s face it, when it comes to miscarriage the sorrow is personal. My faith had got me through it, up until that point. Whether it was praying to conceive or praying for my child to survive, I had done it. I think my kind of miscarriage didn’t help matters, as they were silent and void of fanfare. There was no drama, no mad anguished dashes to A&E in the middle of the night. No mine were just a possession of tiny beating hearts that forgot to beat. A little trio of tiny beings with ten fingers and toes, that were lulled to sleep within my lousy treacherous womb. Self loathing seemed to be the norm, that and in that moment a desire to do something right for my never to be born child. This last miscarriage had been different to the others, he’d survived longer and I had seen him alive on a screen, and that’s how I know he’d had ten fingers and toes, to wriggle in rytthm with his beating heart. A black and white, grainy image with the power to rob me of my breath, as tears cascaded joyfully down my cheeks. Only a few short weeks later, those tears flowed again, but this time in sorrow. “You are lucky,” they told me, (what a crass choice of words) I had thought, “a week later and you would have had to give birth.” they’d explained with a level of professional calmness that was borderline cold. I had still been thinking about their choice of words, as they had wheeled me into the theatre. In some crazy ill thought out decision, I even tried to resist the anesthetic, I wasn’t ready to relinquish my child, not ready to wake to the emptiness. I counted beyond the twenty, before pitching into a darkness, that even now weeks later I was trying to submerge from. At last I had reached my destination, my local church, my safe haven. Upon entering I glanced up at the statue of the Virgin Mary, proudly holding her child in her arms, “is the fruit of thy womb”, I whispered, and felt the sting of tears. Looking down the aisle I spotted the priest, he was new, and I didn’t do well with change, but still he was God’s servant, and in that I had to trust. I gulped back my tears and told my sorry tale. He looked slightly bored, I told myself this was in my imagination as I had grown way too sensitive, my hormones seemed to be riding an everlasting rollercoaster, of ups and downs. Was it any wonder I was an emotional wreck. Then once I had reached the end, he nodded and said he was sorry. “The thing is” I stuttered, “I really would like for you to say a mass or something for his soul” As I spoke, I thought my request was reasonable, I mean he’d had ten tiny fingers and toes, so it stood to reason that just like any other human being he had a right to celebrated. “I am sorry I can’t do that.” The priest replied, bringing me up short. “Why?, I mean I am willing to pay” I explained, delving into my handbag and praying I had remembered my purse. “It's not a question of payment, your child did not breathe and therefore had no soul. Come sit with me, and we will pray for your speedy recovery.” I stepped back, shaking myself from head to toe, as if trying to dislodge something nasty that had settled on my skin. “I don’t want you to pray for me.” I shouted, wondering if he would be able to see the guilt that oozed from every pore. “I am sorry.” he said again, in a tone that told me his decision was final. “Three times I have endured this pain.” I continued as if he had not spoken. “I don’t think I could go through that again.” I paused to make sure I had his attention before allowing my axe to descend, “If I were to fall again, I think I would need to consider an abortion.” Even saying the words left a bitter taste in my mouth. I had lied of course, as I knew that I wanted a child, so bad that I would keep trying no matter what the cost. My lie was necessary as I wanted this man, this supposed servant of God to feel the extent of my pain. “I can not condone that.” he replied simply, “You would be acting against the will of God.” “Why?” I asked, defiantly jutting my chin forward. “Where is the sin, if like you say the child has no soul?” A silence lapsed between us, I could see a rage building in his eyes. And almost smiled for having outfoxed him, but then I remembered I no longer knew how to smile. “That’s different. “ he said at last, in a tone that told me this explanation should be enough. It reminded me of the Holy Sisters in convent school telling me it was not my place to question. But I was a bereaved mother, and at that moment it was not only my place to question, but my duty to do so. Too long have women been told what to do, by a church that calls itself the Mother Church, that adores a Virgin Mother, yet does little to ease the daily suffering of women. When I thought about it, why was Eve blamed more than Adam? She hardly held a gun to his head. Why was original sin credited to women, when we all know it takes two to tango, even in the garden of Eden! “So you’re saying that my child who I saw alive and moving, be it on a screen, had no soul and is not recognized. Yet, another who might not even reach that stage, who might even resemble a raspberry would be awarded more rights and make me a murderer, if I chose to put my sanity first?” I wasn’t sure if he was acting in accordance with church policy but, at that moment I didn’t care. I just wanted out of there. After twenty five years of loyalty, the blinkers were off. Having said my piece, I turned and walked straight out of the church, not even stopping to anoint myself with Holy water, swearing never to return. However, as you most likely know my darling, I didn’t turn my back on God. No, the way I saw it, every organisation has its share of bad managers, and quite often the man upstairs has no idea of what is going on at the grass roots, why should God be any different? But I couldn’t be a part of something, so held back by dogmas that it couldn’t see beyond them. I had stood before him a broken woman, a mother with no child to hold, who was lost in grief. He’d fallen back on his own misguided beliefs and hadn’t allowed himself to see that he was my last hope. The only way I could possibly give my child something, to demonstrate my love. Unknowingly he gave me anger, and anger fueled me forward, so I suppose he did something in the end. And that my sweet girl is why you and your sister have not been baptized, I am sure if we search hard enough we will find the perfect venue for your wedding, that accepts you simply as you are. You are my miracles, born out of my belief that I would one day hold you. To me you existed from the very first moment that I knew you resided within me. You had ten fingers and toes, a beating heart, and a soul that would be your moral compass. As a mother I have given you love, and freedom not to be tied to any outdated institution. You are a woman now and you are free to choose your own path.

I’m going to pass out. I’m going to pass out and hit my head on this disgusting, stained tile and catch a deadly infection and die. If I weren’t freaking out when I flew through the bathroom door, I would’ve taken my time to look around before squatting over the dirty, cracked toilet and struggling to balance against the stall while holding the test between my legs. It was clear this bathroom needed some TLC and I was not about to be the one to be wheeled out of it on a gurney. I rested my forehead against my palms and tried to take a deep breath as a wave of hot nausea washed over me. Every second seemed to be taking its sweet time in passing. I was so nervous when I came in that I could barely even pee. I mean, what idiot can’t pee? Now, as I sit and wait, all I want to do is pee my pants and scream and quite possibly pass out from the rate my blood pressure is skyrocketing. I couldn’t keep my hands still. They were shaking so badly that even fidgeting with my necklace was getting difficult. I never imagined myself in this scenario. No, not me . The careful, responsible friend who you could rely on to get you home safely after a night out. The friend you called when you needed sound advice. I was the one who talked my friends out of texting their toxic ex on lonely nights. Me . The one who always had the tissues when needed. The girl who never drank too much just in case she had to pick up her friends in the middle of the night. Where was she when I missed that pill? Huh? What happened to the angel on my shoulder that night? My eyes were already overflowing with tears. Once again, I’m not sure if it's the pungent scent stinging my nostrils or the fact that I’m sitting hunched over on the toilet in a gas station bathroom, praying to fail a test for once in my life. Dear God, I’ve passed every other test I’ve taken, I think I can afford a hit to my otherwise perfect record. Each breath came labored. My chest was aching as I sat and watched the timer on my phone. Thirty-seven seconds . It’s only been thirty-seven seconds since I set the small, plastic stick face down on the square container connected to the stall. The reality of the situation slams into me over and over as I search the small square stall for any sign of hope. The maroon paint was chipping and had random names scribbled here and there. If my eyes weren’t betraying me with tears, I’d probably be able to make out what the clearly written text in front of me says. The sound of laughter poured into the bathroom from the hallway. I could barely hear it over the thump, thump, thump of my heartbeat in my ears. At least someone is having a good time. Any other day, that would probably be me. I can almost taste the wine my friends would surely pour me as we laughed off this scare. I’m just being silly. There’s no way. I mean, scientifically it is completely possible and even probable. My mind is having a hard time wrapping around that fact. It’s as if I’m the main character of a horror movie that’s been paused and I’m the only one moving. There’s no way out but I’m grasping at anything here. I can’t believe I’m now this woman. The woman taking a pregnancy test in a gas station bathroom so that her roommate doesn’t see. The woman who let one thing lead to another that led to this exact moment. Fifty-four seconds. “Dear God, if you get me out of this, I’ll become a nun. I swear, or no, I don’t swear-” I bit my lip to keep from cursing in the middle of my plea to the heavens above. A fresh wave of tears began to pour down my face. I watched them spill onto my jeans. The dark spot on my thigh was growing by the second as my tears soaked into the denim. I’m not pregnant. I am not pregnant. I wrapped my arms around my torso and hugged my abdomen. There is no baby in there. There can’t be. But the waistband of my pants digging into my stomach says otherwise. I’ve been bloated for the past two weeks. I tried convincing myself that I was just bloated because my period was due. But, it never came. Three weeks and not a sign of Ms. Flow. I steal a glance at my timer, one minute and thirteen seconds. In less than a minute, I’ll know. My fingers were itching to flip the test over and glare it into a negative, but I know that’ll only work in my imagination. Which, happened to be running wild with images of children. All the children in my life. My sweet little niece, Remi. Her little curls bouncing around as she jumped into the puddle her mother told her to stay out of. Then, Reece. My cousin's son, who was a spitting image of his mother. Every time he saw me he would throw his arms up in the air and scream, “Lou Lou!” For the longest time, his L’s sounded like D’s. So my name was Dou Dou. Thank you God, for speech therapist. Then my mind betrayed me and plagued me with images of Davis. He doesn’t deserve this. His career just took off. As a lawyer, I’m sure he knows how to legally get out of the responsibility of being a father. But I’ve known that man my whole life and I know he’d never be able to get out of the emotional obligation. He’s honorable. He’s dependable. He’d never let me go through this alone. He’d probably marry me just to do the right thing by my parents and his, who would be happy to see us together. There is no baby in my uterus, but if there was, it would surely have his blonde hair and our blue eyes. We would have the most gorgeous baby, with a lawyer father and a realtor mother. It would be set for life. A good life, too. But now? Do I really need a baby now? One minute and forty-seven seconds. My heart was beating out of my chest, every single muscle in my legs twitched with my need to get the heck out of here. Davis would probably laugh in my face if I told him I was pregnant with his child. He’d think it was a joke. We only ever hooked up once and it was a huge mistake. I’ve known him my entire life and I’ve never once heard him mention wanting a family. We were friends. We were really good friends, who got entirely too drunk on a bottle of champagne after his sister’s wedding and made a mistake. Could I love him? Absolutely. Any woman with eyes would love to get this chance. Heck, I would love to have this chance, without the baby. When I think about feeling for any other man the level of comfort I have with Davis, it’s laughable. No other man could compare to the man that’s held my hand through every breakup, every sad movie, and laughed at all my jokes. He was there the night my prom date stood me up. He held my hand and walked me into prom like I was the queen. If I flip this test over and it’s negative, I still have to call him. We still have to talk about what happened and who knows, maybe we’ll make a go of it. How am I supposed to focus on building a relationship with any man, let alone Davis, with a ball of hormones growing inside of me for the next nine months? Okay, so technically it would be almost eight months, since I haven’t seen Davis since that night over a month ago. “I’m just stressed. Maybe it’s something else, like cancer. Maybe I’m only late because I’m going into early menopause. Please, let it be early menopause,” I whispered. I closed my eyes as I The ringing of my timer nearly stopped my heart. Instantly my mind flashed images of me in the hospital. The nurses were surrounding me as I screamed and cursed, throwing any and every threat at Davis as he flashes me his panty dropping grin. The nurse asks him if he wants to cut the cord, he says yes. Of course he would say yes. As the nurse laid the baby on my chest gently, my eyes met Davis’ teary ones and we both smiled. Happy. We were happy. In all my panicking, I never let myself imagine a happy ending for us. A white picket fence wasn’t in the cards. But, as I lay back against the toilet seat and let my alarm ring into the silence, I can see it. The calm washes over me as my mind settles on the image of him smiling down at a baby boy, or girl, I couldn’t care less which. The idea of having a baby scared the shit out of me, still does. But part of me wants it. I always have, I guess. My hands were still shaking as I reached out and flipped the test over. All of the air left my lungs in a rush as I stared down at it. Nothing could have prepared me for this moment. The emotions swirling around in my mind were too much and I couldn’t contain the loud sob that worked its way up my throat. The two lines on the test were clear. They were dark. There was no denying that I was pregnant. I’m going to have a baby. Davis is going to be a father. He’ll be a good one, that much I know. Me, a mother, who would’ve imagined that. Something shifted as I shoved the test into my purse. A lightness fell over me and for the first time in days, I felt like I had something to look forward to. Despite being scared to death, despite my heart still climbing up my throat, an overwhelming calmness washed over me and cooled the heat of terror. I’m going to be a mother. I’m going to be a mother and I’m going to be okay.

It was the voice that convinced Remy to go further into the cave. He initially went into the cave to escape the blistering heat outside. As an old desert rat, treasure-hunter, gold miner, and seeker of riches, he knew better than to challenge the sun at its apex. At first he only went in a few yards. With the help of his flashlight he found a comfortable spot on a large outcropping of rock to sit on. He pulled the canteen off his belt and took a short swig of it. Just enough to wet his tongue and throat so he could swallow. He looked at his old Timex wristwatch that still glowed in the dark after 50 years, and decided to take a quick nap. He relocated himself on the ground with his back to the granite wall, and pulled his baseball cap (that said Lakers on the front) down. When he woke up an hour later the first thing he noticed was a horrible smell. Standing up carefully, there was only a small clearance between the roof and his head, Remy took a few steps further into the cave and shone his light down into its dark depths. He didn’t see anything, but the smell told him something was wrong. It smelled like death. Decaying corpses. Humans turned into torches with napalm. The fat in their body fueling the flames and causing a greasy smoke that clung to whatever was near. That bad. If Remy wasn’t an adventurer at heart, he would have left the cave right then. But his curiosity, which had nearly cost him his life before, was too strong. When he heard the voice in his head that cinched it...he had to go further inside and find out why it was calling him. He double checked the contents of his backpack. Extra ammunition for the old Army .45 he brought back from the Nam, and carried on his web belt. Enough dried, and canned food for a week. A Vietnam-era metal mess kit, plus P-38. A compact First-Aid kit. A compass. A flip phone (a concession to his grown daughter) with minimum functions. A charger for the phone which was only good if it could be plugged into an electrical outlet. A local map of the area he was in. A folded up plastic poncho. An extra t-shirt, and pair of socks. Extra batteries for his flashlight. A metal flask filled with Bushnell’s Irish whiskey. Along with the .45, he had a flashlight, two canteens, and a k-bar knife hanging on his web belt. Caves didn’t scare him. He’d been in a few hostile ones in Vietnam and Cambodia. He took his bearings with the compass, mentally noting them before pushing on further. After an hour he stopped when the cave abruptly broke off into three directions. The already stale smell of the damp cave was enhanced by the sickening smell that drove him on. The air was getting thin as he pondered which way to go. His sense of smell wasn’t so acute that he could tell which cave the stench was coming from. They all smelled like hell to him. Then he heard the voice. “Chests full of old Spanish gold and rare jewels...” “Where?” he roared, his voice reverberating down all three tunnels. “Down here...down here waiting for you...” the voice promised. Remy knew, on one hand, that he shouldn’t be listening to a voice in his head. After years of PTSD counseling he knew it wasn’t right to respond to a voice in his head. It was the fine line between sanity and insanity. But, on the other hand, he’d responded to voices (one’s he didn’t tell the psychiatrists about) before and things had worked out. He picked the tunnel to the right and started walking as he debated with himself about the value of voices with messages. After walking for eight hours he took his backpack off and sat down on the damp ground. He rummaged through it until he found some beef jerky and his plastic poncho. He unfolded the poncho and slipped it on. It afforded some protection against the dampness. He finished his meal off with a swig of water and whiskey. Before falling asleep it struck him that he was getting use to the foul smell. When he woke up the first thing he did was look at his wristwatch and turn on his flashlight. He’d slept eight hours. That was two hours more than his normal rest. He wondered how much the thin air weakened him. As if in answer, he got dizzy when he stood up. It took a couple of minutes to be able to bend over and retrieve his web belt. He felt a little better after sipping some water. His first decision was to go back the way he came until he found the crossroads again. It took him over eight hours because he had to stop and rest several times. When he came to the opening for the three tunnels he sat down and pulled out his metal flask and took a healthy swig. He sat down and took his compass out and studied it for a few minutes under the flashlights beam. He was exhausted and decided to camp right where he sat. After eating, still wearing the poncho, he curled up on the ground and fell asleep. An hour later he woke up, startled by an overpowering smell stronger than what he remembered earlier. Instinctively he reached for his web belt and his gun. He drew the .45 from its canvas holster, before slowly standing up. The smell was so strong he felt like vomiting. Then he saw the eyes - hundreds of them - glaring at him from all three tunnels! The only option left was a strategic retreat. The things in the tunnel made a low chattering sound in anger. Some grew more bold than others and came closer so that he was able to see their short, squat, hairy, naked bodies, clutching weapons made from human bones. Their faces were disfigured parodies of humans and they were covered in vile-looking boils. Some had three arms One had two heads, and hopped angrily on one leg. Remy backed up and kept the flashlight in front of him. When one of them burst forward and came within a few feet of him he fired his gun three times, then turned and ran as fast as he could! Gun in one hand and flashlight in the other, he stumbled but never stopped running. It seemed like forever before he saw daylight and the cave’s opening. He was blinded by the sun and held his hand in front of his eyes. He looked back at the cave’s entrance once, expecting to see pursuit. None came. As he hiked back to his old jeep he decided this was one adventure he wouldn’t share with anyone. Especially with his friends who warned him to stay away from the Yucca flat region of the Nevada Test Site near Area 51. As It Stands, some of us are born adventurers that will always be looking for treasure, but not necessarily finding it.

The sun beat down on the Farne Islands, bringing a welcome heat for grey seals basking on the beach. Others sought to escape it: rabbits retreating into the shade of their warrens, Arctic terns diving in the beautifully cool ocean. Then there were the puffins, the most aristocratic of birds with their suit-like plumage and colourful crown of a beak; parents fished while pufflings sheltered in their burrows. One such puffling poked his head out of one such burrow. Pip stretched his wings as he stared up, watching the adults swoop and soar across the sky. His feathers brushed against the walls so he shuffled out a little further and, when no danger presented itself, a little further still. As the tip of his tail passed the threshold Pip clambered to his feet, revelling in the feeling of the sun on his back and the wind ruffling his feathers. His head swivelled as he hopped around, struggling to process all the new sensations. Just as he was becoming used to the world around him, a cacophony of cawing erupted around him. There was a momentary blip in the sun's warmth as a shadow passed overhead before looping back around, growing steadily larger. Pip made a frantic dash back to his burrow and dived inside just in time to escape the inquisitive beak that poked in after him. But something wasn't right. The tunnel was the wrong shape and was missing the grass lining. Pip considered the conundrum. Could he risk going back outside? He suppressed a shudder as an image of a long, sharp beak flashed through his mind, and started shuffling further in. "What are you doing here?" demanded a rabbit in the corner, harried by the many children that covered her. "Sorry, I think I came in the wrong burrow. "Is there another way out?" Her expression softened as she registered the quiver in his voice. "You can try that way," she said, shifting under the mass of young rabbits to point. "But it's a bit of a warren down here." "I'll show him," one of the young rabbits squeaked. "No Kit, you're not ready to go out alone." "But Muuuumm, I won't be alone. And he needs help." "Fine," she sighed. "But show him to the entrance and come right back. No going outside." Kit leapt up. "Okay Mum," he said, before turning towards Pip. "Come on, it's this way." They made their way through the maze of tunnels until they reached an opening. Pip paused to say thank you, but the words caught in their beak as Kit continued on. "I thought you were meant to stop here," he called after the young rabbit. "Pfft, if I always did what she said I'd never have any fun. Besides, I want to make sure you get home safely." "Well, thanks," Pip said, hopping after him. "I suppose --" A screech cut him off, accompanied by an approaching shadow. He was almost back at the burrow entrance when he noticed Kit wasn't with him - his new friend was cowering in the grass, a large gull circling overhead. Without stopping to think, Pip charged across the ground beating his wings as hard as he could and soon found himself climbing into the air. But there was no time to enjoy his first flight; he had to help Kit. He dived towards the gull, pulling away at the last second. On the next attempt his feet brushed the wings of the monstrous bird but still it ignored him. Despair was starting to creep in when two other puffins joined the fray. One of them flung their beakful of sandeels over the gull while the other flew underneath to block the view of the young rabbit. The rain of food proved enough of a distraction as the gull chased the falling fish, allowing the three puffins to glide down to the ground in relative safety. Pip landed next to Kit and gently nudged him with his beak. "It's safe. You should probably hurry home." Kit's eyes darted around as he nodded at Pip before racing away. Pip allowed himself a small chuckle, it would be a while before Kit ignored his mother again. As he turned his attention to his saviours, joy filled his heart. "Mama! Papa!" "You gave us quite a fright young man!" his father scolded, eyes boring into Pip. His mother hopped towards him, pushing her head gently into his. "Yes, but did you see that stupendous first flight?" "Yes, yes, very good. Even if it did lose us our dinner. Now what do you say we go home? I've had enough excitement for one day." "Me too," Pip agreed, feeling the truth of the words in his chest as they made their way to the *correct* burrow entrance. \*\*\* This story was written for the WP Hub's Secret Santa Story Exchange. The constraints were given to me by and were: \- Includes: A bird features in some way or another \- Words: 'inquisitive', 'harried', 'stupendous', 'aristocratic' or 'conundrum' are included \- Action: Someone gets a tad (or fairly, or extremely) lost.

#Hello r/Shortstories! For the last four months, we’ve been running a here on the sub. I’ve had the pleasure of watching numerous writers build an entire world from scratch, and I’ve watched their characters grow and develop as they’ve faced different challenges. I’ve seen each and every SerSun participant improve week to week and it’s been a delightful experience. I’m back again to celebrate another writer completing their serial! Let’s take a moment to say to u/mattswritingaccount! He’s been a part of the WP family for quite a long while now and an active participant in our discord. I’ve enjoyed getting to him and he’s a delight to have in the community. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Have Skeleton, Will Travel - Written by u/mattswritingaccount If you haven’t yet read the latest installments of his serial, I encourage you to check it out. Take an afternoon, kick your feet up, and dive in. **A brief synopsis from Matt:** Short version? *Have Skeleton, Will Travel* is about the life and times of a wandering skeleton that is new to this whole "undead sentience" thing. Basically, poor Larry was murdered and brought back to life to serve (albeit for a very short amount of time) as one of the mindless servants to a necromancer. When the necro died, Larry for whatever reason didn't dis-animate. And that's where we start things off. It's mainly a fun little look at turning a fantasy world on its head. - - - - - - - - - - - - &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #A Chat with u/mattswritingaccount about Serial Writing So let’s take a few minutes to chat with Matt about his experiences writing a serial. ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** Well, I did this serial specifically to get some practice with writing humor. It's not a main focus in my personal writing most of the time, so I wanted an outlet to specifically focus on it. I wasn't sure if I could translate some of my oftentimes-dry attempts at humor to the written word. So it definitely was fantastic practice for that. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** There were two things I enjoyed about writing Have Skeleton, Will Travel. For one, I loved seeing everyone's reactions to some of the various scenes within the story. I enjoyed seeing something that I thought would be amusing hit right, and when it hit wrong - it leads me to my second thing. The feedback I got from the other writers, between comments on the threads or via SerSunday Campfire, were ABSOLUTELY invaluable. And that applies to both this writing as well as my other works. One other aspect I enjoyed about the story came from the Campfire presentations. Initially, the first few chapters were read outloud by other readers and it was fun to see how far into the story they got before having to suppress a chuckle. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** The biggest challenge, for me, was getting in a humor mindset in the first place. I have a very dry humor honed through way too much exposure to things like Monty Python and the Princess Bride. I wasn't sure if I could DO a humorous piece at all. As to how I overcame it, well... I'm also really stubborn. So I figured darn the torpedoes and just dived in with both feet. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** For one, you definitely want to at least try it. Just like trying a new vegetable when you were a kid, you never know what's going to hit without trying it. If all else fails, you can always just shrug and say, welp, I tried - instead of just wondering "what if" forever. If you're having issues figuring out how to do a serial, you could approach it this way. If you've been on WritingPrompts for a while, you've likely written a short story or three for various prompts. Well, a serial then is nothing more than a 500-850 short story, weekly, with the same characters. As long as there is SOME tieback to the previous versions, you're already set. I HIGHLY encourage people to give it a try. It was a lot of fun that I will definitely be doing again - about the time Larry's ready for round two. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; Thank you so much, Matt, for giving us a peek behind the curtain, as they say. It has been such a joy to watch your story evolve over the past few months. Larry is a character that will stay with a lot of us for a long time. I wish you the best of luck on your future projects. And maybe we’ll see you around Serial Sunday again. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

"Christ alive, it's a busy one today" "Yep. I guess all those sick bastards have to come somewhere, right?" "So let's see what we have today. 412 rapists, 982 thieves, 636 killers, and 290 animal abusers. and that's just the morning batch!" "Dave. We're literally in hell. Why do you sound so surprised? Were you expecting priests?" "We actually have a few of those too" "Funny. Just hurry up and process them. We can't have the reception area too full, for long - we need to keep this shit going smoothly. Satan is on my ass. Why am I even telling you this? You've been doing this for 10,000 years. You should know the drill by now. Anyway, I need to head to management. There's been a mix up in torture routines. 300 liars got castrated and 200 rapists got their tongues ripped out. It's a fucking shit-show. Loads of paperwork. Get these bastards processed and to their torture chambers ASAP." "Yeah, yeah I'll see you later." Bob snapped his fingers and was reduced to ashes in an instant. Dave stood there for a moment, reluctant to begin the task set before him. He groggily made his way back to his desk and collapsed onto the chair. In front of him, was a line of human beings that stretched as far as his eye could see. Dave sighed. "NEXT" He shouted. A man approached Dave's desk. He was middle-aged, short, fat and balding with a tragic comb-over. He wore a blood-stained suit and was genuinely looking a little shaken. "Full name and Date of birth please," Dave said in a monotone voice. "r..r..r..ryan a..adams" 12th of the 3rd 1969." "hmm.. ryan.... ryran...Ah! Ryan! Here we go. First-degree murder of your wife. Sin-date 23rd of 2nd 1997. Place your left hand here on the outline." Dave gestured to the outline of a hand on the left corner of the desk. "Please..wait.. you don't understand.. I was drunk.. I caught her chea-" Dave interrupted. "Place your hand HERE" Dave pointed firmly again to the outline of a hand on the desk. Ryan sheepishly lifted his arm up and slowly placed his left hand on the desk, while looking ever so squeamish. Dave opened the draw and selected the appropriate branding iron. He took it out the drawer and slammed the burning hot end onto Ryan's hand, with a great force. Ryan tried to pull back but a strange force was keeping his hand stuck to the table. He released the loudest screech Dave had ever heard, and within seconds, vanished into nothing. "He'll love it here." Dave thought. "..NEXT..." It had been 96 hours. Dave was tired and practically falling asleep. He had gotten through 1048 candidates. "NEXT" He shouted. Only this time, no one moved. "NEXT!" Dave shouted even louder. Again, the line remained the same and no one moved. "HELLO? I SAID NEXT! WHY AREN'T YOU MOVING FORWARD?" Sat from his desk, he made eye contact with the person next in line. "What's going on!? Hello?? Why aren't you moving forward?" Dave questioned. He could see the human looking visibly confused. Dave sat there for a moment wondering what the actual hell was going on. "Hello? I'm talking to you? Do you understand?" Dave was more confused than angry. The individual at the front of the line seemed to only get more anxious and kept nervously looking away. Dave was absolutely stumped. He grew angry. As he opened his mouth and drew breath to shout his next word, he heard a strange sound. He stopped and remained silent for a moment, waiting to hear if the noise repeated itself. "Meow" Dave froze. He sat in his chair, mind racing. A sound he hasn't heard in over 7000 years seemed to be coming from right in front of him. Dave slowly stood up and by Satan as his witness, there it was. A small black cat, licking its paws less than half a meter from his desk. He had almost forgotten what a cat looked like. The only thing he could think of; "This isn't possible. Animals are forbidden from entering hell. Yet here one was?" Without breaking his gaze from the feline, he felt for the contact switch on the underside of his desk and flipped it. Seconds later, a booming voice echoed from the fiery skies. "Dave, you fucking moron, what is it? This better be good!" Bob was known to be a dick. "Bob. I don't really know how to say this. So I'll just be direct. There's a cat at the front of the line." There was silence. "So you really think I have time to play these stupid games with you." Replied bob in an aggressive manner. "Bob, there's a fucking cat down here. It's looking right at me. It's sat at the front of the line. Can you please get down here right now." This time bob sensed the desperate tone in Dave's voice. The echoing voice disappeared and in an instant appeared Bob, from a fiery ball of ash. Dave and Bob, stood next to each other dumbfounded. Both of them were speechless. None of them could believe what they were seeing. After 10 minutes of staring Bob finally mustered up the energy to speak. "It's a cat. An actual fucking cat. Here. In Hell? No animal has ever been sent to hell. It's forbidden.. Just... how..? I've been here for almost 450 thousand years. I...I don't know what to do.." "Maybe it can talk? Shall we ask it something? Maybe it's some sort of super demon?" suggested Dave. He was knew he was grasping at straws here. They both had no clue. With his heart pounding Dave moved a little closer to the small animal, who was currently cleaning its crotch. "w..w..w..who..are.. y....y..you? whimpered Dave. The cat stopped. Looked up at Dave. The feline nimbly jumped up onto the desk and regained direct eye contact. It opened it's mouth and said; "Well, I thought you'd never ask.

"A sentinel is never corrupted. A sentinel never falters A sentinel never fears A sentinel is never defeated If a sentinel falls Another will take his place We are the gate of mankind The spear that keeps the darkness at bay And if the last flame fades A sentinel will avenge it. " He kept whispering, every word, every phrase, he said them in sequence. Perhaps in the vain hope his sacred oath would save him, or at least keep him in the right direction, but the darkness did no favors, he could barely see up to two feet. The loud, frantic steps on dry leaves, fallen branches and pointed stones made him more and more terrified, he could not find the path he was going through anymore, his despair had already dissipated and now it was sheer terror, he hits himself against a tree while searching for the lost path, falling from his back. He tries to get up, prostrating under the tree he had just hit, "A sentinel ... is never corrupted" he repeats to himself, standing again. He took a few cautious strides, and listened to the sound of leaves breaking behind him. A rush of adrenaline stirs him and he pulls out his spear with shaking hands, "A sentinel never falters," he says in a low voice while turning to the sounds direction, trying to accompany it. The alternation between falling branches randomly, sounds of metal objects creaking in the wood of the trees around him, did not allow him to focus on only one side, he spinned on his own axis, trying to look for the source of such diabolical sounds. "A sentinel never fears," he says in a muffled voice, swallowing saliva and keeping a defensive pose, years of training will not be thrown away, he thought. A full moon night favored him, but the clouds capped any lunar light that could be of service, except for a brief moment, a small crack in the heavy clouds made it possible to see clearly for a moment, and there it was, the trail, mere yards ahead. "A sentinel is never defeated," and he sets off on the road, he could hear other steps following behind him, they were heavy, incongruous, they did not follow any apparent rhythm, when he thought he was about to be reached, they seemed to be far away again . He needed time, he knew that his companions were far, and that he needed to mislead whatever it is that had been following him this whole time. He held up his spear with only one hand and reached into his coat with the other, pulling a canister with a reddish liquid, "If a sentinel falls," he says, tossing it deftly toward his follower. A bright red glare rises from the trees, a shrill and deafening cry takes the surroundings, He knew that he should not look back, but the morbid curiosity overcame him, and he tries to catch a glimpse. What his eyes caught in that fraction of a second he saw the creature could not be conceived by the human mind, he gasps and his heart pound on the chest, "Another ... will take ... his place," the phrase involuntarily escapes in a moment of horror, his legs become wobbly, but they manage to keep their frail run as much as they can, the arrhythmic steps had ceased after the creature's frightening scream. Slowing his pace out of sheer exhaustion, he pulls a wineskin from his waist, taking long, slow gulps of water, gasps again, this time with some relief, resuming his accelerated walk. He could feel the trail getting more open and cared for, more smooth stones and ancient writings determined that he was close to safety, he loosened his grip on the spear and noticed that his fingers were completely bloody, he had held so tightly that didn't even notice the wood ripping through the skin. But he continued, strong winds against his path swayed the great trees around him, old leaves were plucked and flew, branches of dead trees fell suddenly, but in the distance, he heard something different. The sound of a tree breaking and falling, but in a way more violent manner, he tries to make some sense of where it came from, but the darkness, despite more mild since the sun was about to come up, still made it ardous to see properly. An unconfortable silence is instigated instantly, and from his peripheral vision, observes something coming at unbelievable speed, he didn't even had time to get down, as a wooden trunk passes inches from his head, violently hitting the tree behind his back, it seemed to have been thrown like a toy, he points his spear from where the log had came from, "We are the gate of mankind", he shouts as the creature approached at ungodly speed. When the beast was barely in front of him, he applies a desperate thrust with his spear, but it passes by cutting wind, he is thrown away with a strong hit, flying meters from the ground and falling between the stones of the trail, one of them pierces his right leg, he uttered a cry of grotesque pain, but despite it, he knew that the creature would come to finish his work, he manages to stand up with one of his legs, picking up his spear that had fallen beside him, keeping it at his front, he could hear a loud breathing nearby, stalking him, "The spear that keeps the darkness at bay," he says firmly. The first step is taken by the creature, but he could not see where, his teeth squeak with anger and pain, a second step is given, this time closer, heavier, accompanied by a strong, rough breath, the third step was loud, it was evident that the creature was right in front of him, enjoying its prey, "And if the last flame fades," he says, his eyes fixed on that thing that he could now see clearly, then came the forth step. "A sentinel will avenge it.

# <The Last Bavarian Supper Club> WC: 3510 ## PROLOGUE The Parisian night traffic looked pretty from Bette Glass's apartment but she hated the noise. Even drawing the curtains over the tall windows did little to muffle the honking horns of cars and scooters. Tucking a curl of black hair behind her ear, Bette peered through a sliver between the window and the fabric and caught a glimpse of herself, superimposed like a spectre over the City of Lights. She sighed and put on a long coat before walking to the door. Perhaps it was one particularly jarring sound that distracted her long enough to miss a shadow flitting on the other side of the peep hole. When she opened the door Bette was met with a silencer on her temple. Neither Bette nor the bullet were louder than a whisper. Small but deadly, the hole it made barely bled as she fell to her knees, then crumpled backwards in the doorway. With the grace of a cat, the killer stepped over her body and dragged her back in. They wiped the gun with a cloth and placed it in Bette's lifeless hand and searched her coat. A single slip of paper with the number *419* written on it was enough to make the call. &nbsp; Four kilometers away, Francis DiMarco lit another cigarette in an alley on Rue l'Oie. His eyes burned as he pulled a drag. *Damn the French and their fucking unfiltered smokes*, he thought. He'd been buying *Galloises* for a year now and he still couldn't get used to them. Not like the cheap gas station menthols he craved. These went straight to his head. He was glad they burned fast and dim. He flicked the butt into the dark alley and checked the streets. A quiet night. Only a few buildings with lights on dotted the other side. Walking with practiced stealth, approached an unmarked wood door and knocked four times. "*Oui?" asked a brusque voice on the other side. Francis cleared his throat and wished he could quit smoking. "Islands in the stream, that is what we are," he sang. When the familiar series of locks clacked free and the door creaked open, he stepped inside. The tuxedo'd doorman smiled. "Monsieur DiMarco, so good to see you again," he said. "Are we expecting guests tonight?" "No Martin, no guests tonight. Are the others..." "Already upstairs. We are only waiting for Mademoiselle Glass now." Francis raised an eyebrow. "That's surprising." "May I take your coat?" Martin offered his arm and Francis draped his trench coat over it. The pair walked to a stairwell and ascended to the second floor to *Chez Traversier*. The restaurant borrowed heavily from the American phenomenon of pop-ups, catering to wealthy diners who'd sought new, fresh experiences that were different from the traditional trappings of fine dining establishments or the wrought iron bistros that bordered *Les Halles*. For tourists, they'd say. Each night, *Chez Traversier* opened in a new location in Paris: sometimes in an existing storefront, sometimes in a stranger's kitchen, and never advertised. Instead, the location was conveyed in code within the pages of *Le Monde*. While the cuisine might not have won any Michelin stars, it promised a type of conspicuous exclusivity that many people--mostly the rich--admired and sponsored. Secrecy had been part of its allure. It certainly was for the Supper Club. Tonight, *Chez Traversier* had bloomed into existence in an old safe house once owned by the German Intelligence agency. Francis recognized the unmistakably minimalist aesthetic. In his experience, every spy in the field eventually got a little homesick. Martin ushered him past closed doors where other diners ate in seclusion. French, British, and Yiddish voices filtered through the cracks. Nothing compelling that he could discern at least. "Quite the international crowd," he said. Martin said nothing and instead, opened a white door close to the end of the hallway. Inside, a dozen club members chatted at a long table. Wine flowed from an equal number of bottles. "Bon appetit, Monsieur DiMarco," he said as he left. Francis found an open seat nearest to the window and as he took it, the woman next to him filled a glass with burgundy wine. "I hate this seat." "Am I such terrible company, Francis? I promise not to chew your ear off. Not unless you want me to," she purred with a wry smile. Her hand found his lap. Angelique was never one to mince words nor waste time. "The window," he said with a glance over his shoulder. Amber light percolated up from the street and cast the window panes in shadows. He'd spent most of his adult life observing others, reporting what he'd seen, people who lived, loved, and died while he silently recorded them for his superiors. For him, windows were a vulnerability. "Well *mon cher*, you should try to arrive on time next time. At least you're not last." She pointed to the empty chair against the wall, offering a skewed vantage at the window. The Supper Club was not a meritocracy, and Last Person Lookout duty was generally considered to be the worst way to spend the night. A night with Angelique was a close second. Francis checked the time. It was only a few minutes after meeting should started but the president's absence made him uneasy. He'd been on edge ever since he heard the rumor about the club in Hamburg and he planned on asking questions tonight. The nature of their organization kept members in the dark for everyone's sake. But these were uncertain times. Clarity would go a long way to assuage his fears: what did she know, were *they* in danger? "It's not like Bette to be late." The door opened and Martin appeared with a retinue of white gloved servers. Each man, carrying a plate covered with silver cloche, walked behind a diner and when Martin nodded, placed the first course on the table in unison. As they lifted the covers, buttery steam wafted from underneath. "Tonight we start with fondant potatoes in a beurre blanc sauce, topped with caviar. *Bon apetit*." As the last server exited, Martin closed the door. Conversations died down as the club members tucked into the dish. Angelique closed her eyes as a morsel passed her lips and she let out the softest of moans. She looked at Francis with sultry, half open eyes. "Delicious. Sweet, salty, creamy. I just know you'll enjoy it," she said, gripping his leg like a bear with a salmon. She leaned back and her earring, a small fortune in diamonds and precious metals, glinted with a flash of red light. A laser beam. Francis moved without thinking. He shoved her, hard and fast until she fell backwards to the floor and shouted, "Gun!" Bullets sprayed though the window and found a home in his back. Angelique screamed and crawled towards the exit. As Francis gasped for breath, he watched as more members fell to unseen attackers. "It's locked!" Angelique yelled, rattling the door knob. Smoke seeped in from the crack under the door and sat on the floor, frozen. A man dropped his shoulder and barreled into the door until the room shook. Blood made Francis's voice gravelly. "Stop, they're right-" The man broke through and blue-white flames engulfed his body. A stream of fire spat through the hole he'd made and the room flickered in smoke. Francis struggled to stay conscious but managed to look at Angelique, arms crossed over her chest, still trembling against the wall. *This. This was the worst way to spend the night.* &nbsp; *** ## ONE No matter what time he arrived, Hektor always managed to find the absolute worst cart in corral at Restaurant Reload. The one he'd selected today squeaked like a colony of rats and wobbled on six partially rolling wheels. It was half covered in chipped paint, rust, and shipping labels too sticky to remove by the warehouse workers who were too busy to care anyway. As he flashed his tax card to the doorman, Bernice hopped on the other end of the cart and held the rail like a playground jungle gym. He couldn't fault her. If he'd been forced to buy wholesale ingredient for the family restaurant as a child, he'd look for a way to play too. His sister Greta had been bringing Bernice ever since her husband left them. Her mother pulled her off and the nine-year old stumbled backwards onto the concrete floor. Greta kept her from falling but shook her straight. "Watch your feet, Bernice! Do you want to break them? You know you're not supposed to jump on the carts." "Yes, Mom," said the child, stretching the words like saltwater taffy. Hektor pushed the cart to a pallet loaded with fifty-pound bags of onions. "How much do you have to get today?" she asked as he wrangled two bags onto the cart. "The usual, Bee." He licked the end of his pen and crossed out a row in a small notepad. The menu at Greens hadn't changed in years. Meat, veggies, and starch. The classic triad arranged generously on a platter simply worked, whether it was beef, chicken, pork or fish. No one would have accused him of following trends. The recipes had worked well enough for his father, back in the days when the old man ran Greens with a meaty fist and bellowing voice. Back then, Hektor, Sr., an imposing man in a permanently stained apron, commanded the kitchen. Suppliers would drive their best ingredients *to him* and he'd check each crate like a military general inspecting his troops. The idea of driving a minivan to a wholesale warehouse would have killed him if he weren't already dead. Greta helped Bernice put on an over-sized orange jacket and walked her into the refrigerated side of the building. Hektor followed and the whir of overhead fans dampened the sounds of the wheels. Cases of iceberg lettuce teetered on a nearby pallet after other customers had pulled them out like bricks in Jenga. Hektor wished he had time to examine the product, to select one with the best looking lettuce, but it would mean more time for Bernice too. The little girl's patience for cold was demonstrably short. The cart wobbled less after it had been fully loaded. Sixty dozen eggs weighed a lot. When the final item had been scanned Hektor looked at the register: $549.40. He scribbled down the number in another part of the notebook where he tracked expenses and then opened a bank bag of cash. Everything was costing more. "We really need to push the specials," he said to Greta as he loaded the last giant tub of mayonnaise. "We can't afford to have a bad week." "When have we ever?" Hektor suspected that she already knew the answer. Being the older sibling meant she saw more of the restaurant's logistics than he did growing up. She was always smarter. As they drove away, back towards Providence and the restaurant, Hektor wondered how long it'd take for her pride to wear out and just sell the damn place. They pulled into the parking lot and the minivan lurched over a pothole. The heavy load, already taxing the vehicle's shocks and springs, made sure that Hektor felt it. He drove around to the back entrance and when he stopped, he gave the keys to Bernice. "Go ahead and unlock the door for me, Bee." She puffed up in her seat and returned a sharp salute. "Yes sir, Uncle H!" As the van door slid open she hopped out and mumbled to herself: "One nine o two. One nine o two." "You got it, sweetie," Greta called. "Just remember to press star after putting in the code." "Got it, Mom!" Hektor watched her spin the keys and he sighed. "She's a good kid, Greta. The best. She shouldn't be spending her Saturday mornings loading lettuce into a walk-in cooler." Greta kept her gaze on the restaurant door. "I know, but be honest. You'd miss her. Even when she's complaining she's still helping out. Pretty soon she'll be old enough to look after herself at home." "How's school going?" "The same," she replied. "Still having trouble making friends." "Having a free weekend could help. Maybe she could do a play date or something." Greta laughed and opened the door. "She's not a child. I mean she is, but she hasn't been on a play date in years. I can't even remember the last birthday party she was invited to." The thought saddened him. Hektor knew they had it rough, just like every other small business owner in town. Food costs and national chains were killing them. The only way to stay afloat was to save where they could, including doing more labor by themselves. He popped the trunk and hefted a case of raw beef. A trill of beeps came from the restaurant backdoor and Bernice came out, propping it open with a brick. "Go help your mother," Hektor said, gesturing back to the minivan with his chin. Inside, Hektor's shoes squeaked on the old tile floor. Overhead florescent bulbs bathed the kitchen in sterile white light and the stainless steel surfaces gleamed. The back of the house at Greens wasn't tiny, but it wasn't grand either. It comfortably fit Hektor, three line cooks, Lucy on apps, and a rotating crew of servers. Most of them had been with Greens for years. In Lucy's case, she'd been hired by his father as a teenager and never left. Balancing on one leg, he kicked the cooler handle and a chill air filtered through the plastic curtain. Something inside had spoiled. "Jesus," he muttered as he dropped the case. His nose crinkled as he sniffed the shelves to find what had gone south. He didn't have to look long. A half-eaten egg salad sandwich sat on top of a soup kettle drop-in, wet and uncovered. Greta entered the walk-in and winced. "Oh, oof." "Who was cleaning last night?" he asked, holding the plate at arm's length. "Barry. Pretty sure it was Barry. Good God, that stinks." Hektor took it to the sink and ran the water as he scraped the mushy sandwich down the drain. Yellow and green egg salad smeared along his fingers and he did his best to hold his breath. It didn't help. The rank odor sat in his nostrils waiting for an opening. He would have tossed the whole thing, plate and all, into the dumpster outside if he could afford it. But every plate counted. The food counted. Everywhere he looked the restaurant seemed to ooze with waste. He looked at the shift chart on the wall and read Barry's name next to tomorrow. Tearing him a new one would have to wait. Lucy arrived soon after he finished rotating the pantry shelves to surface the older ingredients. She tucked her curly gray hair into a net and tied on an apron before stopping at the cooler door. "What died in there?" Hektor looked up from a bin of onions he was going to slice. "Barry." "Barry's dead? Sweet. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." Lucy and Barry used to fight like cats until Greta separated their shifts. The rumor was they'd slept together his first week on the job and worse, that he was terrible lover. Lucy held an empty plastic bin and waved it as if the walk-in was on fire. When she returned, it was full of vegetables and a slab of bacon. "Who else is here?" she asked. "Greta. Bee. Why?" She pointed outside. "There's another car in the lot. I didn't know if you were hiring." Hektor put down the knife and onion and wiped his hands as he walked towards the front of the house. The dining room was split into thirds: the bar area in the front, a larger room with booths and tables, and a back room with a large heavy table and bench seating. He remembered serving booze to business men there as a child, when he was not much older then Bernice. Later, his father would tell him that those men in sharp Armani suits were part of the local mob. The "Oak Room" was rarely used these days. He stepped into the vestibule and sure enough, a black Lincoln Towncar idled in the closest parking spot. Tinted windows prevented him from seeing inside but as soon as he unlocked the front door the car's engine turned off. A man wearing glasses and a jacket over a URI sweatshirt stood up from the driver's side. He looked over and gave a little wave. "Can I help you?" Hektor asked. Whoever he was, the man wasn't local. A professor maybe? If he was from the region, he'd learned to drop the Rhode Island accent. "I hope so. I am interested in reserving this space for an event. Several, actually. Contingent upon your services and availability, of course. Are you the owner?" *Reservations*. Hektor felt like he hadn't heard that word in forever and a smile crept over his face. "That's great! Yeah, I'm Hektor Green," he said, offering his hand. Despite the stranger's small slender hands, he had a firm grip. "My name is Brian. Brian Lauer." "Good to meet you! Do you want to come in and check out the, uh, facilities?" Brian dipped his head in a slight bow and said, "That would be delightful." Once inside, Hektor noticed every flaw, chipped table and mote of dust in the room. He prayed that Brian didn't notice. "So what kind of gathering are you looking for? Something big? Fifty, or a hundred people?" "Twelve. Give or take a few. I host a weekly gathering called the Bavarian Supper Club." Hektor smiled but his heart sunk. A dozen people weren't going to save his business. "That's terrific. You won't find better German food anywhere else. And I think you're going to like our back room. It's surprisingly spacious, comfortable, and private." He led Brian past the bar and flipped a switch in the Oak Room, then mentally cursed himself for not dusting it. Brian walked around the table, seeming to scan every corner of the space. As he opened his mouth to say something the radio in the kitchen turned on full blast. Lucy was in a groove. "Will you excuse me, for just a moment," Hektor said. He stormed into the kitchen and ripped the radio out of the wall. "Hey! What the hell, man?" "We've got a guy checking us out for a booking," he barked back, pointing at the swing doors. "Can you keep it down for like, ten minutes?" "Jesus, alright. You scared me half to death." When Hektor returned he found Brian examining a framed newspaper article. His father had been recognized for his service to the community. It had been a while since Hektor looked at the picture of his father with his million dollar smile. "Is that you?" Brian asked, pointing to the little boy in the picture. "Me and my sister. We both own Greens." "That is a blessing, to pass on a place like this to future generations. Your father must be proud." "I'd like to think so," Hektor replied. He did feel like explaining more. "Now, what dates were you looking to book? I can take a look at our calendar now for you." "Next Saturday, if it's not too soon. My group typically dines from seven until ten. I do apologize for such short notice. If it helps, I'd be willing to pay more than your customary deposit." Brian pulled a folio wallet from his jacket and thumbed out three thousand-dollar bills. "Will this be enough?" *Mob. He must be with the mob*, Hektor thought. "Y-you're most kind, Mr. Lauer. Sure. We'll be ready for you." "Excellent! And please call me Brian. Only the government calls me Mr. Lauer." They shared a laugh while Hektor tried to suppress his urge to run. Brian took a menu and promised to call later to clear any special requests. When the Towncar finally pulled out of the parking lot, Hektor's shoulders sagged. "Did you book it?" Lucy asked as he returned to the kitchen. He nodded and opened a filing cabinet. "Next Saturday," he said as he opened a three-ring binder. He hadn't looked at his father's Old Old recipes in forever. "Do you know any German starters?" "Nein," she said laughing, holding a finger to her upper lip. He didn't appreciate the humor and flashing the three bills on the counter shut her up. "Are those real?" "I ran the marker on it. They're real. Even have the strip inside, see?" He held one to the light and let her find the security tag running vertically in the bill. "Tell me, do you know what kind of man carries crisp thousand dollar bills like they were twenties?" "No, what kind?" Hektor made finger guns and pointed them at her. "A seriously connected man.