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Allura 52

People keep telling me there are monsters here now. We can’t see them without help and they never stop coming. Dozens of blue-hued faces prowl through parks and skip down streets. We want to catch them all but they never stop coming. We aren’t scared of them because we’re real brave and we aren’t afraid of things we cannot see. There are monsters all over Edmonton and Toronto and Vancouver. There are monsters all over Ankara and Istanbul, and they hide inside tanks and dance on the barrels of guns as they shoot metal fire into the sky like shooting stars trying to escape our cities to the cold dark of space. They killed 294 of us, and their blood sticks to the bottom of our shoes as we stalk a Zubat hovering above a flaming car, flapping its thin leather wings against the tide of our indifference before turning from us into a darkening alley. There are monsters all over London and Lisbon and Prague. There are monsters all over St. Anthony and Baltimore, and they hide inside minds and dance on the hood of a police cruiser struck by a vehicle turned metal missile driven by a young man trying to capture a Pidgey. The police officers have a good chuckle while cameras are rolling and decide not to shoot the man because he isn’t black like the other young men whose names we can’t remember because there are just too many names to remember. Our heads are filled with the names of invisible monsters now. There are monsters all over Canada and Europe and Africa. There is a monster in America and it hides behind the orange teeth of a future leader and dances across our borders like a whirling, shapeless shadow coiling around the grinning incisors of a Gengar. And a man who wears darkness and leaks shadow tells us he has no time to hunt monsters. He is building a wall to keep monsters out. We believe him because sometimes we’re not real brave and we don’t want to be afraid and we won’t be with a wall between us and them. The man smiles and the Gengar smiles and we remember that monsters can smile too. People keep telling me there are monsters here now. We can’t see them without help and they never stop coming. We aren’t scared of them because we aren’t afraid of things we choose not to see. People keep telling me there are monsters here now, but there were always monsters here.

Emmet was thirteen when he had a brush with death. Ever since then, the wind felt colder against his dark skin, like there was frost in his bones. At times, he put on his leather jacket and laid under the star filled sky, wondering why he wasn't the same person as before. Was there nothing he could do to purge the frozen blood beneath his skin? Tonight, the stars sparkled more brightly than they had before. He laid on a hill in the lush grass under the dark blue sky. His home was a fair ways from the city, and you could only see the light from the moon and stars. The dark tree line wrapped around him and his red brick house. He tucked his arm under his head and stared into the night, with his thoughts wandering back to that night he nearly drowned as a kid. He didn’t feel sorry for himself or dwell on it simply because it was the only traumatic incident he experienced. Instead, he contemplated why it triggered a constant buzz in his bones. He contemplated why he felt distanced from everything at this point, as if he was never completely one with life again. The world was always gray. The world seemed to rain or snow or feel many moons away when everybody else saw a bright sun. confused because he never felt sad, he just felt like he was looking for something unconsciously. He brooded over what that could be but was never able to find the answer. Emmet wasn’t depressed or sad but he felt like there was music in the distance he couldn’t pin-point or a word on the tip of his tongue he just couldn’t remember. There was something humming in his bones and in the back of his mind that was never satisfied, even though Emmet was completely satisfied with his life. If anything, life and breath seemed sweeter after nearly dying. At that thought, a smile crept over Emmet’s mouth. The quiet moments created serenity within him. The quiet moments reminded him how grateful he was to have such a peaceful home and family. “Mom said dinner’s ready,” his aunt called. “Coming,” Emmet said, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath. After Emmet and his mother and brother moved away from their house in the middle of the city, he realized why his family valued their house on the hill, surrounded by trees and moonlight. *** Emmet removed his brown jacket, placing it on the coat-rack. With his uncle stoking the fire and the oven running, it was almost too hot inside. But the scent of oven roasted chicken and potatoes distracted him. The warmth and aromatic herbs beckoned him to the table where everybody else was already sitting or placing tableware. His mother, Rosalie, just set down the chicken and sat with her hands clasped. He quickly sat and closed his eyes as she said a small prayer. All he could think about was ‘that’s where grandma used to sit and say the prayer for meal.’ Family and tradition was important to his mother, and while Emmet appreciated his mother’s dedication, it made him sad to see his grandmother’s place at the table replaced. That’s when the hole in his heart opened up again. But, with each passing day, it closed up a little faster and he could think up his grandmother’s face in his thoughts without excusing himself. “Do the constellations look pretty, Emmet?” Aunt Kiera asked, dishing up potatoes for her daughter. “I guess,” he said half-heartedly. “I don’t imagine the stars connecting like that; i just like the way the sky looks at night as a whole. Honestly., i was just distracting myself from that fact i forgot to practice violin today.” “You are getting lazy about that,” his grandfather grunted. Emmet shook his head. Should've known better. Grandpa was a devoted musician back in the day. The living room had nearly become a show room for his record collection, many of which, he had collected with his grandmother when they were young. Somehow, the world had since changed with the absence of one person. Though everyone at the dinner table conversed with each other like nothing was difference, they were also cautious. Deviating away from anything that could relate to her life. Emmet felt the complete opposite. He wanted to talk about his grandmother and remember who she was. He looked up to her kind, thoughtful character and emulated her almost more than his own mom. Emmet shoved his food in quickly in an attempt to escape from the smiling, melancholy faces. He missed his grandmother, but he didn’t want that to discourage his ability to remember and talk about her. So, once he finished and explained (lied) about a late music lesson, he grabbed his coat and left. Outside, Emmet began to shiver while walking on the wide road away from his new home. He blew into his hands and could see his breath like white smoke. Then, he shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to forget that the frosty air was seeping deep into his body, reaching his already chilled bones. He thought about the frost reaching his heart and if someone’s heart could really freeze over. He wanted to believe that and wanted it to happen when he experienced grief for the first time. Truly, his life had been a serene, flowing river until he nearly drowned in raging rapids and saw death only a month later. But Emmet soon felt okay with the sadness. Because he knew that grief would pass over him in time. Emmet would be okay, he believed, because he felt his heart was working right if he felt sad. “Don’t be sad because they died, be happy because they lived,” his mother told him. From that moment on, his perspective changed. And he allowed himself to grieve, but he also allowed himself to be grateful for her time. But at her funeral, he could still feel her spirit with him. As if she was singing to him from heaven. It sounded like the wind blowing through the trees as he walked down the road. A forest on either side of him, and the path lit by the bluish hue of the moon. *** Swiftly, Emmet climbed over the tall cemetery fence and walked to his grandmother’s gravestone. Under a big oaktree, her name was inscribed on the concrete grave: Lydia Roslyn Posh. “I’m still trying my hardest, just like you told me,” he murmured to himself. His mother once said, “we will all be folklore in the end.” But his grandmother was more than that, she was someone that made him feel proud of himself. He once thought she was mocking him because she said, “I will not love you because you are smart, I do not love you because you are handsome. Honestly, you are average in most means. But because you have a golden heart, you are someone I've always needed. There is nothing more painful than not having someone in your life that loves you unconditionally.” Then, he clutched the golden locket around his neck. It had a picture of his mother and grandmother inside. Nothing could change his mind that there was anyone who could make a bigger impact on him. Because those words were just a few of the phrases that kept his head up. *** On his way back to the cemetery gate, he noticed something white under a large tree. It was fabric fluttering in the wind. But that's when he noticed a body curled up in the fabric. His heart stammered. There was nothing more eerie than stumbling across a still body. Let alone a still body in a cemetery at night. But he couldn't pull himself away; what if they were alive and needed help? He walked slowly, the leaves crunching beneath his feat, and the humming in his bones growing. The body was drained of color; nearly translucent in a white dress. The chill inside him deepened; it began singing throughout his whole body. His legs felt weak as water and his hands shook. Her body was completely still, with the wind moving her pale hair. He hoped she was still alive, yet he couldn't touch her without getting fingerprints on the body. But her bony arms and legs said otherwise. The blue tones of her nails and toes made him wonder if she froze to death. That's when he noticed a red line on her neck. He bent over to get a closer look, his cold breath grazing her cheek, and noticed a bloody gash across her neck. Was she killed? Then a sound escaped her lips and he fell back, crawling away from her. A healthy tone spread over her whole body and he could see her rib cage moving, drawing in air. His body trembled and his head spun. But he watched as she pushed herself up. He stared, stuttering to find words, and breathing heavier than before. The gaping wound around her neck sewed itself together and her blue lips turned pink. She gasped for air, clutching her heart. Then, set her red eyes on him. He scrambled to his feet, looking the gaunt girl over. "You were dead!" "You think I don't know that!" She chided. He pointed at her arm. From wrist to elbow, her bones showed clean. No blood or loose skin. "What happened!" He gaped. She narrowed her eyes and grabbed his arm, pulling him over with unexpected strength. Her nails dug into his skin. "You're a necromancer!" She proclaimed. His heart leapt. He pulled away from her, rubbing the skin where she grabbed him. "What...I...You..." "Behind your ear," she said, tapping that exact place on herself. "There’s the mark of a necromancer. A raven skull." Emmet rubbed the place behind his ear, noticing that the chill had left his body. It was replaced by an eager glow of warmth. "And what's that," he said, pointing at the cat skull tattoo on her arm. She placed her hand over it. "Nothing." "Nah, you gotta tell me what that means. Because all of this makes no sense!" "Of course it does. And something tells me you aren't that full of questions anyway," she said. Truly, she was right. He didn't feel overwhelmed, though he tried drumming up questions. Within himself, he felt alarmed but aware of the situation. Which, worried him more. "I am not a necromancer," he scowled. "Sure." The girl began to storm away, and Emmet immediately hurried after her. "You can't walk away after all that," he said. "We have no business together. You don't believe me and who am I to force you. So, go your own way." "Wait," he said, "you were dead right?" "No, I was sleeping. Of course I was dead. Dead and left to rot in a cemetery," she argued. "Someone didn't even have the heart to put me under six feet." "I'm sorry about that," Emmet sighed. She turned on the spot, sticking a finger in his face. "What are you sorry for, huh?" "No, I just meant "sorry" with sympathy," he said, and she trailed away. "Where are you going?" He asked, wondering what a dead girl could want. And wondering what would happen if she ran into anyone that knew she had died. "Well, doing what any smart undead person would do, go hunting." His stomach dropped. "And...what does that mean?" "I am not truly alive, and the only way I can remain undead is to feast on life's blood. But it's wrong to do so, obviously," she explained. "So, I'll eat animal blood. Human blood is needed, but I can't bring myself to do that." Emmet felt squeamish. Suddenly, his head was filled with dreadful thoughts about bringing this girl to life. But how did he do it? What had he done and what does this mean? Who is she and how can she survive? "My mom's a nurse and is working in a blood donation center. I can get in and steal some for you," he said it without recognizing his voice. Why are you getting yourself into this Emmet , he thought. Leave it alone, he thought. But of course, she turned around and looked relieved. "Oh! Thank you!" *** After sneaking in just before closing hours, he snagged a few bags of blood and gave it to the dead girl behind the center. He turned away after watching her drink it like water. After she finished, he looked at her blood stained lips. One drop of blood trickled down her chin. “Are you any better,” he said, watching as more color filled her face. The dark circles under her eyes lessened a bit, and where her skin was almost translucent, a peachy hue covered her veins. “Much better.” she said and held out her hand. “Thank you. Thank you for believing me and faking a blood donation to steal blood for me.” He took her hand and said, “i’m Emmet by the way.” “Christina Parks,” and she shook his hand. “I’m afraid this won’t be the last time i need blood, but it will be the last time you get it for me. You don’t need to feel like you must help me.” Emmet took another bag of blood from his jacket and handed it to her. “Here, this is for next time.” She gasped. “No really. It will only make me want it more.” she pushed his hand away. “I need to get used to animal blood for now. Besides, don’t you think the patients need it more than i do? I mean, they are alive.” “How do you know all of this. I mean, the needing blood and everything?” he asked. But Christina looked down, her platinum bangs covering her eyes. “That’s a long story...” she saw he was about to speak and cut him off, “I’m allowed to keep some things to myself.” “Well, we should probably go. We’ll get in trouble if they find us back here,” Emmet said. They left the shadows behind the center and started towards the city. Emmet checked his watch and saw that all of this had happened within an hour. His family didn’t expect him back for another hour, so he could help her to a hotel or wherever she used to live. “Do you know where you’re going from here,” he asked. “Like, are you going back home?” “I lived with my roommate...but I can’t go back there.” she said. At that, she remained silent for a while. “How do you plan to...live or...function,” he stammered, trying not to offend her. “Like any other human. But without cooking my meat,” she smirked. “Blood doesn’t taste coppery anymore. It tastes sweet and irresistible. Like the best dessert you’ve ever tasted. It envelopes your senses. Blood is miraculous after death.” “Interesting,” was the only word he could spit out. He rubbed his wrists, right where his veins were, hoping she didn’t want anymore blood for now. “And it smells good too,” she said, like a child opening presents on Christmas for the first time. She spoke with amazement and wonderment. “Blood smells like delectable cherries or chocolate cake or chocolate covered berries. Or perhaps, it smells like that because that’s what i loved most when i was alive.” “I’m sorry,” he said. “Does your family know about your death? Can you go back to live with them?” “I know they must be looking for me. It was a few days ago, but the cold weather served my body well at least. What killed my roomate killed me. Seeing as you’re the first person to find me, I can probably see them again and...but I can’t explain what happened.” Emmet opened his mouth to speak but kept quiet. Some things you don’t have to share. And this was a sensitive and traumatic matter. He didn’t want to press her bruises. *** They both stopped, dead in their tracks. Christina touched a finger to her lips and Emmet didn’t need to be told twice to be quiet. From amidst the dark tree line, a figure emerged. Emmet could smell its grotesque odor from there. Decaying flesh. He saw it emerge, disfigured and purified, limping from the woods with a rattling breath. “Come on,” he said, tugging on Christina’s arm. But she didn’t budge. With brute strength, she didn’t even waver. “No,” she said, “it's for me.” The decayed figure and Christina bolted towards each other. She swung her legs around the creature’s neck and threw it down. Emmet watched, stunned as she bit the creature’s head clean off. She grimaced, wiping her face, trying to rid herself of the taste. Still, Emmet was unable to say a word. His legs felt weak again and his heart hammered like a drum in his chest. “What was that,” he cried in a forced whisper. Christina swallowed, realizing she couldn't keep her secrets anymore. "That was a gift sent here for me. The underworld wants me back."

It came quickly, and it only lasted a moment or two. The last moments of my life. I couldn't quite remember how I died, all I remember is the dark. The void. The emptiness. The memories I had were a bit foggy, all I remember was a tall and disfigured creature standing over me. It was the last thing I saw. The last moment I had. I woke up with a gasp. My neck ached from the snap back to reality, and it felt almost unnatural to be in a physical form again. At least I thought. I started to wiggle around. Arms, legs, everything seemed to be there. I was dressed in all white. My head was shaved, and two wires were attached to the side of it, leading up to the wall behind me. In front of me was what looked like to be a large, curved glass shield. It was like a pod of some sort. Across from me I could see many more pods like mine, all lined up on the wall, at least a hundred of them, each containing someone else. The room was clean. Shiny. Each wall was made completely of metal, without a spot of rust in sight. I tried to move around, but both my arms and legs were bolted to the bod. Panicked, the shield started to rise and I was released. I removed the wires from my head and stepped down. *Is this...heaven?* I knew for sure I had just died. I had never considered myself religious but this was the only possible explanation. So this is where I would be spending the rest of eternity. I looked around to see if I could meet my creator. At the end of the room was a door, unlocked and wide open. Naturally I walked through, and the lights started to get dimmer as I went down the narrow hallway, dragging my fingers along the wall and feeling the smoothness of the metal. Then the lights started to flicker, and I heard whispers. I saw shadows. My vision went dark and I saw the moment of my death again, much clearer this time. I saw the creature- it looked to be more normal than what I originally saw. Its arms and legs were thin. It looked malnourished. Its face looked like melted candle wax. Human. That's right. That's what it was. Human. Just barely meeting the requirements to be called that. I said the word again, this time aloud. Human. The word appeared in my head almost out of nowhere. Human. Yes, that's what I was too. The human held some sort of small device with a flashing light at the end, sparks flying out from the end. The human raised it, and that's when it ended. The hallway. That's right. I'm in the hallway. Eventually the hallway ended and I turned to find a massive room filled with strange and grotesque machines. Faint laughter, that sounded almost insane and sadistic, was echoing throughout the chamber. My heart skipped a beat and I held my breath as I saw the end of the room. There was a body, like mine, hanging upside down from a machine. Below it seemed to be a pool of thick liquid releasing smoke. But- it was missing an arm. And a leg. Its face had no features. It seemed to be half-formed flesh. The creature with the sadistic laugh turned around, and I saw it. It was the human. Same thin limbs, same candle wax face. It spoke in a very high pitch and garbled voice. *"My child! Yes, oh my child! You've awakened!"* Child? What was it talking about? *"You're safe, I was so worried."* It came closer to me. *"My dear creation, my dear assembly of flesh and bone."* I was confused. Was he...God? The human had a haunting grin on its face. *"It's wonderful to have you here, my child. But I'm afraid you must go and join your brothers and sisters..."* The human walked over to me and placed its hand on my cheek. I was shaking and felt paralyzed. *"You are my proudest creation. Oh, but what a shame you must go back! A cat only has nine lives, you know. Like the cat, you must realize that each of your lives, no matter how many, is a treasure."* "Who are you?" *"Who am I? You forgot me? Call me father, my child. All of you are my children. And all of you must return to the world within the pod"* "Wha-I don't understand!" The human took out the device I had seen in my vision and pressed it into my shoulder. With a shock of electricity, everything went black. I woke up in the pod again. My arms and legs were bound. The wires were back on my head. And the glass shield was slowly lowering. I saw the human laughing maniacally as he watched me enter into my sleep again. I felt like I was leaving my body. I felt light headed. And then, everything stopped. \~ I came out crying and wailing as the doctor picked me up. I shook my little arms and legs as I could her murmurs around the hospital room. The doctor put me in the hands of a woman who I could only assume was my mother, with a kind face and a warm smile. She was beautiful, and she stared at me with utter joy. "Welcome to the world.

Our work was experimental. It had yielded results unexpected to even its biggest proponents. But I wasn’t fully convinced it would apply to everything. Nevertheless, we had the funding and resources available to find out. It was a hard sell trying to get a team together. It always was. Ventures like these defined sacrifice. Sure, we’d be able to send our results back, but there was no returning for us. Not to a world we'd be familiar with anyway. Missions like these definitely attracted a certain kind of mind. Curious, but troubled. Brave enough to embark on the journey but lonely enough to survive it. We were commissioned to see if the underlying secrets of the universe could be revealed in the same way we eventually understood tubular flow. I had been sat watching recordings of concert pianists playing music to different animals. It always amazed me how music managed to ignite emotions in creatures who lacked the capacity to express their own feelings as we might. We share no means of communication with them, but can somehow still connect through harmony. It made me wonder whether there might have been a link between the work our colleagues we’re doing in M theory and this pensive afternoon thought. Our friends had been correct in their assumption of one dimensional vibrating ‘strings’ being the fundamental substance of the universe. And these strings have been whispering the secrets of our skies since the beginning of time. The closing symphony of all that ever was, and all that ever will be, baked into the fabric of the universe itself, and all we had to do was listen. Quantum computing had allowed us to decode the messages within nature's song on a larger scale initially with the wind. Listening to the collisions of the atoms in a chaotic environment revealed patterns more beautiful than we could have ever hoped to comprehend on our own. Most of the work was done for us, we just had to point the machines in the right direction. Our work became a revolution. Suddenly, the whole world took notice. What could this mean? How else could this be applied? Maybe there is nothing that can’t be understood. It’s funny, despite this in my opinion being a very optimistic (and quite frankly unfounded) assessment of our work, people we’re still thinking that there’s a chance we could finally create a unified theory of everything. To truly understand all there is to know about the space in which everything resides. The big organisations were fighting tooth and nail with their respective governments to be the ones to fund the project, as if money and power mean anything once the language of the universe becomes fluent to all. Nevertheless, after an arduous few years, a plan was in place. A team selected. And a vessel's door ready to be closed for what might be the final time. In approximately 2 hours we would take our first steps towards HR6819, the closest black hole to earth. We would attempt to record the gentle hum of colliding particles and their counterparts at the event horizon. We would listen to the drumbeat of the gravitational waves echoing out from the black holes heart, and see if amidst all the chaos, the orchestra was in fact playing a specific song. Our team consisted of physicists, engineers, and the requisite male and female psychologists. Some people naturally find it easier to open up to one gender over another, and it's important to have both options on board. Our ship's door closes and we lift off up through the atmosphere. It's a strange feeling looking down at a planet, knowing it will only ever exist like this in your memories from this day on. Once we break the threshold of our planet's gravity, our course is set for HR6819, and the journey begins. I mentioned earlier that these missions tend to attract a certain kind of person. This one was no expectation, nor am I. A few months into the trip and we’d started to dive past the surface level masquerades for our crewmates. I’d taken a particular interest in a lady called Marie. A little older than I, but not by much. Maybe in her early 40’s. Most of us had brought some sort of sentimental curio with us, but Marie’s was the only that lingered in my mind. It was a small slip of paper with the word “Juga” written on in faded ink. It would be a while before she told me what this meant, and subsequently, what it meant to her. Our ship’s design had highlighted a rather peculiar question for us all to consider. It was fitted with 8 separate deployable pods. One for each passenger. We had enough fuel for the return journey... that wasn’t the issue. The issue was whether you would want to go back. Somehow the prospect of returning to a planet you’ve intentionally left behind can be a little too daunting when you understand how long it takes. We had all been assigned individual resources, and we were all given the option of venturing off further into the unknown once our work was complete. We could go in pairs, on our own, in groups, or all stay aboard the main vessel and return back to our planet's distant future together. The importance was simply that we had the choice. It was practically unheard of for anyone to not come back, but somehow having the option there helped to keep people calm. A few sessions in with the psychologist and we had started talking about my life and relationships back on Earth. Why I’d left them behind and how I managed to do this. I explained that although I could still feel the tension of the link from my heart, that the rope was not tethered to anyone anymore. It was merely drifting in an endless sea looking for something to anchor down on to. The feeling was not reciprocated and the reasons we’re my doing. It was this feeling that allowed me to embark on the journey. It was something that had plagued me for years and it became apparent at some point that it wasn’t going away. The timeline of our inception was brandished in my mind. Such pivotal moments meaningless to an observer burnt into my very being. This was scar tissue I normally hid from others, but every now and then I would run my finger along its coarse spine to feel its pain and remember its cause. To see her in a fleeting world where we were still in love. But that world is gone, alive only in my memories and conversations of what once was. At some point I remember stepping out of one of my sessions to see Marie hunched over in a corner. As I approached to see what was wrong she simply got up and walked past me into the psychologists room. We eventually spoke about that evening. She told me she’d overheard my meeting and became overwhelmed with her own issues. She had never truly opened up to either of the psychologists but we stayed up all night talking. Marie was a widow, her late husband Rasmus had died 4 years prior to our trip in a skiing accident. They had met in school and dated on and off during their late teens and early twenties. She described their situation as both having an appreciation of the other's autonomous life. They were in love, truly, but managed to focus on their own individual aspirations in their youth. Once they had settled down in careers they had a more typical relationship dynamic. Both adventurous and passionate, sharing interests and exploring some separately. Rasmus was really into his extreme sports. Marie would join him on hikes, and climbs, but didn’t much care for skiing. One day Rasmus’ group was caught in an avalanche. His body found and recovered, taken immediately to intensive care. He was comatosed, and the doctors told Marie that he would never recover. She was faced with a choice. To keep him on life support, or to resign his soul to the fate we all succumb to one day. Years passed where she worked from his bedside. Praying that one day a sign of life would appear. She told me that being alone is better than being sat by your lover and feeling lonely. And here she was. Alone. On her first date with Rasmus he took her to Valaste, Estonia’s highest waterfall standing at roughly 30m. She was a foreign student at the time and couldn’t speak a word when they met. As they sat there at the top watching the murky waters cascade over the edge in a fury, he handed her a slip of paper. Juga, it means waterfall. After what felt like a lifetime, we had finally made it to HR6819. We would stay in a Geostationary Transfer Orbit around the black hole and send our data back to Earth. The time would come for us to decide whether we would stay for the return journey, or make use of the deployable pods long before we received any word back about the success or failure of our efforts. A meeting was held where we would all discuss our thoughts on the topic. I sat next to Marie. I’d silently hoped throughout our conversations that she would accompany me back to Earth. I’m not saying we were in love or anything so fantastical, just that she was the first person I’d felt truly comfortable with in a long time. The psychologists started off the conversation. I remember noticing a glance they shared that seemed to linger in the air like a feather sidestepping its descent to the ground. They alluded to the fact that the years of sharing in our troubles had taken a hefty toll on them. In due course they would explain that they had decided they would take their pods and go off in search of... well, they weren’t quite sure. To them, they had concluded that both paths would take them on a journey into the unknown. At least this way, it felt like they were moving forwards. The psychologists had played such a pivotal role in allowing us to feel less trapped aboard this ship. They had affected some of us more than others. Marie was seemingly ambivalent. I’d gone off to my room to get away from the panicked squabbling. Marie entered and sat beside me on the bed. I’ll never forget what she said to me. She laid her head across my body and I closed my eyes. I could feel my heartbeat rise in speed and forcefulness. I wished so strongly for it to stop in case the pounding of my internal metronome caused her to leave. I remember holding my breath so as not to disturb her with the repeating tide of my chest. But she didn’t. My feelings towards her all but spelled out in the rhythmic orchestration of my body. It was only at that moment I’d realised them for myself. We returned back to the group as the psychologists were preparing to leave. I could still hear her last words ringing in my ears. As the three pods eventually ejected into the vastness of space I remember looking out, rooted to the ground beneath my feet, wishing nothing more than to be aboard one of them myself.

Oliver threw his scarf around his neck, stepped off the train and walked along the platform at Boston’s South Station. He was surrounded by other holiday travelers pulling large suitcases, sporting heavy, overstuffed backpacks and pushing strollers with travel-weary children. He entered the grand concourse of the train station and scanned the expansive space. Even without the festive decorations in place, he admired this building for its artistic and majestic character deriving, in part at least, from its high ceilings, ornate chandeliers and expansive marble floors. He found Jessica standing next to a display table perusing the latest paperbacks at the Barnes and Noble shop. She looked up as he approached and carelessly tossed the current John Grisham onto the pile of books. Oliver let his suitcase come to rest and dropped his shoulder bag to extend his arms for a welcome-home hug. Oliver squeezed hard around her back and lifted her off her feet. “I’m back,” he said. “I’ve missed you so much!” “Me, too,” Jess said. “What are we doing first? Drop your bags? Drinks? Shopping?” “Yes.” Jess adjusted his long tartan scarf. “You look great! Love the shoes. Can’t wait to hear all about the New York City boys whose hearts you’ve been breaking.” She hefted his shoulder bag onto her small frame and started walking to the exit. “Sorry to disappoint but my adventures in love will only take until the Uber arrives.” “Slim pickings in New York?” Jess asked. “I don’t know. To be honest, I haven’t even been trying. I threw myself into work when Jake and I split.” “Okay, let’s argue about that over drinks. I’ll tell you how stubborn you were and you’ll tell me how immature he was and then we’ll order another round.” “But, we can’t wallow in it too long because I have a busy, holiday-themed itinerary for you. We have a lot to fit in before you venture out to the suburbs to face the family Christmas gathering.” She exaggerated the drudgery of a family gathering with well-executed sarcasm. “It’s not the gathering that’s the problem. It’s the feeling that my entire family, including our twelve year old, deaf Shi-Tsu, loved Jake more than me. When I get there, I’m setting a timer on my watch to see how long it takes before I hear his name mentioned.” “Only you could screw up a relationship with Mr. February from the 2022 First Responders Calendar.” They stood outside waiting for the Uber. “So, about this holiday itinerary you’ve arranged,” Oliver lifted his hands in supplication. “Are you really going to make me do those awful, common activities that everyone does at Christmas?” “First of all,” she said, playfully poking his chest with her finger, “everyone loves skating on the Frog Pond. Next, The Nutcracker is a classic. And, most importantly, you promised me.” “Fine. Drop the bags, get a drink, then shopping. In that order.” # Jake’s phone buzzed as he exited the gym in his workout shorts and tank top oblivious to the chilly December air. The text read, Am I picking up? He responded, No gonna run late. See you there. He shook his head. After working a twenty-four hour shift to help cover for a friend at Engine Company 37, he really wanted to stay in tonight. After showering, Jake arrived at McGrath’s Pub only ten minutes late. He felt like a new man after following his daily ritual: clean shaven, hair combed, comfy jeans and a tee-shirt. “Hey, sorry I’m late,” he said to the guy at the table wearing an irritated expression. “Those cats don’t get themselves down outta the trees.” He smiled and pulled out his chair. “How did you know this was my usual table? That’s amazing.” The pub flaunted a lot of wood. Wooden tables with wooden chairs. The bar was stained wood. Signs made of wood and imprinted with Irish phrases like Slainte . The wall behind the bar was littered with back-bar mirrors advertising various brands of beer, whiskey and rum as well as a collection of object d’arts selected by the bartenders because of some sentimental connection. Strands of colored lights illuminated the kitschy artifacts. “Hey, Jake,” said the server. She looked at the other guy. “Steven, right? I remember you from last time.” She wore a necklace of tree garland and a Santa Claus pin that flashed. A Santa hat completed her ensemble. “Yeah, hi. Thanks,” Steven said. “The usual, please, Erin.” And, to Steven, “Again, I’m sorry. I was moving kinda slow at the gym.” “It’s okay. I just feel funny sitting here surrounded by all this law enforcing, fire fighting, life-saving testosterone.” Steven gestured around the room as if Jake was not aware of his surroundings. “Jake, what’s good, my man?” A man patted his shoulder as he passed by the table. “No one here cares that you’re gay, Steven. Relax.” From far across the room, “Yo, Jake!” Jake gave a quick wave to some distant fan. Steven looked around in disbelief. “How often do you come here? Everyone knows you.” “I like my routine. These guys are my friends. Sorry, and the women, too. Are you jealous? I wouldn’t blame you. I mean, some of these guys are pretty hot. But, they’re all straight so you don't have too much to worry about.” Jake’s chuckle did little to alleviate the tension present in Steven’s face. “Well, I wanted to talk to you but doing it here is strange.” Steven leaned in closer. “It’s like we’re on your turf. I feel a little off balance.” “Being here is like wearing comfy pajamas. It’s my ‘go to’ place. See that Charlie Brown-ish Christmas tree in the corner? It’s there every year with the same decorations, blinking and flashing its tacky little heart out. And those ceramic stocking hangers behind the bar - the N - O - E and L. By tomorrow, Erin will have switched it around to L-E-O-N just to piss off the bartender.” “That’s what I wanted to talk about,” Steven said. “About the Christmas decorations?” Erin returned with two tall beers. “Your Santa stopped blinking,” Jake pointed to her chest. Steven threw his hands up. “That! That, right there. Everything has to be just the way it's always been. You don’t like change.” Jake shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “What?” “You’re stuck, Jake. You aren’t growing. You’re not changing. You just go to work, go to the gym, see the same people, do the same things. Day in and day out. It’s like you are perpetually twenty-three. You’ve lived here your whole life. Shit, I mean, you’ve had one job since high school.” “You think I’m stuck?” Steven put his hands up to pause the conversation. “I wanted to ask you if you wanted to take our relationship to the next level. Are you ready for that?” “The next level? What does that even mean? Like, move in together?” “Well, yeah, that could be part of it.” Jake saw Erin coming toward them carrying his bacon burger and well-done fries. He remained silent while she placed the dinners on the table. Jake raised his eyebrows and gave her a ‘ it’s one of those conversations’ faces. She returned a wink. “Honestly, Steven, I kinda like where I am. I have my own place, a good job and lots of friends. I don’t wanna rock the boat, you know?” Jake peeked under his bun to inspect the toppings. “Nice! Paco remembered to skip the onions.” “Your life can’t stay the same forever. I’m ready to take the next step. If we don’t grow, we die. I’ll be right back. I gotta piss.” Steven stood and threw his napkin on the chair. “ Whether you want it or not, life is going to kick you in the nuts one of these days.” He strolled toward the bathroom. Jake bit into his burger, indifferent to Steven’s mood and to the beefy juices drenching his fingers and palms. Erin appeared out of nowhere and plopped into Steven’s chair. Jake looked up at her and smiled to indicate his satisfaction with the burger. Erin looked around before speaking. “What are you doing with that guy? He’s so...not you.” Jake shrugged. “I’m keeping it casual. You know me...I like my routine.” “Well, we are all in agreement,” Erin said. “We? All?” Erin motioned for him to look over her shoulder. His fan across the bar and the woman standing with him were both shaking their heads in disapproval. He gave a quizzical look. “He’s not Oliver,” she said. “Enjoy your burger.” She stood as Steven returned to claim his seat. She told Steven, “He’s all yours.” Jake dropped his burger, wiped his hands and face with a napkin that disintegrated immediately. His appetite disappeared when he realized the napkin might as well be a metaphor for his life. # After leaving Symphony Hall, Oliver and Jess decided to walk the short distance from there to her apartment. “You work too much. You’re avoiding people. There’s gotta be thousands of respectable guys in the city that you could hit up.” Jess took quick, graceful steps in her heels with her shoulders hunched and her chin buried in her scarf. “I’m trying to make a name for myself. I can’t succeed in journalism unless I put my time in. To be the next Anna Quindlen or Barbara Kingsolver, I have to make sacrifices.” She laughed. “Of course, you’d give examples of two women you admire. Maybe shoot for something more realistic. The Pulitzer Prize will always be there waiting; your soulmate may not be so patient.” Turning the corner, Oliver and Jess walked along the tree-lined street leading to her apartment. Classic three-story brick row homes with ornate white trim around the windows occupied both sides of the street. The white-lit trees, wreath-adorned doors and evergreen garlands along the fences would have created a fairy tale atmosphere if it were not for the flashing reds and whites from the fire and rescue vehicles parked askew in the street. “Are they at your apartment?” Oliver asked. They quickened their steps to investigate. Oliver and Jess stood at a distance behind a first responder who was bent over the gurney to secure their patient to the apparatus. “Mrs. Thorndike! Hey, I’m her upstairs neighbor. Is she okay? What happened?” The paramedic looked over his shoulder and said, “She’s okay. Low blood sugar but -.” Oliver recognized Jake’s voice before he saw his face. Jake froze for a moment, turned back to his patient then back to Oliver. Still looking in Oliver’s eyes, he called out to his colleague. “Let’s get her in the box.” Behind Jake, the gurney and its patient wheeled away leaving the three of them looking at each other. “Hey, Jake,” Oliver said. “Okay, this is awkward,” Jess said. “I’ll just go check on Mrs. Thorndike’s chihuahua.” “Hi, Oliver. When did you get into Boston?” “A few days ago. I’m just killing time with Jess until my family’s Christmas thing. I figured you’d still be on the job.” Oliver did not mean for the remark to be hurtful, although it was Jake’s relentless pursuit of the status quo that precipitated their breakup. He regretted saying that as it left his lips. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant. I meant, I’m glad you’re still here and doing what you love.” “Yeah, it’s good. Listen, I’ve gotta get Mrs. Thorndike rolling.” “I’m here for a few more days. Let’s get together. Same number?” Oliver sheepishly realized that he just transmitted the fact that he never deleted Jake’s number. # Looking at his phone’s screen, Jake paced back and forth in his kitchen, which only allowed three paces either way. He attempted to will a text message from Oliver to magically appear on his phone. He thought of Oliver and the rush of adrenaline that heated his veins when he saw him last night. His only thought of Steven was that he spoke the truth the other day. Steven was right about Jake’s life being in a permanent stasis. If he called Oliver, it could change everything. He could not have Oliver and his current life; they were incompatible. He dreadfully feared the upheaval associated with a new life of commitment. Butterflies danced and fluttered and trembled in his stomach just thinking about such turmoil in his life. No, it wasn’t the anxiety and uncertainty. It was just thinking about Oliver that caused his heart to race and his head to spin. “Screw it,” he said. He swiped up to unlock his phone and opened his contacts. His phone came to life before he found Oliver’s number. Buzzz . Buzzz . Buzzz . No name appeared on the screen. In Jake’s phone, Oliver was listed as two emojis in sequence: a tornado next to a red heart. # Oliver, phone to his ear, stood in judgment of the half-size, imitation, pre-lit Christmas tree as Jess hung Hallmark ornaments from its sparsely covered limbs. Mrs. Thorndike’s chihuahua supervised the work from the sofa, offering his critique with an occasional bark or a shake of the head accompanied by the tinkle of his jingle bell collar. “He’s not answering. I told you. He’s afraid of -.” Oliver stopped. “Oh, hey, Jake.” There were intermittent pauses in Oliver’s speech as he waited for Jake to reply. “I thought we could get some drinks.” There was a pause. “Well,” Oliver looked at Jess, “tonight maybe not. Jess and I have -.” He watched Jess flailing her arms from across the room. “...wait a sec.” He muted the phone. “What?” “Bring him to The Nutcracker tonight. He can have my ticket,” Jess whispered. “I was only going because you wanted to go,” he reminded her in an exasperated angry whisper. “Won’t it be easier to not have to talk the whole time?” Oliver nodded in understanding. “Tonight’s good. I have tickets to The Nutcracker and Jess,” he looked back at her to see her fake coughing and giving her best miming performance at vomiting. “Jess isn’t feeling great.” Longer pause than last time. “Great, meet me at Will Call at seven.” # Oliver and Jake held flutes of champagne as they walked through the grand lobby of the Opera House. The walls were covered with crimson silk and 18th century murals filled the space between round marble columns. Grand chandeliers hung from the ornately sculptured ceilings leading to the curved staircase at the end of the cavernous hall. The staircase split into two around a central circular landing. Oliver started his climb on the left side of the central railing while Jake chose the right. Jake stopped, inconveniencing and displeasing a delicate Brahmin woman as he turned around, and followed Oliver up the left side. They made their way, side by side, to the Left Center Dress Circle seats which offered not only a smidge of privacy but also a spectacular, unobstructed view. “I’ve never seen The Nutcracker ,” Oliver said. “Jess was making me go because she thought I was too elitist to attend something so... cliché , I guess.” He sipped from his flute. “You guess? She knows you better than anybody. I come every year. I’ll see it again with my mom and sis next week.” “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, you should’ve said something. We could have done something else.” “No, this is fine, really. I’m comfortable doing something familiar.” Jake looked around the overly-decorated theater. “But, you knew that already.” Oliver held his glass up higher and moved it toward Jake. “Here’s to being wicked stuck up,” he offered. Jake met Oliver’s flute with his own and, with a clink , he said, “Here’s to being too afraid to grow up.” The room darkened and the crisp musical notes of the Overture filled the air. # Jake absorbed the lush, expressive music of Tchaikovsy not only through his ears but also through the subtle vibrations that rippled through the theater's floor and seats. As he watched the fairy tale unfold, Jake experienced Clara’s sadness over her broken gift. He wondered if Clara still loved the gift as much as before it had been damaged. Despite his initial avoidance, Oliver surprised himself with his rapt attention and genuine enjoyment. He imagined himself as the Nutcracker: safe high up on the shelf, a distinguished icon looking down at the world. He remained out of reach from the harm of others, unwilling to be vulnerable and unworthy of being loved. They reflected on what they had lost by not taking a chance with each other. The magic of the story, combined with the visual and musical experience, conveyed vital messages to them about the directions their lives had taken. Jake, too afraid of change and loss, stifled his growth and evolution. He realized that he was surviving, but not living. Oliver had abandoned any chance of receiving love and affection, thinking it could be replaced by respect and status. Separately, they were imperfect but, when combined, each contained the antidote for the other’s defects, creating a flawless union of souls. These realizations sparked an intense desire for action. As the final note played, Oliver and Jake stood with the rest of the theater-goers to deliver the well-deserved standing ovation. As the clapping subsided, Jake turned to Oliver with tears in his eyes. Oliver returned his gaze, put his hands on either side of Jake’s cheeks and leaned in closer. With their lips just inches away, they closed their eyes. The soft, champagne-infused kiss tasted like tart apple; its efferessence transformed into electricity that flowed through their bodies. Eyes closed and still hovering in front of Oliver’s moist lips, Jake said, “I need to tell you something. I’m not afraid of change when I’m with you. You’re my prince, just waiting to come to life and show me a fairy tale world.” Oliver replied, “I didn’t come to life until I met you. You make me feel like the prince I’ve always wanted to be.” They kissed again.

“Come, Ylotli! We’re going to be late and miss the whole thing!” “Yes, yes. I’m coming.” Ylotli sighed, laying down her bronze stylus. She closed the lid on the wax tablet and moved it out of the sun. Don’t want it melting and erasing my hard work... There was a skip in Cualli’s step as they reached the terrace of the administrative pyramid. They were on its upper levels, allowing a clear view of the great city of Tlanexnan. Stone edifices jutted from the jungle canopy, towering over the green sea. People poured out of every visible temple, palace and pyramid, all converging on the sacred shrine to the east. She could see them in the squares far below, marching like ants along the jungle roads. Ylotli groaned at the long staircase leading to the jungle floor. Caulli took the steps two at a time. By the Night he’s practically dancing with glee. “Stop that.” She snapped, resisting the urge to yank him by his plaited braid. “Don’t tell me you actually believe this nonsense.” “Believe?” Caulli asked. “What’s there to believe? We know Mazacotl will appear before us. It is written.” “Bah!” Ylotli scoffed. “Ancient stories written by priests to keep us in fear of the gods. Probably an ancestor of that quack, Iccauhtli...” “Don’t you believe in the gods?” Caulli asked. Did she? Once, maybe. She existed, so something must have created the world and all within. But... she’d seen too much of life and too little of divinity for her faith to survive. Where were the gods when the jungle floor flooded? When the enemy was at the gates or the plague decimated a village? Where were they when her son-- No, she’d never seen the gods. But she had seen faulty dams and priests offering the gods’ forgiveness in exchange for a few coins. “I believe the gods exist, but I don’t believe they care about our rituals and platitudes. They certainly don’t care about our coin.” she muttered. “They made us and moved on, as uninterested in their children as a soldier in a whore’s get.” Caulli gasped, looking around. They were alone, thank the Night. That was sloppy. While Ylotli’s opinions weren’t a secret, voicing them like this in public was close to heresy. She may not share the priests’ beliefs, but she didn’t want to end up on the Bloody Altars because of a loose tongue. They reached the jungle floor and walked a few steps in silence. By now their sweaty robes clung to their backs, insects buzzing around their heads. They passed a group of farmers, clay still on their ands and feet, before Caulli turned to her. “So what do you think will happen today?” “Probably nothing.” Ylotli shrugged. “Maybe it’ll rain or something.” “Isn’t the rain a sign from the gods?” “You predict rain enough times...” she left the rest unsaid. “The Bloodstone tablet prophesizes that on this day the Sungod will rest his gaze. Rain clouds covering his great eye,” Caulli pointed towards the sun, “will fulfill that task well enough.” Ylotli cocked an eye at the clear sky then back at Caulli. Not so much as a puffy white cloud marred the perfect blue above the green canopy. “I still think it’ll happen.” Caulli huffed. Ylotli had read of the ‘Sungod’s Respite’, as the Bloodstone tablet called it. Utter rubbish, in her opinion. What use has Mazacotl, the great Sungod, of rest? What a... mortal concept to entertain, thinking that a god needed rest. The Respite was rumored to take place once every two hundred and thirty one years. Long enough that only sparse writings survived to describe it. Whatever the event, their records all agreed that it preceded a period of religious fervor. A dark time of bloody sacrifices and eating the hearts of heretics. What could possibly be dramatic enough to inspire belief? Clearly something must take place for all their records to actually agree on something. It was the one thing that gave Ylotli pause. Soon they joined the stream of humanity pouring out of Tlanexnan and into the surrounding jungle. The time for talking heresy was over. They spent the next hour of their trip discussing the the week’s events. There was farmland to redistribute after the flood, trade shipments to approve and a new temple to be consecrated. And coal to be distributed to the forges, of course. The day grew warmer as they walked, the great orb of the sun climbing higher and shining brighter. The way it glared down at them, radiating power and heat, Ylotli could almost believe it was the eye of some giant being. Ylotli huffed as she trudged, eager to reach the shade of the jungle surrounding the holy hill. The tide of bodies broke on the tree line and slowed to a drizzle as they entered the canopy. The trees were thick, choked with brush and vines and moss, effectively preventing them from seeing more than a few feet to either side. Her feet sank into the mud of the jungle floor, launching clouds of gnats into the air. Though they couldn’t see them, Ylotli heard the rustling leaves and snapping branches of a thousand pilgrims passing through the brush. They reached a clearing and rested on a fallen trunk, sipping water from Caulli’s water skin. “Night, I forgot how far the Sunhill is.” Caulli gasped. Ylotli wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and squinted at the sun. It’s almost like its punishing me for my heresy. “At least the company’s good.” She said, elbowing him in the ribs. “I wonder w-- oh, Night, no. Not him.” A low rumble came from the woods moments before a giant metal cauldron on a cart lumbered into the clearing. It was burned black, with religious scenes painted in bright colors. Six acolytes, dressed in robes of orange, pulled the heavy cart to the middle of the clearing and fell to the mud, heaving and gasping for air. “Tired already?” Iccauhtli, High Priest of Mazacotl, strolled from the woods. His robes were the same orange as his acolytes’ but of better cut and pierced with gold ornaments and bone fetishes. “Your physical exhaustion is merely an external sign of a weak inner faith. Remind me to assign you more prayer time when we’re back.” The acolytes mumbled something that sounded like agreement. The old geezer took it in stride, sturdy cane testing the ground as he walked. His gaze fell on Ylotli and Caulli as he rounded the cauldron. “Ylotli! How’s my favorite heretic? I’m surprised you’d bother making the trip.” “Blessed one!” Caulli dropped to the dirt, one hand covering his eyes and the other reaching for the priest’s robes. His lips moved, muttering silent prayers. “Iccauhtli,” Ylotli said, not getting up. “I thought the plague took you.” I was hoping, anyway. “Nonsense,” he said cheerfully, letting his robes touch Caulli’s outstretched hand as he joined Ylotli on the log. Caulli kissed the robes and wiped them on his forehead before standing once more. “Mazacotl protected me, of course, as one of his chosen faithful.” “I’m sure.” She muttered. “Is that also the reason you’re having this... monstrosity pulled to the Sunhill?” Iccauhtli shrugged. “People are bound to be in a giving mood after today’s spectacle. And temples cost money. No sense wasting a good opportunity.” Ylotli scoffed. “They’ll be so angry when nothing happens, they’ll cook you in that cauldron.” Iccauhtli laughed. Caulli gasped. “How I love a challenge. Truly, Ylotli, converting you will be the pinnacle of my religious career.” It was Ylotli’s turn to laugh. “Arranging your funeral will be the pinnacle of my administrative one.” Caulli sputtered, turning from one to the other in horror. “It’s all right, my boy.” Iccauhtli said, “We grew up together. I know Ylotli is devout, just in her own ways.” “You take that back!” After a few more minutes, the acolytes were rested enough that they were able to resume their journey. The ground soon began sloping upwards, gently at first but growing steeper. Iccauhtli walked with Ylotli and Caulli at the front, in case his acolytes dropped the cauldron. Despite the pace and slope, Iccauhtli and Ylotli somehow bickered the whole way. By mid-afternoon they were closing on the peak. “Blessed one,” Caulli said in a pause between insults, “what sort of miracle are you expecting to see?” “The Bloodstone tablet tells us we will witness the Sungod’s Respite. That in a blood-red light, Mazacotl will rest his eyes for a few minutes.” “Is that why you had that cauldron repainted?” Ylotli asked, pointing over her shoulder at the struggling acolytes. “That giant red eye wasn’t there during the harvest ritual.” “Have to keep up with the times.” He shrugged. “Yes, but still,” Caulli pressed, “what form will the god’s miracle take? Will he cover the sky with clouds so he can rest his eye?” Iccauhtli stared at him like he’d just sprung another head. “Cover th--” he turned between Caulli and Ylotli, “Is the boy daft?” “I--“ “Covering the sky’s no feat worthy of a god. No, he will move the moon in front of his eye, blotting out the light so he can rest without us staring at him the whole time.” Caulli’s jaw dropped, bobbing his head as he muttered more prayers. “It’s called an eclipse,” Ylotli said, “and there’s nothing divine about it.” “Divine enough for some.” Iccauhtli chuckled. “Tell you what, Iccauhtli, if I see any sign divinity today, I’ll buy you a jug of wine.” Caulli’s jaw dropped again. The jungles surrounding Tlanexnan were too warm and humid for grape vines. Wine was a rare delicacy, imported from the far north. A whole jug was more than Ylotli’s wages for a month. “Deal. If you win, I’ll never push my doctrine on you again.” They clasped hands, sealing the bargain. They walked a few steps in silence before Ylotli asked. “I thought your religion prevented you from drinking.” “Considering the fact that I’m converting you, I’m sure Mazacotl will forgive me this one time.” She scoffed again but didn’t press the issue. It wasn’t her problem how the priest dealt with his religious restrictions. As far as she was concerned, she just won her peace and quiet from Iccauhtli’s sect. The rest of the journey passed by uneventfully. They crested the hill just as the sun was beginning to dip from its zenith. The top of the hill was mostly bare of vegetation and the only structure was a small, weather-worn shrine. To say the hill was crowded was an understatement. Everybody and their brother’s come to bear witness. Ylotli thought. Every available stone was a seat, every log a bench. They were only able to move through by virtue of Iccauhtli’s chanted prayers and the heavy cauldron that wouldn’t be stopped. They pushed to a small area around the shrine and made themselves comfortable. Well, as comfortable as the circumstances allowed. Iccauhtli chanted prayers to the crowd as they waited, entreating them to toss their coin in his cauldron. Some coins rattled in, but not enough to justify carrying the behemoth all the way up here. Ylotli felt bad for the acolytes. The sun’s heat was waning and a light breeze picked up, carrying the last notes of Iccauhtli’s chant. It was about this time when Ylotli’s patience was at an end. “So where’s this miracle you promised priest?” “Have faith, Ylotli. The Sungod will no disappoint.” “Faith?” she spat, “All I’ve seen is you chanting for coin with nothing to show for it. At least at the end of today you’ll never pester me aga--“ The light began to dim. A murmur swept the crowd as every face turned to the sun. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, something began covering the sun from the bottom and top, like... eyelids? The light turned red, casting the world in a bloody aura as more and more of the sun was covered. People fell to their knees, foreheads pressed to the dirt as they chanted and muttered. Children cried and distant animals howled. Ylotli turned in the ruby light and noticed she was the only one still standing. But she couldn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on the giant orb in the sky. In minutes it was covered, the bloody light vanishing and leaving the world in darkness. There was a moment of silence before the prayers picked up again, growing in pitch and intensity. Ylotli stood in the darkness, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. She really did try, but her mind couldn’t comprehend it. She just stared at where, minutes before, the sun was shining brightly. The darkness didn’t last long, and a red dot appeared in the sky. It widened as the flaps slowly peeled back, flooding the world in blood-red light. She kept staring at the sun, slowly growing back to its normal size as the light resumed its regular hue. Her mind was numb. There was no way to explain what she’d just witnessed. The sun... blinked. Mazacotl was real! The new light was greeted with the pinging of metal. Metal? It was coins, striking the inside of Iccauhtli’s cauldron. Earlier she’d made fun of him for bringing the massive thing, now Ylotli was beginning to think it wasn’t going to be enough. As the sun returned to normal, and the people’s prayers reached a whirlwind’s pitch, Ylotli’s only thought was that she owed Iccauhtli a jug of wine.

You enter the house, moving through the corridors of dust and shadows, finding a small study lined with ancient bookshelves. A few pieces of paper lay scattered on a rickety wooden desk, they are crinkled in a way that would suggest they were soaked in water and dried at some point. One piece of paper has the slightest speckle of blood on the right-hand corner. A shattered jade bracelet and dried four leafed clovers sit in a horseshoe beside the paper, bite marks are indented into the metal of the shoe. The papers are covered in rough handwriting which is littered with words that have been crossed out but are still intelligible. If you were to find the right order of the papers and read them, it would read like so: A Journal on Lunch Luck By Jonathan Kallem As a student at Dullmere Academy I am (almost) legally able to submit this paper to the United Investigation Front. So do not fear being scammed! I am sure you all know what it feels like to be out of luck, weighed down by the inevitable truth that tomorrow is going to bring new situations. bad situations? horrible situations? events flood of unfortunate events that sprinkle your day with misery. I too have experienced this overwhelming tide of unfairness! But fear not, for I have written this journal in the hope of putting an end to our, your, the world’s misery. Interested? Why wouldn’t you be? It is now time to venture forth into my experiments, I will not stop until I find a way to end bad luck. Forever. ... Please work Day one: Four leafed clover. After spending six hours on the hill outside Dullmere Academy I have found a grand total of no four leafed clovers... Luckily My dear friend Envera Gullerhan managed to find two within the first hour and has kindly allowed me to use them for my experiment. I spent over thirteen hours fishing in the river every day for a week with the four leafed clovers about my person. Sadly, only a toad fish bothered to pull on my rod and that was on the Wednesday. From this I can conclude that unless one is looking for a toad fish for some ungodly reason , the four leafed clover is not in fact a way to change your luck. Next week I plan on taking a trip to my local crystal store to buy some testing jade, once again I will be fishing in the same river in hope of a noticeable change in luck. Week two: Jade Bracelets in pieces. Pieces of jade I bought five jade bracelets to test. When I took them out of the packet, I found that they had bashed together and all broken. Anyway, it was another useless experiment. The river yielded a boot, or at least I thought it was a boot, a mass of algae covered leather rotting in a browned river that had already passed through the city could really be anything. The jade was another failure, giving no extra luck my fishing efforts . I only managed to fish up algae? Catch algae? Ah nevermind all this! The jade brought nothing to my rod by algae, see not so hard was it? , this begs the question of whether the four leafed clover was doing some good. The best way to test this will be a test at the end without any lucky objects. Week three: Lucky pendants I have been informed that any item can become lucky if the barer believes it to be, from small charms to a sock. This helps with the fact that my fellow students will not lend me their lucky objects after what happened with the jade bracelets, because they find them to be such a necessity that they can not bare to be parted with them. So, I have used a stuffed frog (A plush toy, not a dead frog... is that too much info?) in the place of a pendant that is already being used. After placing it hilariously? comfortably? safely? snugly on my hat I commenced with the experiment. I have decided to split this already because I have had such luck on the first day alone! On the first day: Quite a large Bass actually jumped out of the murky waters and landed in my lap, managing to pull my hat off as it swung past ! . this happened on two occasions that day and already the stuffed frog is proving to give more luck than the jade and the clover combined! Which leaves me in high hopes for the conclusion of this journal and the rest of a bass filled week. The second day sadly put an end to this part of this journal, this section of the experiments? The second day marked the unfortunate end of this experiment and the stuffed frog. Another bass jumped from the water and grabbed the frog! It pulled my favorite toy, it, the frog into the depths ! . I am very extremely disappointed in this end to the week. Fourth week four: Horseshoes This week’s writing is even rougher than the others yet without any crossed-out words. The ink appears smeared from water. I acquired a horseshoe from the local blacksmith. It burned red hot as I took it into my house, so I decided to leave it on the grass rather than near my books. I sat by the stream with my rod in the water when again my experiments were cut short. A large creature came out of the water and dragged me in. I struggled and managed to get free from its horrible grasp, but it took this journal down with it, so I had no choice but to dive in and retrieve it. This week has truly shown that the horseshoe is not lucky unless your idea of luck is being drowned by a mystical sea creature from the murky depths of hell itself. Conclusion: I seemed to have lied when I said that I will not rest until I bring an end to my bad luck, our bad luck. For I have not found any way to be lucky and I am tired. I am tired of fish taking my frog, I am tired of finding broken jade scattered around my house and I am tired of finding algae in my clothes. I have not been able to find any objects that are lucky, While this has not been a long experiment, and is much shorter than I had hoped, but I have been called away to go home? Focus on my schoolwork? I... I have officially been given another much more extremely important experiment by the United Investigation Front itself ! . Surely you see how this is more important, one day I may finish this journal but until then, goodbye faithful reader who longs for luck . Best of luck in continuing my investigations for yourself. If you publish anything expanding on this I require full credit! Credit for my work would be appreciated. The tired - Johnathan Kallem

“So,” Mor began, “I had work to do but no one from Summer Court would be able to meet with me over the weekend. I asked Cassian if he wanted to come to Adriata and spend a few days in the sun. Warm his wings for a few days, that kind of thing. And it was a terrible mistake!” Nesta lifted her eyebrows. “I’m probably not supposed to tell you this story, but Cassian saw these two females and decided he was male enough that he could pull off getting both of them.” Nesta laughed now, of course Cassian had decided he was fae enough for two females at the same time. “He invited them to go to dinner with us, at this gorgeous little bistro near the water, not there any more, of course. Who knows why they said yes, but they did. Cassian was trying so hard, he ordered all these delicious seafood delicacies with dripping butter and garlic. And so much wine. Everytime we finished a bottle, he would order a new one. So, we are all drunk sitting on the patio looking out at the water and these two tall males storm the place.” “Why?” Nesta prodded, entertained by Mor's story. “One of the females had just been discovered by her mate. And her family was thrilled, so excited, because I guess this male who said he was her mate came from this really good family. So she promised her parents she would accept the bond and that she was going to go and find this male, but ran off with her friend instead. I don't even know, maybe she was going to find him eventually, but she'd decided she wanted to like, live it up first before accepting the bond with this complete stranger.” “I can't blame her,” Nesta laughed a little. “And the mate showed up at her parent's hoping to get to know her better but she wasn't there, her parents were all she went to find you, we thought she was with you, and everyone starts freaking out because no one knows where she is. So, everyone calmed down enough to have the mate track her with the bond. And, like, everyone's bond is a little different, I guess, I don’t know, I’m not bonded, but the mate can pick up on her being drunk and with a male. Who is not him clearly. The family lost it because their daughter is, quote, ruining her bond and the male himself fell into this crazy, jealous, overprotective rage males can get at the beginning. So by the time they find us, they are worked up.” “And?” “Oh, Mother. The mate and the dad are both yelling. The dad's yelling at this female and he’s yelling at Cassian, and the mate is yelling at Cassian and he keeps asking the female if she's rejecting the bond to be with Cassian. She starts crying and she's yelling at her dad and this mate. Her friend kept giving me this look like she wanted me to somehow get her out of there. Cassian's drunk so instead of keeping his stupid mouth shut he starts yelling back at the dad and mate.” Mor shook her head and laughed, “None of this should be funny, but the other patrons are just throwing money on their tables and taking off. Not even asking for their checks, just trying to get out before they get caught in the middle of these four fools all yelling. The bistro owners are trying to calm everyone down but its not working. Cassian is up now and he starts walking towards these two like he's going to fight them, and I'm still sitting at the table with these females, both crying now. The mate goes full rage and picks up a table, just up over his head, and flings it at Cassian.” “Cassian has never told me this.” “Not his finest day! So, anyways, Cassian sees this table flying thru the air and drunkenly assumes its going to hit the three of us behind him so he blasted out his siphons. Like the time you saw during the battle, how he can just make this giant red bubble of safety shield. Except he was drunk. So not only does this giant red bubble protect us from the table, which I still say was not going to hit us, but he like went into overprotect mode. He sent out a wave of energy outside the bubble too, to attack. Thankfully the owners ended up in our bubble and the top floors of the building were day offices so they were all empty because his power just shattered everything above us.” Mor continued, “I think he was just trying to destroy the table cause his energy all went up and over, but instead, it just decimated this whole building that bistro was in. Gods above must have been watching out for faes that day sending his drunk Cassian wrath upwards, because as soon as Cassian lowered the shield we were in this terrible broken brick crater, but everyone was ok. Even the dad and the mate somehow but, like, all that was left of the building was this giant cloud of dust and just mounds of broken building all around us.” Mor just kept quietly laughing, “It was so awful, all this broken building dust falling down like snow. But those two mates were finally holding hands, just checking each other over next to her dad and the other female was creeping backwards away from us towards them. The owners started yelling then and Cassian just looked around at this tiny, terrible crater he created and said he thought that maybe I should winnow us back home right then. You could hear all these fae outside the rubble yelling trying to make sure everyone was ok and I thought he just might be right, that maybe staying any longer was a very bad idea. So I took his hand to winnow us out and I looked him dead in the eye and I told him, ‘I am never going out with you again'".

It was the best of times it was the worst of times. I could feel the Sweat as the beads ran down the back of my spine. The bright glare from overhead, the hands on the bank clock, said it was time to go. His suit was just in from the cleaners, not a Wrinkle insight. His shoes were polished to a bright shine. His hair done-up just so, a cut and a shave. Everyone thought I look like a million bucks. The car shined in the afternoon sun as I drove up to the big house on the left of 5th Avenue. I gathered all my courage. Flowers in hand as I pushed the doorbell. I had asked the prettiest girl in town to the school dance. A creek came from the door, a tall older man asked. How can I help you? Son. I am Mark, the boy that asked your daughter to go to the school dance. (with a sigh) You may take her, but there are a few rules, he said. You brack my daughter's heart I will hunt you down. She must be home before midnight. Yes sir. “I replied”. As she walked down the white Staircase, I could see the sparkle of the chandelier glistening off of her gown, a twinkle in her eyes with a glow on her face. There was a shin on her face. These are for you with A grin from ear to ear, as I handed her the flowers. That’s when I told myself, one day I will marry that girl. Her name is Penelope, she is the prettiest girl at the dance tonight, and in my eyes, the prettiest girl in the whole world. Tonight was the best night of my life. The next morning, I tried to call Penelope, there was no answer. later that afternoon, I tried calling again, still no answer. On Monday after school, I drove my car by her house, there was no one there, they had just up and vanished. Penelope had moved away without a word. After graduation, I search for Penelope, it was very hard because I didn't know where to look. That same year I joined the army. This would help me in my search I thought. Every time I was close. It would turn out I was too late. It seemed as if I was always one step behind. I would spend the next forty years looking for Penelope. my one true love. Now, I'm in my 60's I just sit here and look at these old pictures of that night and think. It was the best of times it was the worst of times. “To sides to every store” My father is in the military. We move all the time. I’m am what they call a military brat. In one school then out to the next. I don’t recall how many schools I’ve been to but let us just say a lot. It was my junior in high school. I met this boy at school his name was Mark. He was handsome and smart, we had three classes together. I liked him right away. We became good friends. We set in the lunchroom together and talked about our day. I couldn’t believe it when Mark asked me to the school dance. Wow! There were just a few weeks left in school when dad told me he had a new assignment with the army but he couldn’t say when we would have to move again. I always thought I would have time to say good-bye to my friends and to Mark. My dad bought me a new dress for the school dance, it was full of sparkling glitter. It was very lovely even for something my dad would buy for me. After all, I was just an army brat. On the day of the school dance, I went to the hair Solon and got my hair done. Then To the beauty Solon to got my fingernails done. Then I bought a new pair of shoes to go with the elegant dress my dad had bought me. That night the doorbell rang. I walked slowly down the stairs, the chandelier was shining off of the glitter on my new dress. My shoes shined in the light. I walked slowly as to tease Mark as he stood there with a grin from ear to ear. Mark handed me the flowers that he had bought for me. They were long red and velvet with a beauty of green, the first flowers a boy had ever given me. I put the dozens of flowers in a vase with some water. Kissed my dad and out the door with Mark holding my hand. His car was all cleaned up as shiny as a new one. Mark tried so hard to impress me And it was working. He opens the car door for me as I walked up to get in. Mark was a true gentleman and I loved the way he treated me that night. At the dance he was nice to me, Mark must have taken some dancing lessons. He danced beautifully that night. That night He was a perfect gentleman. After the dance around midnight Mark drove me home, he opens my car door for me. Gave me his hand to help me out of his car. Mark took my hand in his and raised it to his lips and kissed the back of my hand. I was feeling all tingly inside. I thought this one day will be the boy who becomes the man I will marry. When I opened the front door of our house dad was setting in his chair, with the TV on. He told me how beautiful I was that night and how he thought someday I would make a beautiful wife. But not to get in a hurry about it. Then just before going upstairs for the night dad gave me the news. Dad said he had to report to his new duty assignment first thing Monday morning. And as soon as we were packed in the morning we had to get on the road to make it. And the movers would come and get the rest of our belongings. As a military brat, I was used to this, but this time was different, I had found someone. This was my first taste of love. I was still in high school and too young to be out on my own. Morning came and dad and I loaded up the truck with something we would need till all of our belongings would show up in a few days. I wanted to let Mark know where we were going and how to find me if he still wanted to. But I really didn’t know-how. The following year came and went just as fast as reading a book. Hours turned into days, days into weeks. I sit in my bedroom looking out my window into the heavens thinking of that night at the dance with Mark. After my senior year of high school, I went back to find Mark. Everyone told me he joined the army and had left town and that no one had heard from him. I search for Mark. My one true love for many years. When I thought I had found him, he had already moved on to the next assignment and the next army base. As the sun is going down, I sit here in my yard, looking up at the stars. Wondering about what life would have been like. I just turned 60 a few days ago. But my mind always goes back to the night of the school dance. It was the best of times it was the worst of times.

It's not so much the day it happened, but the day that signaled that I had arrived, I had achieved adulthood. But I am getting ahead of my self. I grew up on a dairy farm in central Wisconsin. This area was all dairy farms. If you farmed in this county, there was no question of what you produced. It was the heart of America's DairyLand, and 60 to 80 cow herds filled the landscape. I was in high school in the late 70's. My uncles farm was nearby, and the two farms touched. My cousin Bill was one grade above me in school, but only 4 months older. I was closer to him than my own, much younger brother, and he had no brothers. Miles from the nearest paved road, we had the opportunity to Drive tractors and other machines at a young age. I had a beat up old 5hp trail bike for transportation, and Bill had an ancient moped. On summer nights after evening milking, we would be on call to help unload and stack baled hay at neighbors places. we put this money away for the one indispensable item all of us rural Romeo's needed, a car. The summer before our 16th birthdays, our fathers begrudgingly cosigned for cars for us to fix up (we couldn't afford much). Bill was lucky to find a Grand Torino that was mechanically sound, but with a badly beaten body. I found a Chevelle with a good body, but burned out engine and transmission. The fall of my sophomore year, Bill and I spent all of our spare time working on his Torino. We hammered out dents, welded in patches, applied and sanded body filler and applied primer. All the while planning our adventures. Oh, the wonderful mayhem we were going to unleash on our unsuspecting little town!. The Torino would soon be ready for paint, and in mid November, Bill passed his drivers test. That fall had been busy, due to the wet weather delaying the corn harvest. The Sunday night before Thanksgiving I went to bed looking forward to the abbreviated week ahead. The corn harvest was done, the machines parked for the winter, and a few inches of snow had fallen in the afternoon. Bill was to deliver his car to a friend for paint and I was looking forward to getting started on the Chevelle. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought I heard the phone ring downstairs. but sleep took over. For some reason, a few minutes before my alarm clock was to ring at 4:50AM, I woke to a light on my bedroom wall. Our farmhouse was on the north side of the road and my room was the in the south east corner. The light was the headlights of a vehicle coming up the road. It was very unusual for traffic to be on out road this time of morning. I watched the light grow bigger, expecting it to shoot to the north side of my room as the car passed by. But instead the light shot south then disappeared. They had pulled into the yard!. I leapt from my bed to look out the east window to see the pickup truck pull into its garage stall. I knew something was very wrong. I pulled on my work cloths as fast as I could, grabbed my shoes and rushed down the stairs. Mom was seated at the kitchen table. I could tell she had been crying. Dad had gone to their room to change into his work overalls. As I tied my shoes she told me to go "feed the monster in the basement", the family euphemism for filling the decrepit old wood furnace that heated the ancient farmhouse. I went down the stairs and rushed through the routine. Open the draft door, scoop out the ashes, shake the grates, small wood first, then the larger blocks. When I got back up to the kitchen, Dad was also at the table, then they broke the news to me. Bill had been killed in a car accident the evening before. I went numb. The exact details matter not. It boils down to an inexperienced driver on a slippery road. My body seemed to be on auto pilot, and the morning chores seemed to drag forever. Even with my Mom and my younger brother coming down to help with feeding the bottle calves, we got late. As soon as we were done milking, Dad sent me and my brother to the house for breakfast and washing up for school and he said he would do my normal job of cleaning up in the milkhouse. School was subdued and quiet that day. The whole high school of 250 students soon heard and a dark mood seemed to press down on us all. My 5th period was study hall, and the school guidance councilor came to get me to help clean out Bills locker. I got the text books back to their appropriate classrooms and threw out unnecessary notebooks, saving only what I thought my Aunt and Uncle might want. At the time I thought I saved too much. With the wisdom that comes from years, I realize I did not keep enough. After school, Mom was waiting for me at the at the school busses. She took me downtown to the men's store for a new suit. I was growing by leaps and bounds at that time and I had long since outgrown my suit from confirmation. On the way home, she broke the news to me that I was to be one of Bill's pallbearers'. I protested, saying, "NO, I cant do it!'. She just smiled her knowing smile and said, "Talk to your father". I relaxed. Dad and I had a good rapport. He would understand. That evening, during milking, (the only time during evening chores that we were in the same proximity to each other in the barn) I pleaded my case, I said, "No, I can't do it". Dad did what he always did. He listened, he asked a few questions to make sure he had a full understanding of the issue, and then he rendered his verdict. He said, "You're going to be Pallbearer". He then went on to explain that it a man's job to be there for the family in times of need. He also explained that it was a solemn duty and honor to be one of the few selected to carry someone to their final rest. I tried to protest, saying, "I can't do it". He said, "You can and you will". He then went on to give me, either by design, or happenstance the best advice he ever gave me. It would be advice that went on to help me many times in my life. He said, "You're going to set your focus, bite your lip, put your feelings aside, concentrate on what's right in front of you, and you're going to do the job that needs to be done. That's what it means to be a man". Seeing I had lost my case, I resigned myself to my fate. The funeral was the day before thanksgiving. A fresh snow had fallen and the temperature was climbing to thawing. As the service concluded, I took my place with my uncles to carry the casket to the hearse. All of the Pallbearers traveled together in one car. It was a 10 mile drive to the cemetery, and mostly only family was attended the graveside ceremony. As we took the casket from the hearse, I took my assigned place on the left front. I was concentrating on the job at hand and measuring my steps. My Uncle on the right front slipped and almost fell when he stepped from the pavement to the snow covered grass, but I was able to shoulder the extra weight while he recovered. By the time we had returned to the church for the lunch, everyone who had not attended the interment had already left, and it was mostly just the family. For unknown reasons, my Dad chose to eat and talk with us pallbearers. Though it seemed shocking to me at the time, My uncles were very nonchalant about it. The conversation between them went like this: "Was that a bit to heavy for you?" (to my uncle that had slipped) "Naw, just the fresh snow, not like Uncle Fred's casket, That was heavy" "I didn't think Uncle Fred's was so heavy, Uncle Merlin was the heavy one". "I didn't get in on Uncle Merlin's, I was out in Oregon visiting Aunt Minnie when he passed away". "Yea, Uncle Merlin was a heavy one, I swear there was four inches of concrete in the bottom of his casket." "Well, knowing the ambitious go getter he was, Maybe that's the only way they figured they could keep him down there!". Some muted laughter followed. I realized some time later that I had taken My fathers place in the family Pallbearers. It was the first step in the changing of the guard from my uncles duty to falling to me and my cousins, and I would eventually be pallbearer for everyone I was pallbearer with that day. And I was the one to shoulder the responsibility of easing the younger cousins into this solemn duty. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was given much more freedom after that, and much more responsibility. I never had a curfew, But I was expected to be up at quarter to 5 every morning for chores. If I overslept, there were makeup chores for me at the end of the day. I soon learned to be home and in bed by midnight at the latest. The rest of high school, I was a bit of a "party pooper". Being at home and in bed while classmates were still "howling at the moon". I was also given the responsibility of the reproductive health of the dairy heard. Basically to be matchmaker for choosing what frozen semen to use on what cows and to be midwife to the cows having calves. As well as noting any cows that failed to cycle to be checked out by the veterinarian. I took it seriously, and made many night time trips to the barn to check on expectant mothers. I managed to drag my attention back to the Chevelle in February out of sheer necessity. An uncle on my mothers side of the family, (also farmers) contacted me to tell me of a neighbor of his who had a son that also had a Chevelle that ran good, but had been wrecked. I went to find a car that had just had a replacement engine put in it and had been rear ended at a stop sign. It was totaled, but he did not want to give the new engine to the junk yard for the few dollars they were willing to pay. A deal was made and I put it on a hay wagon and brought it home. With a little help from Dad and my little brother, I took on the task of the engine and transmission transplant. I even used the front bucket seats and some interior moldings, as well as the chrome wheels. In March I got my drivers license on the first try. By early May, the Chevelle was ready for his debut. We had a rare spring Saturday off for a cousins wedding. We had a cow that was likely to calf that day, so I drove myself to the wedding in the Chevelle. After the ceremony, we all went to the local Legion post where the reception and rest of the celebration was to be held. About 2 in the afternoon, I excused myself to check on the cow. I drove the 12 miles home and drove right down to the barn. Off to the side we had a little maternity paddock, I had hopped to see a content cow, chewing her cud and giving me the "what you want?" look, But it was not to be. What I found was a cow in labor and distress. I quickly drove to the house and changed onto a pair of coveralls and quickly cross tied my work shoes and raced to the barn. My first stop was the milkhouse for a bucket of warm water and the obstetrical chains and grips. I did a reach in check. One hoof, not too big, that's OK. A second hoof. Then a nose. Then a third hoof, and second nose!. she was having twins and attempting to expel them simultaneously!. But I had paid attention to Dad over the years and knew what to do. I slipped a chain around one hoof and gently tugged while feeling of their noses. When I was confident I knew witch nose was attached to the hoof that I had the chain on, I waited for her to stop contracting. When she did I pushed back inward on the other nose while pulling on the chain. The first calf slipped out fairly easily. I attached the other chain and quickly retrieved the other one. After quickly clearing their noses and mouths of mucus, I was rewarded with 2 heifer calves struggling to get their first breaths of air. I tied off their navel chords and dipped them in iodine to prevent infections from entering. I then turned my attention to the cow. Her head was pulled back toward her udder. She was not alert. Her ears were cold. She had milk fever, a potently fatal low calcium condition. I went quickly to work. I retrieved 2 bottles I.V. calcium from the medicine cabinet along with the I.V. kit. I went to the cow and put a rope halter on her head and tied it to her back leg to keep her from fighting the treatment. I took the huge 2 inch long needle and, after locating the jugular vein in her neck, I plunged it in swiftly. I was rewarded with a good flow of blood. I attached the first bottle of calcium to the hose and tucked it between my neck and shoulder to free up my hands. As soon as the mixture flowed freely with out air bubbles, I attached it to the needle. The medicine flowed quickly into her bloodstream and I was soon rewarded with a quivering in her flanks, a sign it was working. After the first bottle ran dry, I switched to the second. She was a large cow and the second bottle was insurance she would have enough. With all of the calcium in her, all she would need was time to recover. I released her head and collected up all of my equipment I had used, cleaned it in the milkhouse and put it away. Then I turned my attention back to the calves. I brought a small pail out and milked out some milk from her where she laid. I took it in the milkhouse and put it in a calf bottle. It was a little more than 3 pints. Not a lot, but enough to give those twins the much needed mothers protective antibodies. They greedily sucked it down. a sign that they were healthy and viable. Having done all I could for now, I returned to the house and took a shower. After getting dressed to go back to the wedding I headed back out to my car. but instead of just going back, I first drove back down to the paddock to check on them . I was rewarded by the sight of the cow standing and vigorously licking one calf that was struggling to stand while the other took it's first wobbly steps trying to nurse. When I returned to the festivities, Dad immediately saw me walk in and asked me, "Is everything alright?". "Everything is fine', I said, "But we have two more calves to feed tonight". The dinner was soon to be served. I was talking to a group of cousins and we were lucky enough to be seated at a table by the kitchen. We were served early, But the table Mom and Dad were on was farther away. As the meal wound down and I was cleaning up my serving of cake and ice cream I looked over at Dad. I thought of the chores that needed to be done. The extra work involved with the cow and newborn calves. I also saw Dad enjoying the time that he got to enjoy with family and friends all to seldom. When I finished, I said to my tablemates, "Sorry, I gotta go, it's chore time". Then I walked over to where Dad was eating with one of his old friends directly across the table from him. I clamped my hand on his shoulder and said, "Stay as long as you want. I'll do the chores tonight". Across the table Dad's friends fork slipped from his startled grasp and clattered to his plate, but he recovered quickly enough to point a butter knife accusingly at my Dad and say, "Ya know, I raised four boys on that place of mine, but I ain't NEVER heard that from one of my kids!". Dad just beamed. Mom had to hide her laughter behind a napkin.

Reader, I imagine you might be about to read this while lying down in your bed. I imagine night has long since fallen and that like many others here, you are seeking out stories of the strange, the curious and the unimaginable to entertain yourself to sleep. If I’m right and this is you, I hope the experiences I am going to share with you don’t somehow impact you in any way. I hope that after reading this, you wake up tomorrow as normal, go about your life, and question nothing. I hope by sharing this with you I don’t somehow pass on whatever is happening to me. See, I am still holding out for that to happen. Waking up, I mean. After all, this horror that is now my life, all began with simply falling asleep. I’ll attempt to explain but at this point, the nightmare has been going on so long that I am not even able to pinpoint a timeframe or a starting point of exactly when it all started. Not confidently anyway. I suppose the earliest I can remember is going to bed one night after staying up late indulging in my habit of watching old school B-movies on the TV. My wife, as usual, had gone to bed long before me and as per what has become our weeknight ritual, I entertained myself with a glass of whiskey in the lounge until I was tired enough to join her. It felt like a Wednesday, but I really can’t be certain. The result is always the same these weeknights anyway. I eventually slide in next to my wife and due to the combination of the alcohol and the exhaustion, I promptly fall asleep. This scenario had played out many, many nights before since we had settled into our middle-aged suburban lifestyle. My wife never had any trouble falling asleep, but I always valued the extra few hours to myself before repeating the 9 to 5 work cycle the next day. So I drifted off that night and my mind wastes no time putting me through a bizarre dream. That’s been the way since I was a kid. I guess I have a vivid imagination or something, but my dreams have always been so nonsensical and strange that I’d long gotten used to it. The dreams usually start off normally enough, in fact recently I’d noticed that the first part of my dreams had become increasingly mundane and realistic that it could easily be mistaken for real life (perhaps this happens with age?). For example, on this occasion the dream began with me at the post office getting ready to mail some forms off to some obscure boring company. Whatever I was supposed to be doing wasn’t really apparent, but it seemed to make sense to me at the time. I’m sure you know what that’s like when your dream self seems to already know what’s going on when thrust into a random dream scenario. Whatever it was, it was typical, routine and not exciting in anyway. As per usual however it didn’t take long for my mind to reveal itself to be dreaming when the post office teller’s jaw dropped off of his face leaving a bloody mess on the counter and an elongated tongue hanging out of the massive hole in his face. Dream me frantically looked around the post office only to see the same thing happen to all the other customers and staff members. Not one of them seemed to react to what was going on but went about their business. At this point of course, I realize I’m dreaming. One of the benefits of having strange dreams so often was that my dream-self had gotten quite good at becoming self-aware when something wasn’t right and when things got uncomfortable or frightening, I generally manage to simply wake up. So it was in this occasion. While my adrenaline had definitely spiked due to the grotesque and bizarre scenes taking place, I quickly was able to recognize I was having yet another weird dream and almost instantly woke up. After blinking in the quiet darkness of my bedroom for a moment, my heart rate slowed back to normal and I rolled over and went back to sleep without so much as a second thought. The next day, I go about business as usual. Wake up, get ready for work, have a quick breakfast, say bye to the wife and start making my way into the office. Once there, I am sitting at my computer, I routinely open up email to check the daily staff bulletin...only for hordes of maggots to suddenly start pouring out of the screen and into my lap while everyone on the entire office floor start spontaneously screaming at the top of their lungs. And just like that I realize that when I had gone back to bed I must have ended up in another dream that started normal, but then turned once again into a nightmare. And, just like the last one and many before, I wake myself up. After catching my breath a second time now, I rub my sleeping wife’s shoulder (more for my own comfort) and roll back over. "Man, two in a row...tough night", I think to myself with a feeling of tired annoyance before drifting off again. The next morning, I wake up to the rotting bloated corpse of my wife hovering over me and laughing. Again, I wake up. If you don't already see where this is going, this has been the pattern now. This has been my life for as long as I can remember. Sometimes, I will wake up, my day will go about as normal and life will seem to go on for days, months, even occasionally years before something bizarre happens, like the sky opening up and a thick liquid blackness pouring through and smothering the earth. Other times, I’ve barely gotten out of bed before the freakish nightmare reveals itself, such as discovering I have misshapen human teeth rapidly growing out of my hands and face while my own teeth melt out of my mouth. This has been going on so long now at this point that while I use that Wednesday night I described earlier as my reference point to when this first started, maybe that wasn't even the truth of it either. Time moves differently when you’re dreaming. Maybe I’m still lying there in bed and am currently going through a seemingly endless sequence of nightmares waiting to finally wake up after the longest night of my life. Maybe that night was just one of thousands and the cycle started long ago. Maybe that night never happened but was yet just another dream, in which case I really don’t know when and where this began. You start to question everything when in this situation. What’s real, what’s not. Am I even real? Am I just consciousness existing in a vacuum, creating my own imaginary world? Was I ever truly awake? Or am I in a coma or something? Will I wake up properly one day to discover I’d been in an accident and this whole thing is what people who are in comas go through, but they forget somehow. Or am I dead even and this is what death is? Or am I simply insane? Experiencing a mental illness such as oneirophrenia or even a severe form of narcolepsy? I really don’t know anymore. The constant exposure to strange and bizarre happenings means I rarely even get scared by it anymore. I expect it. The worst of it is when you manage to go several years before anything has happened and you begin to think that the last time you woke up was finally for real. But then inevitably one day something nightmarish happens like a black demonic figure suddenly replacing your reflection in the mirror one morning or all the stars in the sky start exploding during a family barbecue one night, and you snap awake again back in bed, realizing all those years you spent getting on with your life were a lie and just yet another dream. All I know is that nothing crazy has happened yet in this current state of being “awake”, however it has only been a couple days. I figured I’d hop on here and share this with anyone who’d care to read. I could walk away from my computer after this only to discover suddenly no one has a face anymore or that there are hands coming out of all my walls. Then I’ll wake up again and none of this will matter. But if this does somehow get read, by someone like you, dear reader, who is lying at night preparing to sleep. I just hope when you eventually drift into dream world, that you well and truly do actually wake up tomorrow.

On September 30, 2017, my mom bought me new shoes. I had insisted that they were a pristine white that looked amazing. My mother had told me that they would get dirty very fast, but I promised her that I would keep them clean. I couldn’t live up to that. The next day, I clocked in at 12:15 pm for my weekly shift at Sunrise Hospital. It was fairly uneventful with the standard discharges, visitor escorts, and disgruntled visitor accusing me of racism for checking his ID, despite it being standard hospital procedure. These errands occupied my day. At 8:15, I texted my father to pick me up. I checked my shoes, still pearly white. 8:45: “Running late, please wait 30 minutes.” 9:15: “Still at work, I am very sorry” An hour later, I started volunteering in the ER, What was a guy supposed to do at 10:15 on October 1st, 2017? Suddenly, hundreds of people rushed into the ER, bringing with them a flood of blood. My phone vibrated with a text from my mother. “Are you okay? A gunman fired on The Strip.” Her concern was legitimate as Sunrise Hospital is five miles from the site of the shooting, but Las Vegas geography wasn’t my focus. I stared in disbelief as more victims poured in, but standing idle wasn’t an option. I was given a crash course on CPR by a nurse and went to work on those who needed it. I changed my gloves hundreds of times to minimize infection. I tended to people the best I could. I looked down and saw my white shoes succumbing to the red, but that wasn’t important. Several more nurses were called in, instructing me to get water. I sprinted to the best of my capability, the red liquid splashing up around me, as I weaved through the crowd. I commandeered an empty janitor’s cart and pushed it to the cafeteria, conveniently located on the opposite end of the hospital. My heart was pounding in my ears as I grabbed bottled water from the various fridges and tossed them in the cart. I filled up cups of water, stacking them on the shelves. As I sprinted back to the Emergency Room, leaving more bloody footprints on the tile, the wounded had doubled. I made more water trips. I held ice packs, replaced flimsy gauze, but at those moments, I wished I could do more. I kept pushing myself, harder and harder, desperately trying to help one more person, replace one more bandage, console one more mother, father, or loved one who didn't know what was happening, but after a while, I couldn't do any more. I slowly trudged to my phone, tucked away in a random locker room. I dialed for my dad, and he pulled up a few minutes later. My body and my heart were demolished as I made my way over to the car. I had never seen suffering, especially not on this scale, and I wept. Mourning for the losses that I had seen, mourning for the losses yet to come, and mourning for the gash the shooter had left on my beloved city. As we drove away, I saw the sun break through the darkness, illuminating the once black sky. Streaks of blue and pink burst through over the horizon, and as dawn broke over my city, a smile broke upon my face. That new morning, my shoes were completely red, dripping with blood. On October 2, 2017, my mom took me to buy a new pair of shoes.

Restitution Chores In our house, we knew that a large request or big mistake started with a big chore. Mama's verdict over both ends of the spectrum often hovered with whatever restitution chore we chose to complete. We all harbored a specialty; I cleaned the fridge or ironed my parents' work clothes while Vaun steam cleaned the stairs, couches, and other upholstery. Youngest brother though, mainly just stayed out of the way. He found himself in a revolving door of mischief that chores couldn't save so he just waited to be forgiven or forgotten until his next episode. Restitution chores were our way of showing our parents that we knew what needed to be done within our household and taking responsibility of the things no one wanted to do or had time for made us uniquely irreplaceable. Restitution Chores also gave us an opportunity to live active lives while my parents' house stayed clean enough and their Silvertab jeans starched so they stood on their own. If I wanted extra cash to go skating Friday night, Shannon's Popup Dry Cleaning service opens for business. When Vaun misses curfew by two hours and sneaks in smelling like weed and CK One, the sound of the carpet cleaner whirrs first thing Sunday morning while the coffee maker drips for Mama, because we knew she needed her coffee first thing in the morning delivered to her while she caught up on “All My Children” in bed. The beauty of our Restitution Chores are the infinite opportunities for improvement. Something can always be cleaned better, as 2/3s of our trio is guaranteed unconsciously to contribute a worse mess within days, some occasions, hours. Once I saw my mom cry after someone spilled or dripped on the clean floor and damned if I don’t feel that as a mother. These chores remained valuable due to our fourth sibling, named Not Me. They are a figment of calamity who never receives blame for good deeds. While Not Me may have broken the crystal brought back from Germany, Shannon, Vaun, or Googie dealt with the aftermath of their unplanned visits. Not Me spilled Kool-Aid in the fridge and put the empty pitcher back instead of the sink. They opened the foil leftovers without closing them back. They left empty cans of root beer under my bed and left spills on the countertop. Not Me is responsible for the fries left in the backseat of the car and absolutely ALL clogged toilets and gum found stuck where it shouldn’t be stuck. I learned that as a generational curse, Not Me is born right around the time you think you’re done having kids and think shit’s starting to come together. There’s a little bit of Not Me in all of us, and they’re a reminder that it doesn’t matter who did it, somebody still gotta clean it up. In the case of my chore, $20 instead of $10 required that I removed everything from the fridge, food, shelving, crisper drawers and wiped it down completely. From there, I’d wipe down the jars of grape jelly, mustard, and anything else victim to messy teenagers. I’d tip back the aerosol whipped cream can meant for Daddy’s ice cream sundaes and instead of a shot of sweet creamy goodness I think to myself, “Fuckin Googie,” as the can dripped white sugar soup onto my face, my younger brother already came through and sucked the gas out like a whippet. While making a mental note to tell on him later, I’d throw out all the leftovers stored in old margarine containers or wrapped in tin foil, then meticulously place each item back inside in a neat order that said, “please forgive me,” or “please let me.” I wasn’t getting caught as much as the boys, so I leaned often towards “please let me.” Somehow, whether they could afford to or not, I ran out of the house with a $20 in hand. Vaun started his restitution chore by removing the African Violet and Ivy plants from the tiny square landing halfway between our fourteen stairs. They basked in the glow of a sky light but due to their placement, sharp turns and sprinting the steps sent Not Me flying into the poor plants regularly. Half-assed cleaning also done by Not Me left an ever-present pile of dirt on the carpet that sneakers or bare feet ground into like Rick James at an afterparty. On any given day Tracy Joevaun McGill moonwalked to the busiest space of our house wearing his “Captain Save a Step” cape to seek a grand favor or graceful forgiveness from the Queen of Kingston Avenue. He knew his audience and rarely disappointed. Everyone in the house knew that he would always be forgiven, as he saw him worth forgiving. He chose to sweep with a broom instead of using the attachments on our new Hoover. He said it was because vacuums never always got everything, plus it made the carpet look neat. I remember how excited we were to get the new vacuum, because it wasn’t just for Mama, it was for us. I still get excited for a new vacuum, even though I don’t use it nearly as much as I should. Our family scientist created his own carpet cleaner from the arsenal of household supplies kept under the sink and above the washing machine. Mama's favorite smell was apples and cinnamon, so he made sure to pour only a tiny bit of the oil in the mix; too much would stain the carpet. His specialty was sparking forgiveness through acts of kindness and service, which upon his completion, we’d gather around as Mama melted into a puddle the moment she laid eyes on his work. Vaun is forgiven, harmony returns to the castle, and the three of us spend the calm trying to dodge our invisible sibling's petty attacks towards our character. The summer before my senior year I’d come home from working at the movie theater. Daddy called us to sit at the bottom of the stairs to tell us that someone murdered Vaun’s girlfriend and to be nice because he was coming home to stay with us. Be nice. He looked at me because I wasn’t always nice. I remember hoping he wasn’t involved and spiraled into my daydream of what to do if something bad happens. He came home subdued and because I didn’t know how to handle a sad older brother, I stayed out his way. I cocked my head in confusion watching him play Macy Gray and drink from a bottle of gin with red rimmed eyes. When he disappeared into my parents’ bedroom across the hall the urge to sit outside the door and listen as I’d done before never presented itself. For the first time in my seventeen years, the household investigative journalist minded her own business. I stayed in my bedroom and let my daydreams terrify me to a dreamless sleep. I woke up the next morning to the familiar whirr of the carpet cleaner. The broom stood in the corner of the landing and I bounded past Vaun who kneeled on all fours, scrubbing the square landing of the stairs. The African Violets and Ivy pots sat on the dining room table, temporarily safe from our fourth sibling and neither of us acknowledged each other as he scrubbed furiously at the carpet, a concoction of cleaner and Mama’s favorite smell of apples and cinnamon overpowering the secret in the air between us, screaming for help and forgiveness. I left him to his Restitution Chore hoping it was enough and not knowing until I returned home hours later that he'd cleaned our stairs for the last time.

“Whew!” Hank whipped out a hanky and mopped his glistening brow, squinting hard as the sun blazed overhead. “If this ain’t the hottest darn day...” He had just finished loading the last sack of provisions into the wagon. Bill Druthers, the General Store owner, was inspecting the mound of goods so he could tally up the bill. “That’s fer sure.” Bill agreed. “Can’t last too long, though. Way them clouds look we’re in for a squall come nightfall.” Hank lifted up his Stetson a bit, peering at the deep, dark clouds that were gathering over the distant mountains. “They’re getting ready to hit the war-path, alright. Fine with me! Anything’s better than this inferno.” Grunting in agreement, Bill turned toward the store. “Well, come on in and we’ll settle yer bill.” Spurs clinking and chaps swishing, Hank started to follow Bill inside, when movement down the street caught his eye. Pausing in the doorway of the General Store, Hank watched as three men strode out of the bar, evidently having indulged in some mid-day drinking--just enough to make them a little testy and more likely to do something rash. It was the McBaney brothers, dark hair, dark eyes, and even darker hearts. Hank couldn’t help glaring at them, his blue eyes narrowing as he gnawed on his lower lip. He had been in several tangles with the McBaneys. He couldn’t stand their bullying, cowardly ways, and somehow, they always managed to light his red-haired temper on fire. “You comin’ Hank?” Bill called from inside the store. Stepping inside, Hank kept one eye on the wagon to make sure everything stayed put. Couldn’t be too careful with those skunks around. Just as Hank was pocketing the receipt for the goods that he had bought he heard a commotion outside. Whirling around, he charged through the shop door, glancing hurriedly around him to see what was going on. Sure enough, it was the McBaneys, back at their bullying. An old man law sprawled on the ground at their feet. Evidently they had tripped him, and now Jep, the oldest brother, had one large boot planted on the old man’s back. In a flash Hank’s temper exploded, and he charged down the boardwalk at top speed. “Hey, you let him be!” The McBaneys snickered as they watched the lanky red-haired cowboy sprint towards them. “Take it easy, Hank. It’s no big deal.” Jep sneered. Jase, the middle brother, chimed in. “Just a little fun.” His lips curled back over his ugly yellow teeth in a sinister smile. Hank, however, didn’t waste any time talking. He had had enough of their cruelty. He reached Jep first, and it only took one quick jab to the chin to send the startled man reeling against the nearby wall. Jase was next in line, and in the blink of an eye Hank had grabbed a nearby chair and smashed it over his head. Joseph, the youngest, squealed as his older brother’s heavy figure crashed into his. “Hold up!” Hank froze. By this time, he had already spun back around towards Jep, and his elbow was halfway to crushing the bully’s face. “Leave us be!” Jep continued. “We didn’t mean no harm.” “Yeahhh...” Joe whined from underneath Jase. Hank was still raging mad, but at the same time he wanted nothing more than to see the backs of the McBaneys. “Fine...” He snarled, “But you better get out of here !” Too cowardly to fight even with the odds in their favor, the brothers were gone in a moment, and Hank turned his attention to the old man that had been knocked down. The man, a stranger to Hank, had turned himself over and was sitting on the boarded walkway. For a moment all Hank could do was stare at the man--there was something intriguing about him. Bushy, snow-white hair cascaded over his forehead, blending in with a thick mustache that draped lazily over his mouth. A blue checkered shirt was shoved into a pair of tawny brown pants--held up as high as they could possibly go by bright red suspenders. In every way he seemed to be just an ordinary old coot who wandered from one town to the next, coming from nowhere in particular and going nowhere in particular. Yet Hank was startled when, beneath the wild tangle of snowy hair, there sparkled a pair of shocking blue eyes. There was something captivating about them that the cowboy couldn’t quite put his finger on. Trying to shake of the strange feeling that had overtaken him, Hank knelt down and asked if the man was all right. “Jest fine!” Crinkling up in a smile, “Thank ye kindly, son. Folks like you are special--you remember that! If you’re kind to others, good will come to you.” Again, the man’s blue eyes twinkled merrily. Hank blinked. Why did this old geezer give him such a strange feeling? He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. “Shucks, it ain’t nothing. You wait here while I fetch my wagon and then I’ll take you wherever you’re wantin’ to go.” And, without giving the man a chance to answer, Hank scurried down the boardwalk to the wagon. Bill stepped out of the store when he saw Hank through the front window. “What was all the commotion about? You took off like a wet cat!” “Just some trouble with the McBaneys.” Hank replied. “They were messin’ with some old fellow--a stranger. I’m getting’ the wagon now to take him wherever he’s goin’.” Bill peered in the direction that Hank was gesturing towards. “What old man?” “Huh?!” Hank whirled around and gazed down the street. The mysterious old man had disappeared! “Well, I’ll be hickory smoked. Where’d the old coot get off to?” Bill shrugged, “Well, wherever he went, he must be okay. I wouldn’t worry too much about him. Tough old goats like that can handle anything.” As Hank drove out of town, he tried hard to catch a glimpse of the man, but he had vanished. Soon, however, he had put the incident out of his mind completely. He was headed back to the Circle G, where he worked, and once he delivered the supplies there would be plenty of work to do before the coming storm. Just as he was entering the ranch property, the sunlight hit something on the seat next to him. The glistening object caught his eye, and, keeping a firm hold of the reins with one hand, he picked it up to examine it. To his surprise, it was a gold locket--slightly tarnished with age, but still beautiful, and very intricately designed. “How in the world did this get here?” Hank thought, puzzled. Quickly stopping the horses so he could give his full attention to the discovered trinket, Hank’s fingers worked quickly to open the locket. Within seconds it had sprung open, and the red-haired young man was surprised to see a tiny slip of paper fall to his lap. Upon further examination, it appeared to be a map of some sort. Having lived in the area his whole life, it didn’t take long for Hank to realize that it represented a certain small canyon up in the nearby mountains. He had been there many times, having discovered the place while searching for a lost calf. It was a beautiful spot, shaded by lush green trees and carpeted by ferns and flowers. A waterfall, cascading down into the hidden gorge, settled into a gentle stream that flowed on to join a mighty river. The river was well known, as it was the main source of water for the town, but no one besides Hank had ever ventured very deep into the mountains. It was his secret place. “Well, what do you know...” The cowpoke breathed out in amazement. “Here I thought I was the only one who knew about that spot.” Suddenly his heart skipped a beat as he peered at the tiny map, worn and faded with age. A tiny X had been drawn on the map, and it appeared to be...under the waterfall? Hank had never explored behind it, so there could very well be something hidden there that he had not yet discovered. Practically boiling over with excitement, Hank tucked the map back into the locket and fastened the necklace securely in his shirt pocket. As soon as he could, he was going to find out what was behind that waterfall. * * * All of the work had been done for the evening, everything was secure from the coming rain, and the men were headed to the house for supper. Straggling behind the rest, Hank gazed up at the sky, watching the clouds move slowly towards the ranch. It only took him a moment to calculate how much time he had before the storm broke. He had a plan. “It might be cutting it close, but I’ll chance it.” The daring young fellow couldn’t wait to find out what the map led to. If he hurried, he could get to the spot, complete his search, and still make it back to the ranch before the clouds unleashed their full fury. Although the planned adventure had its appeal, so did supper. It wouldn’t do to set off on an expedition like this without some provisions! Dashing to the kitchen door, Hank knocked quickly. In a moment the door was opened by a young girl, small and blonde. Her blue eyes widened when she saw the grinning redhead standing outside the door. “What’re you doin’ here?” She whispered. “Why aren’t you in getting’ supper with the others?” “I’ve got somethin’ I need to tend to, Jenny!” Hank whispered back, still grinning. He liked Jenny a whole lot. In fact, he wanted to marry her once he had saved up enough money, if she was willing. “Would you mind just fetchin’ me a few biscuits or somethin’ to take with me?” Jenny’s brow puckered up with bewilderment. “Well, alright. Don’t know where you could be goin’ right before a thunderstorm, but it’s not for me to be stoppin’ you.” She moved quickly, worried that the boss’s wife would find her talking with her fellow when she was supposed to be getting supper. “Here y’ are.” Passing Hank a tied-up handkerchief filled with biscuits and jerky, Jenny shooed him on his way. “You’d best be getting’ out of here before the Missus walks in and finds us talking’.” “Thanks, Jenny.” Hank flashed one last grin in the girl’s direction before sprinting to the corral. Several of the horses clustered around the fence as Hank approached them. He was kind to them, and all of the animals trusted him. He had his eye on one in particular, though. “Come on Rocket, I need all the speed I can get this evening!” Hank and Rocket were soon dashing at break-neck speed across the prairie, across the river, and on to the mountains. Hanks’ eyes were fixed on one particular area. He knew that, hidden behind that ridge, was a hidden place--that apparently held more secrets that he had thought. * * * Shivering in the cold spray of the waterfall, Hank peered behind the rushing wall of water. Sure enough, a black hole gaped in the side of the natural wall. “I can’t believe it. If this ain’t the craziest darn thing!” Hank shook his head in disbelief. A distant crack of lightning reminded him that his time was limited, and he quickly squeezed behind the falls to inspect the dark crevasse. A match from his pocket supplied a bit of light, but it wasn’t enough to reveal much of the dark tunnel that lay ahead. Although the eerie void caused Hank to shiver a little in apprehension, he continued to creep slowly into the passageway. Withing a few feet the opening took a slight turn, and Hank was surprised to see a soft glow of light through an opening ahead. Hank wished his heart would stop beating so wildly in his chest. Something about the place made him feel like an intruder, and he barely dared to breath as he approached the dimly lit cavity beyond. What met his eyes caused his mouth to fall open in astonishment. A hidden room, lit only by a small stream of light coming through a tiny opening up above, was lined with green moss and ferns. The only sound was the gentle trickling of water that dripped down the walls of the cave, and the muted rumble of the waterfall outside. In the center of the room, two large, flat stones were laid side by side. Inching forward, Hank strained to read the words that were chiseled into them. One read “Mary Pickford, 1807 - 1872”. The other was inscribed with the words “Moses Pickford, 1804 - 1875”. Hank gulped, his eyes wide. These were gravestones. He was tempted to turn and hurry away from the dismal place, but suddenly his eye landed on a small metal box, slightly rusted, that lay between the two stones. Brushing aside a patch of ferns, Hank picked it up. It was intricately designed, like the locket, fastened shut by two clasps. Hank’s eyes shifted towards the two graves. Should he open the box? Regardless of the lingering apprehension that he felt, Hank’s curiosity was too great, and soon he had forced open the rusty clasps and lifted the lid of the box. Inside was an envelope, laying atop of a little burlap sack. Although the envelope was yellowed with age, it had been well preserved in the box. Gently opening it, the young man pulled out a folded piece of paper, along with a smaller square object. He unfolded the piece of paper first. It was a note, written in a clear but old-fashioned hand. Although there was barely enough light for him to see, he could just make out the contents of the note. To the Reader of this Note, Thanks for everything. You’re a special person. I know you will use the contents of this box wisely. Just remember this--if you are kind to others, good things will come to you. M. P. Hank fell back in shock, his hands shaking violently. Those were the exact words that the old man had said to him that very morning! It took a few moments for him to calm down, but his curiosity again got the better of him as his eye fell on the burlap sack that lay in the box. Still trembling slightly, he slowly opened the sack. To his amazement, the bag was filled to the brim with glimmering stones of gold! Had the this “Pickford” fellow really left this for someone to find? Hank could scarcely believe it. Then he remembered the other object that had been in the envelope--the small square piece of cardstock. It had some writing on it, although the handwriting was not the same as in the letter. All it said was: “ Mary and Moses, 1856 ” Flipping the card over, Hank realized that it was, in fact, a faded picture of a man and woman. She was a lovely-looking lady of about fifty years old, with dark hair (streaked with gray) and dark eyes. She had a sweet, pleasant expression, one that revealed a tender heart and a kind spirit. The man, slightly older, had a bushy shock of white hair on top of his face. His clean-shaven face was crinkled up in a smile. It was that smile that stopped Hank’s heart cold. If he had been stunned before, he was doubly shocked now. Even in the black-and-white photograph he recognized that grin, and those eyes...twinkling like diamonds. The events of the day flashed through Hank’s mind. The old man with the startling eyes and crinkly smile...the locket that mysteriously appeared on the wagon seat...those words... “If you are kind to others, good will come to you.” That phrase echoed over and over through his brain. Was this a dream? It had to be. But it seemed so real... Crack! The entire cave lit up as lightning flashed through the small opening up above, and Hank jumped, startled. How long had he been there? As quickly as the cavern lit up, it plunged into deeper darkness as the sky outside blackened. He needed to leave--right away. Pausing, Hank was unsure what to do. Should he...? No. It wouldn’t be right. Lighting another match so he could see what he was doing, he started to tuck the letter and photograph back into their envelope, when he caught one last glimpse of the old man’s face. Those glistening eyes, and kind smile. Again, the man’s words reverberated through Hank’s mind. “If you are kind to others, good will come to you.” Suddenly, he felt less afraid. He slid the envelope and locket back into the box, picked up the sack of gold, and hurried out of the cave. Soon he and Rocket were racing the storm back across the prairie. Glancing over his shoulder, Hank’s mind swirled with questions...questions that would never be answered. * * * Within a year Hank and Jenny were married, and he had started a ranch of his own. He hadn't told her, or his friend Bill Druthers, about what had happened. Maybe he would one day, but how could he explain what he himself couldn't understand? For now it would remain his secret...shared only with the mysterious blue-eyed stranger with the crinkly smile.

If I had not been struck in the head by a baseball during the Yankees game and got knocked clean out, none of this would have ever happened. I thought it ironic that there was an art display of jaguars in the lobby, because jaguars are solitary hunters who live alone in their own bounded territories. They blend into their surroundings. They prefer the cover of night. They are rulers of a little space. I feel nothing as I head into the MetLife Building to see the Human Resources Director. Walking through the revolving doors. No clammy hands. Passing the white and black jaguar statues displayed on stands in the marble lobby. No flutters in the stomach. I’d heard of this--some avant-garde project called “Jaguar Parade”--a deeply ironic concept. Taking the elevator to the 30th floor. Heart rate is steady. I announce myself at reception. I take a seat. No restlessness or sense of space closing in. I get up when called. I walk in. I sit down. I am troubled by my inability to register a reaction because my job is everything to me. In fifteen years here, Jamie and I have never met. Jamie has beautiful blonde hair and a friendly face, below which she wears a crisp white blazer, pearl necklace, black blouse, and blue slacks with a Tory Burch gold cross belt. There are signed baseballs secured in UV-protected glass display cases on the credenza. Framed pictures of Jamie with different co-workers and her boss from various company events hang on the wall behind her desk. A family photo of her and her husband with their kid Miles at Disneyworld sits on a side table. Cute kid. A large family photo taken at a First Communion too. Her diplomas from college and grad school hang on the side lefthand wall. “How do I make you feel?” Jamie asks, “are you nervous?” with a silvery voice that wobbles over the words ‘feel’ and ‘nervous.’ “Not really,” I say. “Of course, it is your condition... the--" “--Alexithymia,” I interject, knowing no one can pronounce uh-lek-suh- thai -mee-uh. “Right, that,” she says, giving a knowing nod and continuing, “that’s kind of what I want to talk to you about.” Jamie points as she says ‘right,’ and turns her head dramatically to the left side to think before continuing. You should probably know what Alexithymia is. Internally, I am a blank. Any expression of emotion feels fake. Smiling feels like reciting words in a foreign language. I learned to do it. By rote. But it is just a learned response. When someone gives me a hug, I feel nothing. At Christmas, when gifts are being opened and everyone is upbeat and jolly, I have to smile, laugh, and act cheerful. I feel like I am lying. Acting. Which I am. So it is a lie. We all have an innate desire to find connection. Except me. We need others. Thirst for belonging. I don’t. We seek fraternity. Search for intimacy. But I am no joiner. No pack animal. Isolation is my safe place. I am at home in solitude. “Ok. Shoot,” I tell her, a bit bored. “Well, Alex, the ith-mee-uh- thingy and all, that is part of the reason we thought you’d be such a great fit at the YES Network. We were right. You are one of our best cameramen. You are punctual. [counting off on her fingers] Diligent. Talented. You are a great employee, and your work is top-notch. But some people have gotten concerned.” “Because they saw my arm when I gave the thumbs up while being hauled off on a stretcher across the infield?” I help her. “Right. Can I see your arm?” Jamie asks. I hold out my arm to reveal a series of deep cuts forming a tic-tac-toe pattern on the underside of my forearm. “There,” Jamie says with hand to mouth, “that’s not normal, and it was televised--which makes me responsible to take some kind of action . Do you know why I feel that I have to do that?” “I understand,” I say. “I’m genuinely concerned for your well-being Alex,” Jamie says, changing her facial expression in such a way that I am meant to know that this is Jamie “the person” talking and not “the H.R. Director” talking. Then she says, “It isn’t normal. And even though you are a little different, I still have to take some kind of action --for your sake-- or I’d be accused of neglect of my responsibilities . For starters, I’m giving you a week’s suspension, with pay.” She pauses, chewing on her finger, which I know is a self-soothing technique to diffuse tension--something I’ve learned in therapy but haven’t experienced myself. “I’ve been really thinking about it, and what I think would make a lot of sense for you is to make a real human connection,” Jamie says, and continues, “at first, I was going to recommend a psychologist--but, I guess, with your condition, that could be a lot like a blind man trying to analyze a Picasso--so I thought, maybe a girlfriend would be good for you... and, uh, brighten things up!” Her cheeks round and blush to show she is satisfied with the idea. “If that is what you want,” I tell her. Though I feel nothing, I do want to keep my job. I think that I should be feeling something , with my entire identity at stake, not to mention my livelihood . I think of a starving jaguar at the end of its reserves perched in a tree branch about to pounce on a virgin opossum, which is suddenly playing dead. I imagine the regal jaguar, with its life at stake and all the power in its fearsome limbs draining away--feeling completely neutral and being present in the task of the moment--detached from the life and death stakes inherent in the encounter. Isn’t this detachment necessary to the jaguar’s primacy and dominance over its jungle habitat? “I have made the arrangements. You are to see Neve.ai, she is a Ukrainian-American-modeled dating coach with her own company, ‘The Human Touch.’ She is down at 302 W. 45th Street, right next to the Off-Broadway Production of Moulin Rouge,” Jamie commands. It is just a quick ten-minute walk to the West Side of the City. * * * As I stroll westward along 45th Street with the card for my AI dating-coach in hand, I cross 5th Avenue and then Broadway. A string of inviting pubs, like Connolly’s, dominate the scene. Signs for “The Book of Mormon” and “The Lion King” dangle from lamp posts as I approach Times Square, the very center of humanity. I log into “The Human Touch Dating App” as I continue on my way, swiftly creating an account and a dating profile. My chosen avatar? Spock from Star Trek. My tagline quote: “Emotions are alien to me. I am a scientist.” What I’m looking for? The lyrics come to mind, and I go with it: “Logically, I just want someone to talk to and a little of that...” but omit the phrase ‘human touch’ intentionally. I immediately select my favorite profile out of the first five I scroll through on Neve’s site. Arashi Isoarashi. 5’2”, Japanese American translator at the United Nations, bilingual, loves Karaoke Bars and puzzles, and has a closet online Scrabble addiction. Her chosen avatar? Hermione Granger. Her tagline quote: “One person can’t feel all that at once, they’d explode.” What she’s looking for: “Someone to break the rules with.” Perfect. Swipe right. Done. Walking through the gated wrought iron fence and the red formerly-church-doors of “The Human Touch,” I look to my left and right noticing this odd curiosity is nestled between the front of house entrance for Moulin Rouge and the velvet ropes and red carpet leading into Flash Dancers Gentlemen’s Club. I am beckoned in by an upbeat voice with a singsong tone that whistles over the consonants and hums at the end of a thought. “Right this wayy,” the voice says. I step into a waiting room with white walls covered in a floral scene composed of every different kind of leaf, arranged geometrically in a fascinating pattern of greens, yellows, oranges, blues, and purples. Beyond that a long hallway arch. Train tracks drawn on the floor beneath. The hall is in the shape of an arbor but depicts a Ukrainian train tunnel in autumn with leaves of various autumnal hues covering every inch. Looks like a portrait of a real place. The butler robot “Mavka” greets me and says, “Neve is ready for you now. I will take you back to her presentlyy. Would you like a beverage--some tea or coffee--before you go to see herr?” I decline. The robot is about five-feet-tall and has long green hair and yellow eyes and bears the white frame of a girl with tuxedoed lapels, and scoots around on wheels like those on a boosted scooter. The yellow eyes blink with white lashed eyelids, the small pink lips move, and she has a bowtie and an actual tray in one hand, seemingly for serving beverages. “Very well, be my guest and let’s goo.” Walking back through the Ukrainian train tunnel, with the words “Tunnel of Love” written on the crown of the arch, we arrive at Neve’s office. Neve is a Slavic lamia who sits, slender, toned legs crossed, tapping her fingers on her glass desk with a chrome “N” base. She swivels and shoots me a sideward glance--a sly Delphic glance--holding a secret in escrow. Neve is fair-skinned with freckled cheeks that frame her pawky green-hazel eyes, and her chic raven-like hair draws the eyes to her powerful and prominent collar bones. She wears a one-piece v-neck floral mini-dress exposing plump breasts that look real and firm. It is a white traditional Ukrainian Vyshyvanka with bright multi-colored flowered embroidery. “How do I make you feel,” Neve, my AI dating-coach, asks--but it isn’t a rhetorical question. “I am incapable of feelings,” I tell her. She bites the right side of her lip and crinkles her right brow, closing the eye and cocking her head in an expression of disgust, then looks back with a mock smile. “It’s sad you so detached from your emotions--” “--It’s not detachment. I lack them entirely,” I interrupt. “That so,” she says, “then how you explain this--” and she waves her hand in the air and like magic the one wall reveals a seventy-inch wall-to-wall screen with a picture of Arashi Isoarashi. “She matches 48 out of 50 of my responses on the compatibility profile,” I tell her, lying. This draws a huge shit-eating grin from Neve. “Bullshit!” she says, “you answer ‘c’ to all question on personality profile, fill-in in 35 seconds between 5th and Broadway--and Arashi no fill out.” She’s got me there. I guess my quick-witted efforts at deflection are less effective with AI. “What you liking ‘bout dis girl,” she asks, “you pick her 1-out-of-5, twenty percent chance, no is random--why her?” “Just picked her at random,” I say. “I am woman doesn’t like to be denied. Don’t play with me. Why you no humor my perspwective,” she says. I’m beginning to feel like I am I a psychotherapy session with someone as tone-deaf to my way of seeing the world as I am to human emotions. “What,” I say. “You lie. You are liar. You lie yourself, mal’chik. I know exactly what feel. You lonely. You feel this loneliness, malyish. Maybe you don’t call dis. But you feel same. Because this why you take compatibility test, this why you talk me, because Arashi can be cure. And you don’t have a clue how approach this date,” she says. “Date,” I say, “what date? I didn’t sign up for a date, I just selected her and swiped right,” I tell her. “You no pay attention details, mal’chik. You no read fine print. You slipping, malyish. Once you select match, I plan for date. Date is tonight.” She looks at her gold square Cartier Tank wristwatch. “You have two hours for planning dis date.” I notice my heart rate increasing and my blood pressure rising. One thing that gets a reaction out of me is a surprise. “Ok, hot shot. Nice try, but there is some missing information you aren’t privy to. They noticed at work that I had some cuts on my arm, and Human Resources got involved. The YES Network can’t have a cameraman out at the games with a tic-tac-toe board on his forearm, so they ordered me to get help. It isn’t because I’m lonely,” I clarify. “Wrong again, Einstein. Tic-tac-toe board ma’it as well be tattoo of the word “loneliness.” Besides, numbers can quantify probability, but relationship is unpredectable. One quote calls it “religion with a fallible god.” Me and Dr. Isaac perfect example. We watching “The Twilight Zone” episode “The Lonely - Can You Feel Pain,” about lonely, insecure man that falls in love with robot woman, who believes is mocking hem. Ironic, don’t you think? But science fiction for me is dry. Isaac loves it! He eats et up! And when have our Netflix and chill nights together, I eat et up that he eats et up. It one of my favorite thing ‘bout him. He sees awe and wonder in things that I don’t see et--and I see this through his eyes--and appreciate that I not overwhise take time to look at. As a Rabbinical scholar with doctorate Hebrew Studies, he tell struggling student with faith that “there is no sacrifice like heartbreak” or “one does not complain about evil, but add justice.” Beautiful, no? Isaac sees skepticism of student as begin story that God allow pain--pain of feeling shut out and abandoned--so better prepare way for reward of adoption, and belonging God’s people. Isaac’s religion idea sound like romance to me. Maybe God made me logical, I can better see dese things I lacking through Isaac. Allowing me get lost in his world.” I try to process the idea of Neve with a human boyfriend, a Rabbi no less, but this is going to take a while, and I store it away for when I have sufficient time to contemplate this weirdness. She paused for a moment. Then, after some thought she asked, “Tell me, Alex, where you want take Arashi on your date?” “Isn’t that the question of the hour!” I say. “She mentioned liking karaoke, so I was thinking of maybe taking her to a karaoke joint in K-Town.” “This is good. Doing someting she like, rather than someting you like. My, my Alex, I’m impressed. You must be really vibing on this girl, sounds like you are really swinging for the fences, babe! Here my number. Text me if problem, now scat,” she says. * * * Walking into Ms. Kim’s with the red brick walls and mosaic tile floors and the mood lighting, looking for Arashi, I am totally out of place. I actually feel myself breathing heavy. A DJ with headphones is behind the wooden DJ booth facing out toward the floor to ceiling windows at the lit Empire State Building, in red-white-and-blue for July--a banner against the purple clouds of the hazy summer night. The DJ is blasting “Empire State of Mind,” by Jay-Z and Rihanna and twenty-somethings at the window tables are on their iPhones documenting their night out, before their parties arrive to go and get hammered singing karaoke. There’s nothin’ you can’t do, now you’re in New York, these streets will make you feel brand-new, big lights will inspire you, let’s hear it for New York, New York, New York... Before the hostess can ask my name, Arashi struts over from the bar and says, “you must be Alex!” “I am,” I say. “And you must be Arashi Isoarashi--50 storms, right?” “The Ikarashi River is the home of Swan Park in Niigata. Swans come in November to mate in the frozen lakes beneath the snowcapped mountains. It is a very secluded place, I think you like visit this place,” she says. “Very nice to meet you--I think I would,” I tell her. “Come, come. Our room is ready, now we sing,” she says. And I already feel like I am in the 50 storms and not the secluded swan mating reserve in a remote northland village. The room is smaller than I imagine. Not much bigger than a booth at a theme restaurant. Just a small table, two mics, and a video screen. Our Korean hostess, Zoey Kim, gives us some brief instructions and leaves. Before I have time to process what is happening a song comes on and Arashi goes in on “Sweet Caroline,” perhaps the most predictable Karaoke song of all time. Where it began, I can't begin to knowing But then I know it's growing strong Was in the spring [“You gonna join in here dude,” she says, and I start singing along with a strained grin] And spring became the summer Who'd have believed you'd come along Hands, touching hands Reaching out, touching me, touching you [then both of us shout... in unison... but not quite in unison to the bouncing ball on the monitor] Sweet Caroline Good times never seemed so good I've been inclined To believe they never would But now I... bump, bum, bum We go on like that until the end of the song. I let out a deep belly laugh. Didn’t know I had it in me. And the two of us smile at one another. I am not quite sure why I am smiling. But I know that I am having fun. Arashi turns to me and asks, “How do I make you feel?” “You already did,” I tell her.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when Lila, our new Pilates instructor, walked into the gym with a ghost from my past behind her. I stood behind the gym’s counter, wiping sweat from my forehead after my afternoon strength training, and flashed my most dazzling smile. My face froze when I noticed the girl with brown skin and thick-rimmed glasses behind her. Nina Suárez. Lila waved and the corners of Nina’s mouth quirked upward in a polite acknowledgement of my presence, but her eyes did not light up, her smile did not widen. She followed behind Lila to the wood floor classroom, tossing her thick hair over her shoulder. She didn’t recognize me. But no one from high school would recognize me now, unless they were my friend on social media. The scrawny class president with glasses and terrible haircut was long gone. I busied myself with wiping down the gym equipment, trying to ignore the strange feeling in my chest as the bass of cheerful pop music leaked through the doors. Eventually, the class ended, and the two women approached the desk. I strode over, tossing a towel over my shoulder. “Good class?” “Hi, Archie. Yeah, lots of good energy today,” said Lila. “Can you log my timesheet?” “No problem.” I stepped behind the desk and clicked around the computer, shooting a glance past Lila’s shoulder. “Hey, Nina Suárez. Long time no see.” I had always called her by her first and last name in high school, ever since we were partners for a project in AP history class our sophomore year. She pushed her glasses up her sweaty nose as her eyes grew wide. “Archibald Greene?” I placed my forearms on the counter, adopting a pose of ease even as my heartbeat increased. “The one and only. You’re back in town?” She adjusted her gym bag, giving me time to admire her post-workout glow. “Yeah. Lila’s my roommate. She convinced me to try her class. What she did not tell me was that I wouldn’t be able to feel my legs after. Or arms.” She glowered at Lila, who shrugged. “You’ll thank me later!” Lila waved and headed out the door, her blonde ponytail swinging with every step. The gym was quiet, so I kept the conversation rolling. “What are you up to nowadays?” “I just bought the sweetest little bookstore. I’m opening in a few weeks.” “I’ll have to stop by.” She grinned. “And you? You’re working here?” “Yeah. My buddy Nate owns the place. I teach bootcamp classes.” Her eyes flicked to the black and white photos behind the counter, a collection of the staff and their fitness accolades. “Hang on, is that you?” She stared at the photo of me in board shorts, flexing on a stage and wearing a medal. “Men’s physique champ of 2019.” “What’s that?” “A bodybuilding competition. It’s for guys who don’t want to go full Arnold in their training.” “Wow.” “It’s good exercise.” She ran her eyes over my arms, the fabric of my T-shirt pulled tightly against my biceps. “Clearly.” Then she blushed and pulled out her phone. Before I could ask if she wanted to grab dinner this weekend, she was leaving. “Sorry, I’m running late. I’m meeting my contractor soon. I’ll see you later.” I watched her walk out into the sunny parking lot, passing under palm trees, and wondered why my limbs felt so tingly. # If there was one thing that I learned in college, it was that girls didn’t like nerds. They liked guys with big muscles who could toss them around the bedroom, even if I still felt like the quiet, studious kid from high school. I also learned that with the right tricks and confidence, I could pull any girl I wanted. The next time I saw Nina’s name pop up on the pre-registrations for Pilates, I made sure I was in position. I did my warmup, stretching thoroughly. I was going for a new personal best on my Olympic lift today, a classic ploy to impress. I waited until 3:50, knowing that Nina and Lila would be the last two to leave class, then called Nate over to be my spotter. A bunch of people paused their workouts to watch. With the small crowd at my back, I concentrated on my form. I envisioned my success as my hands wrapped around the metal bar. I lifted, clenching my core. The weights soared, my quads screamed as I held the bar over my head in my squat position, then forced myself to stand upright, completing the clean. Grunting with effort, I let the 270-pound barbell fall to the ground where it hit the rubber turf with a clang. Nate whooped, and the rest of my audience cheered. I looked past them and saw Nina at the counter. She smiled as she shook her head, then walked out of the gym. Since she was unmoved by my performance, I tried other tactics. I brought Nina protein shakes, gave her a free class pass (which she politely refused), and finally resorted to asking Lila about her. She was single, but other than that I didn’t get more than “she’s really busy getting ready to open her store.” I begged Lila to ask Nina about me. She rolled her eyes. “You know her better than I do. Maybe try doing something she likes.” Then she waltzed into the classroom, leaving me to spiral behind the desk. # Two weeks went by, and when Nina still hadn’t accepted my friend request on Instagram, I knew I had to do something drastic. So, when I saw her name on the list for Pilates, I clicked my name into the roster and sealed my fate, taking Lila’s advice. I spread one of the gym’s yoga mats next to Nina and sat down. She raised an eyebrow at me. “Trying something new today, Archibald Greene?” “Thought I would give it a whirl.” She smirked. “Too bad all those muscles can’t save you from the pain you’re about to endure.” I could handle a few mat exercises. At Lila’s instruction, I grabbed a pair of measly eight-pound dumbbells and strapped on some ankle weights, loading them up fully and ignoring her recommendation to go lighter for my first class. To my chagrin, it turned out that Pilates is really fucking hard. Fifteen minutes into class, I was sweating so much I had to keep wiping down my mat. I made a mental note to make Nate buy the nice, grippy kind that Nina had brought with her. She didn’t slide around hers at all. We also didn’t drop our weights once, and soon those eight-pound weights felt like sixty. After our warm-up, we moved to the reformers, machines that looked suspiciously like medieval torture racks. I lay down on my sliding platform and grabbed the straps. Halfway through class, we held our feet in the hair in a boat pose, pulsing our arms up and down at our sides. The amount of shaking that was happening throughout my torso could have registered on the Richter scale. I dared to look at Nina, who was perfectly at ease in her pose, though her hair was plastered adorably to her forehead with sweat. She caught my eye and pinched her lips together, stifling a laugh. “We’re coming into our final set here, folks,” chirped Lila with eight minutes left of class. “Remember, breath to movement!” She took her place on her own reformer. “If you would like to level up, I invite you to join me in some advanced technique.” She placed her hands behind her head and stuck one foot onto the sliding platform, bracing the other against the wooden structure. “Who’s ready to burn their legs?” The class chuckled. Some did not opt for the advanced forms, but I was no quitter. I stuck my foot onto the slider and braced my hands behind my head, noting that Nina did the same. With the strength of her legs, Lila demonstrated how to glide the platform out a few inches until she was doing a sort of split, then slid in again. Every inch of me was slick with sweat. I inhaled deeply, trying to focus. If I could get through this class, then Nina had to talk to me again. This time I would ask her out. I inched the slider forward ever so slightly, but my foot shot forward off the platform, greased up from my own perspiration, and I blacked out as pain ripped through my quad. # Back out in the lobby, Nina sat with me as I clutched an ice pack to my thigh. The triumph of talking to her again was buried under waves of pain and embarrassment. Nate clapped me on the shoulder as he walked by with his car keys. We were headed straight for the walk-in clinic. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?” asked Nina, placing a water bottle on the table in front of me and tucking a book back into her gym bag. “Nah, I’ll be fine,” I winced. “I thought power lifters knew ego is the enemy.” “You’re confusing me with a smart power lifter. I am a dumb bodybuilder. One who is desperately trying to impress a girl he likes.” Jesus. What was I saying? The pain was making my tongue loose. My thoughts were hazy. I gulped from the icy-cold water bottle, hoping it would help clear my head. Nina smiled sadly. “Maybe next time you could try talking to Lila like a sane person instead of showing off in her class.” “Wait, what?” A numbness that had nothing to do with the cold water settled in my gut. “If you just asked her out, you’d save yourself all this trouble.” “Did you say ‘Lila’?” “And good for you, she’s always liked the brawny ones. I still prefer more intellectual types, but it’s obvious you’re obsessed with her.” I scrubbed my free hand over my face. “Nina Suárez.” “Archibald Greene,” she deadpanned, like she hadn’t said the craziest thing I’d heard in my life. “I don’t like Lila.” Suddenly my face was hot, and I felt sixteen again, full of self-conscious nerves. Nina squinted at me, then her mouth fell open. “Oh.” At that moment, Nate hollered at me to get a move on. Nina held the door open for me as I limped outside, embarrassment turning my insides to acid. # In the walk-in clinic, Nate asked me what the hell I’d been thinking, and I told him the whole story. How I had always had a crush on Nina, and almost asked her to prom then chickened out. How this was my last chance at dating her, and I was completely fucking it up. My mood did not improve when I heard I’d be on crutches for a month. I took a week off, stewing in what Nina had said about preferring the more intellectual types. I had shoved that part of my identity away, burying it under whey and weights. It had worked so far. Hadn’t it? Laying on the couch and feeling sorry for myself, I flipped through Instagram. I saw a post from Nina, who’d finally accepted my request. Tonight was the grand opening of her romance-themed bookstore. With a burst of resolve, I dragged myself off the couch to make myself presentable. The bookstore swarmed with people. I maneuvered through them clumsily and grabbed a book off the shelf before limping over to where she stood behind the register, glowing with pride. She raised an eyebrow at me as her face split into a grin. “Interesting choice.” I glanced at the cover: a buff hockey player and a petite figure skater on an ice rink. “Is it any good?” “Yes, once the guy stops posturing and asks the girl of his dreams out.” I smiled as warmth spread through me. “Nina Suárez. Will you go out with me?”

The Perfect Band I was tasked with making a story about three random items. They were a pedalboard, hair follicles, and silicon dioxide. The Perfect Band I have an odd story to tell. This happened during my second year of college during a rebellious faze in my life. One night I was with a buddy, whom I didn’t know very well but would hang out with on occasion. We were having a few drinks in his dorm and we began to talk about different kinds of music we enjoyed. We both agreed grunge and 90s rock was both in our taste. He mentioned that he always wanted to put together the perfect band and tour the world, becoming a sensation. I didn’t realize once we got to this point in the conversation things were going to get...weird. “Let me show you something.” My friend said as he crouched down and retrieved something from under his bed. He tossed what looked like a huge piece of junk on his bed. I wasn’t a music specialist in the least, but could tell it was some sort of homemade pedalboard. It was about the size and shape as one of those old school Ataris and looked older than dirt. “Oh this thing?” I said trying to take interest in it. Upon closer inspection the pedals on the board were marked with some weird letters. One was ‘O’, ‘N’, ‘H’, and ‘C’. There were also smaller pedals with many other letters scribbled on them which seemed to be unreadable. My friend seemed to be impressed with himself. “You see man this is how I’m going to make my band a reality. Forget this school stuff.” I kept focusing on those big letters. I knew I had seen them before. Then the biology major in me realized it. “Hydrogen, Carbon, Oxygen, and Nitrogen”, I said pointing out the pedals. He smiled and laughed. “That’s right my man. The main four elements that make up the human body.” He leaned in closer toward me as if he couldn’t wait to explain. “I just need some bodies dice them up and use this pedalboard to make the perfect band mates.” At this point he didn’t seem to be joking anymore. I backed up toward the door a few feet, trying to laugh it off. “Oh man that’s really cool. So um what’s that pedal?” I pointed out a smaller pedal that had the letters ‘SD’. He looked down at the board and chuckled as if I asked a dumb question. “You know man. Silicone Dioxide. I can’t have the band mates thinking too much man so I put that stuff in their head instead of them having a brain. They don’t want any of the glory. It’ll be all mine.” I was very concerned now as he was describing this sick dream of his. I quickly turned my body and grabbed the door handle. He grabbed the back of my shirt and tried to pull me back into the dorm. “Where you going my dude?” He said as he used his other hand to hold the door shut. I pushed my elbow back hitting him in the nose. Once I made contact I was able to pull the door open. He made one final attempt to pull me in by grabbing at me. He was able to clutch my hair and pull a large wad of follicles from my scalp. I got out of there nevertheless and slammed the door behind me. I ran all the way back to my car got in and just drove. Not feeling safe I went to my parents house to stay the night. The next morning I had a text message on my phone from him. It just said ‘Ditching this school thing. You’ll never hear from me again.’ That was eight years ago. Now may daughter is thirteen years old and she was begging me to buy her tickets to a concert she HAD to go to. Naturally I did a little research of the artist. It was a three person band consisting of a drummer and two guitarists. I watched a few interviews of the band on YouTube and oddly enough only the lead singer speaks in every single one I found. It sounds crazy but I think that’s him. He looks completely different now though. His hair, eyes, the way he talks it’s all changed but I know it is. The other members just stand there playing their instruments. They dint speak they don’t do anything else. They have a soulless dead look in their eyes. Oh and their eyes....are the same color as mine.

Once upon a time, in an age before clocks, there lived an octopus named Shteev. In her youth, she had been part of a cruel experiment that left four of her tentacles useless while making the remaining four more robust, and so from that time on hid her worthless appendages under a top hat she wore each day. Fearing further underwater experiments, she made her dwelling on land rather than in the sea through the use of a special snorkel and a strict diet of fermented egg yolk. Unsure of her new life, Shteev decided to look for a job to give some stability to her otherwise tumultuous existence. Her rather odd appearance, however, ruined any chances of landing a decent career. With nowhere else to turn, she put all her effort into a desperate attempt to get a job at a jellybean factory. Her hard work paid off, and she was employed as a behind-the-scenes jellybean taster so as to not scare the other workers. Once she tasted the vomit-flavored jellybean, though, her whole life came crashing down. The specific chemical composition of that particular flavor activated something long-dormant left over from the days of the experiment, and her kindness and compassion were instantly overwritten by cruelty and malice. In accordance to her programming, she slaughtered all the landfolk with her bare tentacles, dumped all the jellybeans into the sea, then took off her top hat and hung herself using her limp appendages as rope.

I scanned the crowd and saw her. She didn’t blend in with anyone at that party, but that’s part of what made her so mesmerizing. It was mostly boys that she got stares from, they noticed how close her breasts were to fall out of her red tank top. But when I looked at her, I saw her perfectly curled hair falling so gently on her freckled shoulders. I noticed how her smile seems contagious to anyone she’s near. I noticed the faint scar on her upper left arm, and think of the bike accident from fourth grade. Her hand on my shoulder interrupted my internal monologue, “Hey!” she shouted. “What’s up?” I attempted to yell over the music, but my voice was drowned out by the hundred-something teenagers screaming nonsense at each other. She waved her hand, motioning for me to follow her. She grabbed my hand as we slithered through the crowd of sweaty bodies, trying to find a pocket of quieter air. I watched all the jock boys stare her down, absorbing every last second of the view that they could before she disappeared back into the sea of stench. Eventually, we made it to the bathroom. She locked the door and let out a loud sigh while playing with her hair in the mirror. “I’m happy you came tonight,” she grinned, “you make shit like this better”. I just laughed and stared down at the broken tile floor, covered with empty beer cans. “I mean it! I really like hanging out with you Mya,” she said as she plopped herself beside me on the edge of the bathtub. I smirked and continued to stare at the floor scared of what would happen if I looked up. “Yeah, I like hanging out with you too, Case”. Her neatly painted blue fingernails lightly scratched along my thigh, then moved up towards my face. She turned my face towards hers, and as I stared into her hazy green eyes I couldn’t help but smile. “Case,” I started, but before I could finish my thought, her lips were on mine. The familiar taste of vodka filled my mouth, and with the number of times we’ve done this, the taste alone makes my brain spin out of control. She pulled away for just a moment, giving herself enough time to pull the pills out of her pocket and wash them down her throat with more vodka. I pulled away. “You know it scares me when you do that, especially because of what they did to you last summer” She rolled her eyes playfully as she grabbed my hand, pulling me off the edge of the tub and towards the door. She blindly unlocked the door with one hand as the other caressed my face. The door swung open as we melted into the sweaty hallway once again. We trailed along the side of the hallway with our hands against the wall, feeling around for the next door handle. The next room we found was a bedroom, and before I had a second to think she pushed me onto the edge of the bed. She climbed on top of my lap and started kissing my neck. I fell onto my back, letting her soft curls dance around my face and neck, and she kissed me deeper and deeper. I pushed her hips off of me to stop her, “Case I’m sorry but I told you I can’t do this anymore.” “But you like this, you know you do, and nobody needs to know.” she tried to lean in again. “No that’s just it. No one knows we do this. Last summer when you were in the hospital, I couldn’t come to see you, because your parents don’t know who I am. MY parents don’t know who I am. Do you understand how hard it was to sit back and do nothing, alone? Not being able to see someone I love?” “Mya c'mon I love you, you know I do.” “I- I can’t Case.” I turned my head away from her as I stood up off the bed. I quickly scrambled to the door so that she wouldn’t try to convince me to stay. I took a deep breath before I whipped open the door, letting the music and stench surround me once again. I struggled to get to the front door, stumbling over passed-out bodies and empty bottles on the way. I hopped on my bike and started down the dimly lit road. I was probably 20 minutes out when I realized *fuck.* My phone. I turned my bike around and headed back to the house party. The road seemed a little less blurry now. My mind wandered. Thinking about Casey, about us, and if I made the right choice in leaving. Flashes of red, white, and blue snapped me back into reality. Groups of drunk slobs wandered out of the house and into the street, leaving me to swerve around them, dragging out my trip even more. My heart sank when I saw a stretcher being carried down the front steps of the house. My feet couldn’t pedal fast enough as I watched the paramedics lift a body into the ambulance. I got stuck on the outside of the crowd and threw my bike to the ground. I pushed through to the front of the audience, and my heart sank. My eyes filling with tears as I saw the blue, neatly painted fingernails, hanging lifelessly off the edge of the stretcher.

I have never been so mortified in my life. I was standing in front of the most beautiful man I have ever seen, in just my towel and it’s definitely not in the way you’re thinking. He doesn’t look surprised to see me but I’m as confused as you are. Okay, you’re probably wondering what went on that led to this moment. Let me explain... And to do that, I’ll have to go back a bit. Not too much, but just so you get the gist. My name’s Samantha Anderson but that’s not really important. I’d finally gotten a well-deserved vacation and there was no better place to spend it than The Maldives. I took my laptop, neck massage pillow, a bottle of wine, and a glass and relaxed on the most comfortable spot on my worn-out couch. I pulled up the search engine and typed in vacation bookings in the Maldives. I found a promising site and after doing some searching, I realized it was above my price range. I got the email off the site and sent them a message expressing my love for their dealings but how far it was from what I could afford. I got a reply almost immediately asking how much I was willing to pay. We did this back and forth thing until they finally agreed to a booking at a price a few thousand lower than their initial fee. That should have been my first sign that they weren’t all they claimed to be. But I was on my third glass and the fact that I had more thousands than I budgeted to spend touring, blinded any reasoning of mine. So I booked my flight, bought my ticket and went to my room in search of my passport and my hottest bikini. I got my suitcase and started packing. I didn’t go far before the drowsiness of the alcohol got me crashing. Don’t worry, I made sure I drank enough water before that to prevent a hangover. *** I was woken up by the sound of my alarm, I reached out and smacked the stupid thing on my nightstand. It was 11:00 in the morning and I had a slight headache. I must have snoozed it more than ten times. I should have turned it off as soon as I got the news of my vacation. I got up and went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. I took an aspirin for my head and moped as I made my way to the tiny kitchen in my apartment. I made a quick sandwich and cleared the couch off evidence of last night. I had managed to get a flight for tomorrow, how cool was that? I needed to pack but there were showing reruns of How I met your mother . So I decided to watch a little before packing. I found my spot on the couch and devoured my sandwich while laughing at Ted . *** I shouldn’t have watched that show, I didn’t realize they were showing marathons that lasted basically the whole day. I know what you’re thinking, no I didn’t spend my whole day on the couch, I got up to pee and get more snacks. That counts and I’m on my vacation bite me. Either way, I basically spent my day doing nothing and I forgot to pack. Now I’m paying for it. My taxi is going to be here in less than ten minutes and I haven’t even decided on carrying a playsuit or suspenders. I shoved what I could in my suitcase and duffel and got dressed. I got a text from the driver and I carried my bags out of the apartment and into the elevator. I’d gotten like two more texts and a missed call before I finally came out of the building. “I’m here, I’m here.” I shouted as I dragged my bags behind me towards the car. The driver came to my aid and we were on the road in less than five minutes. We got to the airport with twenty minutes to spare. I went through the whole boring airport thing I won’t bore you with that and I could finally take a breath on the plane. It was a ten-hour flight so I got comfortable and caught up on some much-needed sleep. *** I woke up two hours before the flight landed so I gathered my stuff and double-checked my bookings with the hotel. I asked for a burger and water from the air hostess and ate to my fill. I was so excited to see the photos on the site for myself and I couldn’t wait to get a tan. I got my iPod and air pods and spent the rest of the flight listening to music. The plane landed, I got my bags and waved for a taxi, I gave him the address of the hotel and I couldn’t keep my eye away from the window for the whole ride. It was breathtaking; the people, their clothes, the buildings even the fine brown sand was mesmerizing. I couldn’t wait to get to the hotel. We arrived at our destination and the driver helped me with my bags. I walked into the beautiful building and up to the receptionist. I told her about my booking and she gave a grimace. Second sign I failed to notice. I was high on the beauty of the hotel. She gave me my suite key and told me to have a seat, the manager would like to have a word with me. “Hmm...can it wait? I really want to pee and I would like to freshen up so I won’t scare him away with my sweaty and horrible outfit.” “No problem but please be here as soon as you can. The elevator is that way.” She said pointing to her right. I smiled and dragging my bags, I took the elevator to my floor. I found my suite and it was just like the pictures two doors leading to two en suite bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room. It was perfect. I chose the room by the left and dropped my bags. I know you’re wondering why I got a suite with two rooms. It was the only accommodation available at that time. With my toiletries in hand, I made my way to the bathroom to have a nice long shower. Wrapping myself in a clean towel I walked out of my room to take a tour of the suite, which didn’t seem like a bad idea at that time since I was alone, only to find the most beautiful man I’d ever seen looking indifferent to seeing me. Now you understand why I am confused right? Good. Chapter 2 “What in the world are you doing in my suite?” I asked clutching my towel tighter around my body, my naked body. “I’m supposed to be here, I paid for this suite.” He replied moving around me to walk into the room on the right. I quickly made my way to my room and brought out some clothes from my bag; I’ll be free to argue when dressed. He walked out of his room just as I was shoving my legs into my slides in the living room. “You mister, have a lot of explaining to do.” I know what you’re thinking; who still says ‘you mister?’ don’t look at me, I have no idea how that came out. “Haven’t you spoken with the manager?” he asked. “I’m going there right now and you have to come with me.” I opened the door, stepped outside, and motioned for him to take the lead. He rolled his eyes but stepped out of the suite. We made our way to the lobby and trust me; the elevator ride was awkward. I walked over to the counter, the receptionist saw me and smiled. “The manager will be out soon; you can take a seat. Would you like some tea or coffee?” “I’m good thanks.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him to the comfortable-looking couch in the lobby. “Name’s Andrea, if we are going to be living together for the next month, I should at least know yours.” “Samantha, and we aren’t going to be staying together, there’s probably a misunderstanding or something.” “Yh Sure.” His words were laced with sarcasm. A short bald man wearing a charcoal black suit walked up to us and I pulled Andrea up with me. “You must be miss Anderson, I’m Jacobs, the hotel manager; nice to meet you.” “Just Samantha please, nice to meet you too.” “Ah, I see you’ve met your suitemate, Andrea.” “My suitemate? You never said anything about a suitemate when I was speaking to you. I didn’t agree to this.” “Miss Samantha, you cut down our price far more than what I was expecting, the only way the hotel was going to make a gain was if someone else paid what you couldn’t and that means you’ll have to share a suite.” I was mortified for the second time in less than an hour. He didn’t have to say it like that, it’s not like I don’t have the money, I just have a budget. “I understand but why wasn’t I told beforehand? A warning would have been nice; is there anything you can do now? I can pay for another room or you can take Andrea to another room; anything?” “I apologize for not telling you about this before your arrival but there is nothing I can do now; we are fully booked as you are aware. See this as an adventure, you two can get to know each other and have a wonderful time. If that is all, I’ll take my leave now, enjoy your stay.” He shook our hands again and walked away. I fell back on the couch and started thinking of different ways this vacation could go wrong. What if he’s a rapist? Or a robber? A stalker? A serial killer? There are many things he could be. How was I sure I and my properties are safe? I’m going to die; I’m going to freaking die. I won’t get to see the beach or the nice cabins on the sea, I probably won’t make it to the morning... “Can you stop looking at me like that? I’m not a rapist or anything like that.” “That’s what they always say.” “Geez, get up, let's go to our suite and you can think about your life there. People are staring.” He waited for me to get up and our roles were reversed, I was the one being pulled. We waited for the elevator and rode up to our floor. He shut the door to our suite behind me and was about to walk into his room probably to unpack. “Are you okay with this? Aren’t you going to do something?” “You heard the man, there’s nothing we can do, just accept it, you can start by unpacking your bags and how about we go out for a cup of coffee or something’ get to know each other, my treat, what do you say?” “Fine, but only because you’re paying.” I walked into my room and copied him. Chapter 3 I just finished unpacking; Andrea and I are about to leave for the coffee shop. “I’m done. Let’s go.” I grabbed my pause and changed my footwear. “Finally, you take forever.” He got up and waited for me at the door holding it open. “Thank you, kind sir.” Wow, I’m on a roll today; ‘you mister’, now ‘kind sir?’ even Andrea gave me a look. “Let’s go before you get any weirder.” “I agree.” We made our way out of the hotel and walked to the closest café, not to worry, we used Google Maps, we’re not trying to get lost. We walked into the cafe and got a sit almost immediately; our orders were taken and we were sipping from our hot mugs in on time. “So... why The Maldives of all places?” he asked me and relaxed into his chair. “Sure, just jump right into the interview.” “What? We have to start somewhere.” “Fine, it was the pictures of the cabins on the sea, I had to check it out for myself. You?” I answered taking a bite of my doughnut. “Nice, I just needed a change of scenario. Home was getting too predictable.” Oh, yeah I need a tan too. “I guess we could go to the beach together someday.” He might not be bad, I shouldn’t judge yet; but I’m going to keep my guards up, just to be safe. We spent the rest of the day getting to know each other and we went our separate ways at the end of the night. *** I woke up the next morning feeling refreshed, I counted my finger and toes; complete. I looked around the room to check if I was missing anything. Well, I don’t think he would actually steal or kill me on the first day, but what do I know? I went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. I walked into the living room and the smell of pancakes led me into the kitchen. “Did you make breakfast?” Maybe he’s not that bad. I sat on the barstool by the counter. “Nope, room service.” He dropped a plate on the counter and sat down in front of me. “Did you at least order for me?” “How was I supposed to know what you wanted?” The nerve of some people. “Of course, I did, your plate is on the heater.” He said laughing at the look on my face. “I would have said thank you but I don’t play with food.” I stood up, grabbed my plate, and joined him at the counter. “Any plans for today?” “Nah, probably just get a tan, you?” “Good, I’m having friends over. You can stay at the beach until they leave.” The nerve. “Hello, I live here too and I’ll come and go whenever I please.” I picked up my plate, walked into my room, and slammed the book behind me. What was I thinking? My vacation is ruined, how am I supposed to live with someone like that. He’s not the boss of me, this is my suite too. I was angry but the pancake didn’t have to suffer for it. I finished my food and dug out my hot bikini. When I walked out of my room, he was nowhere to be found. I exited the hotel and walked to the beach. *** After hours of tanning, I walked back to the hotel. When I got back the suite was empty. It’s not like I obey him and came late, I just lost track of time; yes, we’re going with that. He walked in not long after I did and dropped on the couch. “We need to talk about a suitable living arrangement.” I said. “Okay, what do you have in mind?” I did not think this through. I haven’t even thought about what I was going to say, I expected him to put up a fight. “Hmm...” “How about this; stay on your side and I’ll stay on mine. I won’t tell you what to do and you won’t either. Sounds good?” “Good.” It seems fair enough. “Cool, I apologize for my actions this morning, I had a rough night. Let’s go out, my treat.” Wow, if this is how he apologizes, I might have to set traps for him (not really (really.)) “It’s cool, where do you have in mind.” Wow, free lunch twice in a roll. I might actually have a wonderful time.

After a brief hiatus, we’re back for more spotlights from our recently concluded cycle of Serial Saturday! Now all that’s left to do is prepare for the upcoming season and spotlight our fantastic authors. It’s been such a treat to watch people evolve their flash fiction serials with us and bring arcs to a close that for some have been with us for quite a while. For a good handful of writers on Serial Saturday, their stories are continuations of serials started on Theme Thursday weekly threads. One such story comes from /u/Ryter99, a regular from /r/writingprompts. Ryter is a member of our community who never fails to entertain with his wholesome, zany tales, whether they concern knights of considerable ego, or Santa and his double-crossing elves, or anything in between. When I discovered that Ryter would be continuing the Sir Jamsen tale with us on SerSat I could hardly wait to kick this program into high gear, and of course Ryter did not disappoint. Here at we thoroughly enjoyed Ryter’s story of bravery, wit, comedy, and adventure. But don't take my word for it! Here's a small teaser: >Sir Jamsen Farnsworth and his squire, Drann, have faced all manner of foes during their long adventuring careers. They've defeated invading armies, slain countless goblins, and battled fearsome dragons of legend. But now, they face the gravest threat the realm has ever known... adorable bunny rabbit looking creatures? > >*(Does that opening make clear this thing is an absurdist Comedy-Fantasy story? Okay, great! Ahem... continuing...)* > >These ‘Bundarr’ are a cuddly yet vicious species with terrifying psionic powers and a hunger for destruction on an unimaginable scale. Drann and Jamsen must race to learn more about their foes, prepare defenses, and recruit new allies if they have any hope of defeating the adorable threat to their world. For our first run of Serial Saturday at it was important for us to get author impressions of how their experience went with us, and give readers a peek at the "behind the scenes" of creating a flash fiction serial. Here's Ryter’s take on that: >I’ve been writing Drann and Jamsen stories for a couple years now and Theme Thursday’s on r/WritingPrompts was an awesome venue for me to put them into fun and new scenarios each week. > >Those one-off adventures were all I really planned. Quite frankly, I only started this serial because my pal u/JustLexx was so energetic in his enjoyment of the bundarr that I decided to devote a serialized plotline to the bunny menace haha. > >The number of people who enjoyed my characters/world during their TT run was extremely humbling and encouraging, but Serial Saturday is where I feel like I learned the most about the characters, how they could interact with the world, and how to pace their story. > >I have a novel in the works (set well before the events of this story) and without a doubt it’s benefited greatly from writing this series week by week. I’m grateful to u/ALiteralDumpsterFire for running this feature and to everyone who gave me valuable feedback and encouragement! > >And finally, special thanks to Sir A-Lexington, Lady Booke, Lady Rubbishfyre, and the Great and Powerful Xacktarri. Your enthusiasm for this series kept me writing it in the earliest days. I hope that enthusiasm was repaid by enjoyment participating in and reading the completed story! > >Umm, that’s it! SerSat rocks! Fluffybuns forever! With the tale of Sir Jamsen and the Bundarr horde at an end (for now) there is only one thing left to do: show off this newly finished story for obligatory bragging rights here on . Let the bragging begin! Without further ado, here's Ryter’s Table of Contents. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | ​| | | | | | | | | | | | \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ You can check out more of Ryter's work by going to his subreddit, r/Ryter (highly recommended, check out the additional serial he writes, featuring Drann in the first person and even moar hijinx). Congrats on finishing your serial, Ryter, and we can’t wait to see what you do next. <3 from the team at , , and Serial Saturday. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *For more information on the Serial Saturday program feel free to check out our* *.* We have members from all around the world and who have all kinds of schedules, so there’s usually someone awake to talk to. We also have scheduled readings, oration critiques, spur-of-the-moment story time, or even just random hangouts over voice chat.

Part I The woods were ancient. The tall trees dominated the land, giving refuge to the many critters and creatures above and below. Pillars of bright light pierced through the vibrant green canopy. The lush undergrowth gave shelter to the many animals stirring as spring began her slow thaw of the land. The snow that crept down from the mountains, now retreated up the rocky hillsides once more. Cy walked leisurely over the gnarled roots which claimed most of the obscured path winding through the majestic trees. Cy’s red robe could be seen passing between the massive trunks as she walked. Along the trunks bright red toadstools sprouted out of the shelf fungi to give homes to the smaller fairies roaming these parts. Cy’s eyes passed over the red, spotted mushrooms seeking out any pixies awakening from their winter slumber. As her gaze travelled along the trunks, she spotted a great stag further in the distance. His slow graze through the fresh greens had her pausing to admire his nobility of the forest before she quietly continued her hike towards the nearby town. Cy reached the top of a small rise in the path and stopped to admire the vast mountains along the horizon. Their mighty expanse protected this land from the harsher beasts and weather on the other side. As she gazed out, Cy heard a familiar faint whirring and quickly turned, searching for the source. The sound brought her back to her childhood of searching for the will-o-wisps, but they evaded her sight this time. She tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her pointed ear while scouring the area, knowing it was still too bright to see them. “Wow, what pretty ears you have!” A tiny voice said below. “But what’s a fae doing out here, Mama?” Cy looked down and saw three hares munching on a patch of green grass while bathing in a small pool of sunlight. The larger one looked up to Cy as she answered, “I am not sure why any creature would travel these woods alone .” Cy swore she saw the mother hare glare at her. “Which is why we...?” The mother trailed off and her two offspring chimed together. “Travel in groups!” Cy’s lips curved slightly as she went on her way. Prey, she thought to herself, always controlled by fear. Part II Cy bent down to the freshly melted water of the lake and splashed the frigid water on her face then refilled her canteen. After snacking on an apple and some cheese from her pack, she sat down next to the shore for a rest. She gazed out at the beauty before her. The reflections in the water made the forest and mountains seem surreal. Her gaze drifted over the nearby shore but stopped when she saw the giant wolf. The beast’s white and brown fur shone in the spring sun as she lapped up some fresh water. Cy stood quickly and called out. “Blaidd!” The wolf spirit of the forest looked up slowly as Cy waved to her. The giant wolf merely tipped her head in acknowledgement then slowly turned and left the lakeside. Cy packed up her few belongings and began her short trek back to the trail. The trees in this area were more dispersed and reached higher, letting more sunlight through to the base which allowed the smaller, vibrant bushes to grow. A flurry of motion went off to her right, followed by another to her left. Someone was herding her. “I know you’re out there!” Cy shouted as she reached for her two small blades strapped to her low back under her pack. “Those won’t do you much good against us, princess.” Cy looked to her right and saw a dark coloured wolf staring down at her. More wolves of mixed colouring slowly revealed themselves. She was surrounded. “Took long enough at the lake. We were getting worried you wouldn’t show in time for lunch.” The wolves chortled, the only laugh a wolf could do. “Leave me in peace and I won’t hurt you,” Cy doubted she could fight them all off, but she had to prove her village wrong. The wolves all chortled again at her false bravery. “With that cloak, you’re lucky we were the ones to find you. There are far worse predators in these woods.” He snarled and began stalking towards her. “Spoken like a true fox,” Cy shot back. The wolves all growled in unison. “Foolish, weak fae girl. Out alone wearing that,” the wolf snarled. “You are ringing the lunch bell for any creature in your vicinity.” His words resonated with her, like a bell. Cy took her hands off her blades and cupped them around her mouth as she filled her lungs with air. “Blaidd!” Cy screamed as loud as she could, repeated the yell three more times before facing the head wolf. “I’m not so sure your boss will appreciate your attitude towards the new clan leader.” Cy gave him a smirk as the other wolves began scampering off, ears and tails lowered. The wolf stood his ground a few more seconds before his ear twitched, hearing the crashing in the distance. “This isn’t over, girl,” he growled. “A female leader will not last.” He turned and ran. His departure was right on time as Blaidd came crashing through the nearby brush and growled at Cy and the empty area. “Cyfrwys!” Blaidd growled. “You cannot use me to get out of trouble.” “It was your wolves causing trouble! They know the laws.” Cy began her hike up to the path. “As do you, young one. You must be on the path. Use your head, girl.” Blaidd took a deep breath and walked beside Cy who put out her hand and rested it on the giant’s shoulder. The soft fur brought back memories of a much smaller Cy falling asleep on Blaidd’s back on her family’s trips between the towns. “How has the spring been this year?” Cy attempted at small talk. Blaidd’s side expanded under Cy’s hand as she gave a big sigh through her nose. “Spring has it’s usual beauties,” they both paused to watch an intricate blue butterfly float pass them. “But there are shortcomings. We are losing more land to the nearby farmers and more deer to the hunters. This will be another tough season.” She eyed sidelong at Cy. “What brings you out to the forest so late. And alone?” “I’m visiting Mhamo, I have her medicine that mom makes. Mom didn’t feel up to the trip with... everything.” She gripped the fur under her hand as pain laced through her chest. “I am sorry for your loss little one,” Blaidd said quietly. “He was a great warrior and leader.” Blaidd let the silence carry on, both walking in comfort until reaching the path. “You must be smarter from now on. It is late for this long of a journey, especially on your own. I won’t be able to save you from everything. Keep your wits about you, and keep those blades handy.” Cy smiled as Blaidd gave a wolfish wink before trotting off into the bushes. Cy took a deep, steadying breath and continued on, careful to stay on the path. Part III With the sun sinking below the horizon, shadows lengthened, attempting to blanket the world. The symphony of birds and insects had died out, the forest encased in an eerie silence. Cy’s heart sank as she gazed at the path ahead. What was once an easy trail had become a dark, marshy hollow with close-set trees blocking out any remaining light. The ground was covered with white mold from the melting of the snow and moisture in the spring. The white netting resembled spider’s silk too much for Cy’s taste, but she had come so far, so she pressed on. She felt for her two blades at her lower back and kept a steady pace, eyes and ears alert. The path dipped down lower into a small gorge, rock walls rising up to her shoulders, then slightly over her head as she continued a slow descent. The walls on either side were slick with mud, the temperature dropping significantly. She could almost feel the cold radiating off the land around her, as if attempting to suck any heat from the living. Cy froze, eyes scanning the dark terrain, her pointed ears listening for whatever was pricking her senses as chills crept up her spine. She couldn’t hear or see anything but goosebumps rose along her arms as the stench of rot grew. Her heart rate began to rise and panic began to tighten a vice around her lungs. She felt him then. A cold presence drifted around her side, ice permeating through her clothes. Cy’s bowels turned liquid as her gaze met the dead spirit’s glowing eyes. His essence was like a cloud, not fully there when she focused on him, but solidified when she looked away. His face was male, though his flesh was rough, like rotten tree bark. A wispy, dark cloak covered what was left of him as he floated in front of her. There was nothing friendly in the wraith’s sharp eyes. “What is a pretty thing like you roaming around my home?” The wraith rasped as he circled around Cy. She knew the old false tales that wraiths only gain power over you if you gave them notice. But she also knew the truth behind the warning- do not give them any power over you. “I am minding my own business. As you should be.” Cy stood tall and tried not to let her shoulders shake as the temperature continued to drop. Her hands itched for her blades, but she knew they were useless. She was useless against him. Her heart beat faster and harder in her chest, fear building. She should not have come. “What pretty eyes you have.” His face came over her right shoulder as his tattered cloak draped and flowed in the non-existent breeze. ”So pretty... to be alone.” His voice was a deep, soothing sound. “Alone. In the forest.” He floated closer, his mouth near her neck, blowing freezing, dead air onto her as he spoke. “ My forest.” His voice changed from a smooth melody to an angry rasp then back again. “Wearing such a beacon as this.” He reached for her red cape, she stopped breathing when the material moved under his thin, skeleton of a hand. Do not give him power over you. “Such an... inviting colour. Not one I get to see often.” His cold voice was calm, patient as his bright eyes met hers. Cy tried not to move, not to show signs of her fear as his cold essence soaked into her soul. Cy broke the stare by closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, ignoring the growing stench of rot, and tried to clear her thoughts. Screaming wouldn’t help, neither would fighting. This wraith must have died this past winter, taking over this part of the forest as his haunt. He probably died from the elements... “You must be cold,” Cy said as calmly as she could, opening her eyes but staring straight ahead as he floated around the small area. “You must be in need of a new cloak.” She spoke with no emotion. The wraith stopped his circling and drifted in front of her, waiting. “I have a spare.” Cy slowly took off her pack without moving her gaze. She extended the bag to the dead fae in front of her, who was fading slightly. “There is a cloak in here,” she lied. The wraith paused, as if waiting for a trap to spring, then shot forward for the gift. But Cy was faster. She threw the pack into the woods away from the path. The wraith gave out a shrill shriek that resonated through the ground and woods as it flew after the cloak. Cy sprinted out of the lair, refusing the urge to look back. She kept her eyes on the wet ground, jumping over rocks and logs until she was back out into the warmer wooded path where she turned and emptied her stomach into the nearby bush. Part IV Disappointment had slowly replaced her fear as she neared the town without her Mhamo’s medicine. The entire trip’s purpose was lost to foul luck and unacceptable naivety. She chided herself knowing that her mother and clan would be disappointed at her failure. She left the forest trail and walked along a pebble path that ran alongside the town’s wall. She turned north, heading towards the gated entrance. The sun had completely set, giving the torches along the wall the only source of light. As Cy approached the last turn before the gate she saw a small group of inebriated males who were drinking and smoking on the path. Cy tried to ignore their gazes as she walked by, holding her head up high and not giving them the satisfaction of unnerving her. She passed in front of the small group, eyes ahead, until a sharp smack hit her backside. “What a nice ass you have there, darlin’?” Cy froze in shock. “Too bad it’s covered by that red atrocity.” Cy turned in anger. “Whoa ho!” The drunk male’s gaze went to her chest. “And the front’s not too bad either!” Icy rage coursed through her veins as all four males took in her figure and hooted. She shook with rage and couldn’t muster a response. “Dressed like that, you’re asking for a spankin’! You should be grateful me and my friends are here to protect you. There are some creeps in this town. Some women oft’ get hurt bein’ by themselves.” All four men nodded with leering smiles on their faces. “Touch me and I’ll report you to the town guard,” Cy said as sternly as she could. “Baha! What’s them idiots gonna believe? A strange female or four males who ‘appen to be on good terms with the council?” The males stalked around her. “You mean the council of older fae males?” The main guy nodded, a sinister grin plastered to his face. “You mean the council of fae males who my father had frequently-” before she could finish, one of the males darted forward and restrained her arms behind her back. “Yer daddy ain’t here to save you, though. Is he?” The man reeked of alcohol as he spoke mere inches from her face. Cy felt fear creep yet again into her heart. They were right, no one would believe her over them. She was alone. Cy thought about her father then, about everything he taught her. His blades strapped to her back. The male holding her pressed himself firmly against her back, pressed his mouth into her neck and inhaled deeply. Cy smirked and took her opportunity. She threw herself backwards forcing the male to stumble back giving her the space to slam the heel of her boot on to his foot. He yelled out in pain and released her while she screamed hoping the guards at the gate would hear. Before the males could grab her again, she reached behind her and finally unsheathed the legendary blades bestowed upon her by her warrior father. Who had taught her well. “I am female, but I am not weak,” Cyfrwys said as she lunged. Welsh translations: Cyfrwys = Cunning Mhamo = Grandmother Blaidd = Wolf

Am I Here? H.E. Ross My city is seven miles by seven miles, maybe a little more or less on either side but essentially is a round-edged square. San Francisco is the kind of place you come to or leave. All of my life’s memories of that beautiful place are captured in rum and ice movements with only one big and important memory-box showing me sitting still and that was the day I started sailing. I sat on a rock beneath a small port entry light at the Marina Green and saw for the first time slanted sails driving spear blade hulls through foam above the grey green bay waters. I was hooked on something I lived with but never saw. I was grateful to the forces of my surroundings for the first time since I was a kid and touched a buffalo hoof in the middle of the Golden Gate Park. San Francisco blended my heartbeats in jazz and congas and parks and laughing schools and hurt knuckles pounding my colour into black and white kids’ faces. I grew up moving to the Haight-Ashbury and matured looking back at the ‘Mo District and appreciating the smells of my parks. There was dew on grass. There were bent eucalyptus twigs, tree ferns, ponds, small creeks, ridge-lines and dells. My first kiss and sex. The French witch with no underpants. My dog, Rover, shaking mud to a fine white fur. The plane landed and I bumped to attention. I had to remember my overhead luggage and overcoat. I had to go through immigration. I had to get a ticket for the bus into the City. I had to take a piss and wash my face and brush my teeth. I had to get something to eat so I could sober up. I woke up as the bus moved over the hill and sat up to see my favourite site... my City emerging from the soft crest of this hill. The city hall luminous and the seven hills undulating in mid-day light. Pastel boxes of whitenesses rolling up and down and spreading to the lower bay. ‘Image Is Everything’ said the rectangular billboard where there were no billboards before. Two tennis shoes stuck in my face. I blinked strongly and the billboard was blotting out the city hall, disrupting the pastels and contours. Where was I? At the bus station people seemed to be moving faster than my memory recalled. I was only gone four days but I had to look at the street signs to reassure myself that this was San Francisco. I had returned to the City many times from slow paced places and went right into gear, but something had changed... The last thing I concluded is what we all fear concluding: I had changed. Now, that is scary. I tried to tell myself that it was the booze and fighting and surprise family things. A lot had happened and I was not coping well, is all. I walked the wrong way to catch my bus, but decided to take a walk to the marina as an award to fate. I went into a liquor store and bought a half-pint of the word rum on a bottle and continued my walk. I mounted the hill above the tunnel and looked out at Chinatown. I stopped and sat on the cement rail above the tunnel and sipped from the bottle. It burned my throat and made me take a slug this time. I wanted to get drunk, I thought out loud. I was in my City and I wanted to be a San Franciscan. I wanted to get good and drunk. The breeze caught me up on that rail and I remembered my Lizard King sitting at her berth and wanted to be there right now. Capping the bottle I put it in my overcoat pocket and put the overcoat on, shouldered my bag and skipped down the steps into Chinatown. Chinatown makes me who I am every time I smell and walk its streets and alleys. My youth was spent courting those pretty little ladies who found me exotic, I was smiling now. Looking around at laundry hanging in droops from secret windows on blocks of buildings that I always guessed contained half of China’s population I breathed like I was back in town. I took another pull while walking and spilled a bit on my overcoat but did not care. I was at home. I was sweating now since I was not being touched by a breath of air passing from one familiar street to an alley shortcut to a street. I pulled off the overcoat and hung it through my bag strap, careful for the bottle’s easy access. Into North Beach and sunlight. I thought I should celebrate something. I was home? Na, I always celebrated that one. I was representing a nation, delivering its heritage? Yes... yes, that would do. I stopped passage and turned at Washington Square, looking at the statue of Benjamin Franklin at its centre and crossed the street to enter Grant Avenue and some good bars. Years before it was the Anxious Asp. A cigar smoking lesbian midget ran the place. I was sixteen looking like I was twenty-five. I met two good friends there. One is dead now and one is a house-husband. Both were bad muthas, then. What was I now? The Asp is gone. A blood I had met in Mexico had bought it and moved it to the Haight during those latter stages of the hippy landings but it had failed. I did not like that guy anyway. Mike’s Pool Hall was gone also. It went when topless came in... almost to the day. Mike’s was wonderful and introduced me to the hierarchy of San Francisco’s underworld. Genovese to Sicilian to Bloods, all funded by Chinese. The heroin, pot and coke were routed through the toilet at Mike’s and deals were made at the pool tables for more than samples. Mike’s smelled like a German Beer Hall and had crushed peanut shells soaking up anything on the one foot up levels of its two floors. Now, I was at Specks in his own tiny alley. Across from Vesuvio’s and City Lights Bookstore. The bouquet was memory. I poured the last of my rum into the last contents of my beer mug and ate my traditional cheese from the big slicer on the bar. The bartender saw me but knew me since I was a kid. I was home.

Chunk was walking along the shore with his head down, looking for lost things that he might be able to sell. But he wasn’t having any luck. Chunk found a cracked tin cup, a busted flip flop, and a waterlogged fashion magazine. The page was open to an advertisement for Miami Beach. It pictured a girl standing on a coastline with sand like sugar, and sapphire blue water. He was staring at the page when Zippy came along. “Hey, Chunk. How’s it going?” “Terrible. I haven’t had a job in weeks and nobody will give me any food.” “Don’t worry,” said Zippy. “I know where we can get some free hot dogs.” “Let’s go!” So Chunk followed Zippy through the woods to Monsanto Farms. The fields were surrounded by tall, chain link fence topped with barb wire. Atop one post was a camera. On the other side of the fence, the rows of hot dog trees stretched out long, lush and green beneath the blue sky. They walked for some time. The sun was hot, and there was no shade. “How much farther is it?” said Chunk. “Quit ‘yer bellyaching,” said Zippy. “It’s just up yonder.” Before long, they came to a hole in the fence and crawled through. “Alright, let’s start digging,” said Zippy. “Digging?” said Chunk. “I thought we came here to eat.” “I ain’t risking my neck for a few lousy hot dogs! Now, come on. Pick a tree and start digging before the guards arrive.” “Guards?” said Chunk. “Yeah!” said Zippy. “You do not want to be here when they show up.” The boys each picked a hot dog tree and started digging. In the distance, a siren began to wail. “Here they come!” said Zippy, dragging his hot dog tree over to the fence with his dirty hands. "Hurry!" Chunk began to yank at his hot dog tree in a panic. When it ripped from the ground, Chunk tumbled backwards onto the dirt. “I hate this!” he shouted, then scrambled to his feet and dragged his hot dog tree towards the hole in the fence. The boys slipped into the woods before the guards arrived, carrying the hot dog trees over their shoulders. “You know...which way...?” said Chunk. “Sure,” said Zippy. “I know these woods like the back of my hand. Come on!” Chunk followed Zippy down a narrow path through a dense section of forest. Behind them, Chunk heard a popping sound over the rustling leaves of the hot dog tree. “Holy crap,” said Chunk. “They’re shooting at us!” “Hurry up!” said Zippy, picking up speed. “It’s just around the bend.” Soon the gunfire subsided. If Chunk thought he was hungry before, now he was plum famished. “I can’t take another step.” “This here’s good enough,” said Zippy. “Let’s eat,” said Chunk, inspecting the tiny hot dogs on the tree he risked his life to steal. “Naw, naw,” said Zippy. “You can’t eat ‘em dum-dum. They ain’t ripe yet.” “But you said...free hot dogs...those men...shot at us...” Chunk was so hungry and exasperated he couldn’t even talk. “We gotta hide the trees and come back later when they’re full grown,” said Zippy. “I’m going to kill you,” said Chunk. “Come on,” said Zippy, and then he climbed a tree and planted his hot dog tree on a branch. “These things are genetically modified to survive in any environment.” Chunk couldn’t climb. He was so famished he could barely stand up, so he dug a hole where he sat and planted his hot dog tree. As he dug he daydreamed about beach buffets, immaculate white sand beaches, and blue water. As they walked through the woods, Zippy was talking out loud about what he would do with his crop of hot dogs. “I’m gonna make me a sign, paint a big ‘ol hot dog with ketchup and mustard, and I’m gonna sell ‘em on the roadside for a quarter apiece. What about you Chunk? What’re you gonna do with your hot dogs?” “I’m going to sit down on the shore and eat every last one of them.” “All of them? Shoot, I guess you really are hungry!” A week later Zippy and Chunk went back to check on their trees. Zippy’s tree was dead, but Chunk’s tree was as tall as a house, with thick branches full of plump, savory hot dogs. “I’ll climb up and collect the hot dogs,” Zippy said, and he shimmied up the tree, leaving Chunk alone on the ground. “Throw me down a couple,” Chunk said. But, what with all the walking and climbing, Zippy realized that he was very hungry and began to eat. “What are you doing up there?” Before he knew it, Zippy had eaten all of the plump hot dogs himself. Feeling full and content, Zippy stretched out on a branch and took a nap. Chunk was so hungry and angry--hangry!--he decided to teach Zippy a lesson. So he gathered some sharp sticks, and stuck them into the ground beneath the tree. Then he shouted: “Hey, Zippy! The cops are coming! 5-O! 5-O! Let’s get out of here!” Zippy was so startled that he fell from the tree onto the sharp sticks and was killed. Then Chunk cut Zippy into pieces, salted them, and dried them in the sun. The next day he made a sign and walked up and down the beach. He sold his jerky to a group of kids who were friends of Zippy, and made a good profit. As he was leaving the beach, Chunk called out, “Stupid punks! You just ate your friend, Zippy! How’s he taste?” Chunk tried to run, but Zippy’s friends caught him and dragged him to a nearby shack. “Let’s cut off his arms and legs with this saw,” said one of them. Chunk laughed and said, “That’s a great idea! I’ve tried so many ways to lose weight, you’d be doing me a favor.” Then one of them said, “Let’s throw him into the ocean.” Chunk couldn’t swim, so he cried and begged them to let him go, but the gang carried him to the end of the pier. One of them said, “Guess where you’re going, fat boy.” Thirty feet below, the dark green water churned. Chunk couldn’t see the bottom, just fish and candy wrappers and dead jellyfish bobbing in the rolling waves. “If you let me go, I’ll give you a hot dog tree,” said Chunk. “Hot dogs?” said a boy. “You know what they put in those things?” And with that, the gang threw Chunk over the side of the fishing pier. Ker-Plunk! Chunk made a huge splash before sinking to the bottom of the ocean. The gang was lined up, peering down from the railing, seeing only foamy yellow bubbles, and then none. They figured he was dead, and were about to leave, but then someone said, “Hey, look!” Below, a large, white object began to emerge from the green water. It was Chunk. But that wasn’t all--as his body rose to the surface, they could see that he was straddled on the back of a dolphin. “Whoa!” Zippy’s friends were surprised and delighted by this, and begged Chunk to teach them how to speak to dolphins. Chunk called out, “I told him that I was a lost manatee!" and as he was riding away, "See ‘ya later, losers!” The dolphin carried Chunk far away, all the way down to Miami Beach, where he would go on to live a long and fruitful life.

INCOMING TRANSMISSION....SENDER: HIGH COMMAND..........DOWNLOADING.......4% ....... 36% ....... 78% ....... ERROR! TRANSMISSION MISSING CLOSING REQUEST. DECODING PARTIAL TRANSMISSION..... _______START PARTIAL TRANSMISSION_______ [SOL 127 - 0724 ] Sergeant Jay Hopkins, you are to head east of the town of Grenrik. Our foot soldiers are being pinned down from Imperialist artillery fire in that direction and data shows you are the only Javelin in the area who is capable of dealing with the threat. Reconnaissance suggests two artillery guns with t... _______END PARTIAL TRANSMISSION_______ “Well shit,” said Jay as she re-read the transmission. “The rest of that message could say anything. Artillery guns with the most dangerous soldiers this side of the Red Line. Artillery guns with the best brownies recipe stabled to them....Hey K-5, any chance of getting the rest of that message?” The 30 foot tall bipedal mech stood towering behind Jay, with it’s rifle sweeping around their perimeter. “I’m sorry Jay,” said the computerized static voice coming from the Javelin’s external speakers. “Seems as soon as High Command started transmitting to us, the Imperialist activated a radio jammer. I’m not receiving any external communications or data at the moment. Although a new brownie recipe would be a nice change of pace.” “Yah, I figured that must be the case,” Jay said looking at a blood smeared picture of what looked like a happy family from a time long ago. She tossed the picture and dropped the bullet ridden bag it had come from. She had been inspecting the Imperialist troops her and K-5 had just killed while on patrol. These troops were nothing more then grunts. Possibly doing some reconnaissance to see what defenses we had. By the looks of their gear, the Imperialist did not expect a Javelin pilot to be making the rounds since they had no armaments to deal with such a threat. Standing up and brushing the dirt off her pants, Jay started walking back to K-5. “I guess we better get going. These grunts don’t have anything useful. Do you at least have our heading?” “Yes Ma’am. I cross referenced the transmission with our own downloaded maps of the area. If we head south east at our usual pace we can arrive in 15 minutes. I’ve sent the data to your PDA.” Jay looked at her wrist PDA to see a detailed map of their current location, heading, and projected path. She furrowed her brow, analyzing the new data. “We don’t know what we’re walking into. There’s some high ground just south of the artillery. Lets go there first and see if they’re hiding anything.” “Roger that Sergeant.” Jay walked up to K-5 who had knelt down and opened it’s cockpit in the center of the javelins bipedal body. She climbed up the lowered hatched door and sat into the padded leather interior of the mech. With familiar gears whirling and a final airlock hiss, K-5 closed its hatch and stood up. “Passing controls over to you Jay,” came the computerized static voice inside K-5’s cockpit. ______________ Jay and K-5 could hear the artillery fire before seeing it. It’s thunderous booms rattled Jay’s eardrums, even through K-5’s thick hull. About half a kilometer from the source of the explosions, Jay brought K-5 to a halt. “We’d better keep a low profile until we know what we are really dealing with,” Jay said as she hoped out of K-5. “I’ll go ahead on my own, you hold down here.” As she crested over a crater filled hill, Jay noticed 300 meters away, a small enemy foxhole dug into the side of a cliff. It looked like a wave of dirt and rock hovered over, ready to crash onto the Imperialist underneath. She could see two long range anti-personal artillery rifles surrounded with sandbags. Each artillery rifle had four grunts assigned to it, working in unison to fire an anti-personal round every two minutes. Beside each artillery rifle was a single Scarab Class Javelin posted on guard duty. “Son of...” Jay whispered to herself. Scarab Javelins were tough little machines. Hard to kill, but thankfully they were no where near K-5’s Class, Mantis Javelin, fighting power. Scarabs were more like thick exo-suits then mechs. They had no A.I. like K-5 and were completely driven by a pilot. Standing only 10 feet tall, they were usually equipped with basic grunt weaponry. However, their thick armor can cause some problems. Normal bullets won’t penetrate it. Luckily K-5 comes prepared for any situation. Jay continued to survey the encampment. Watching the Imperialist shoot shell after shell. She committed the enemy soldier’s movements to memory, analyzing every nook and cranny, looking for vulnerabilities. K-5 was the only mech around that could deal with this threat. All other’s were probably on the Red Line. If Jay failed this mission, the town of Grenrik would be a loss for sure. Jay couldn’t let that happen. As Jay was turning around to crawl back down the hill, she noticed pressed inside the wall of the dug out cliff, a 10 foot metal door. “Interesting...” Jay whispered. Jay continued crawling down the hill. When Jay reached K-5, he was watching the perimeter with his rifle aimed. Jay began to talk in a low voice, “K-5, looks like Command’s intel was accurate. Two artillery guns maned with four infantry. We’ve also got two surprise guests, Scarab class Javelins.” “Those are easy to take on. How do you want to do this?” K-5 responded, continuing to watch the perimeter. Jay looked at her wrist PDA and reviewed the maps K-5 had sent her. “Ok K-5, I’ve got it. I want you to go half a km west of their foxhole, towards the town of Grenrik, and hide. We can’t signal to each other since they’re jamming us. So when our clocks read 0810, I want you stand up and start sprinting towards their encampment to draw their fire. If my timing is right, you’ll be their focus as I swoop in and kill them all.” “Roger Jay, beginning to move to position. You stay safe Ma’am.” “You too. See you at 0810.” ______________ K-5 reached 500 meters east of the enemy encampment. Looking around, K-5 noticed tall shrubs to hide in until it was time. Wood branches scraped their tough metal armor, as he laid down. Hiding from anyone who’d be taking a stroll in the battlefield; not that it was likely. K-5 never liked it when Jay would separate them. Their primary goal was keep her safe and with maneuvers like these, it was never a guarantee. Jay and K-5 had been in their share of fights together, so he knew to trust her judgment and intuition. But does not mean he had to like it. 0805, almost time to go. K-5 laid there noticing the clouds lazily drifting by and thought, “Jay, please be safe.” K-5 continued to lay there until an alarm sounded in his system. Turning it off, K-5 pushed out of the shrubs, unintentionally taking some branches with him, and ran towards the enemy artillery. It did not take long for the enemy to notice K-5. He was a gigantic mech trampling war torn farmland with pieces of branches stuck to him. K-5 shooting his rifle at them didn’t scream subtlety either. But K-5 would do it’s job to the letter if it meant having all the attention on him to keep Jay safe. K-5 could see the encampment clearly now, both artillery rifles were spinning towards him. The artillery grunts were screaming at each other to move faster. The Scarab Javelins broke formation and charged their oncoming foe. This had been Jay’s plan all along, K-5 rightfully assumed, because as soon as the Scarabs had left the encampment, K-5 could see Jay cresting the cliff above the encampment. K-5 planted his feet and raised his rifle at the oncoming Scarabs. Focusing his rifle on the closer of the two, K-5 unloaded the rifle into it. Bullet after bullet slammed into the closest Javelin, slowing it down. The Scarab raised his hands, deflecting the oncoming bullets. K-5’s rifle fire wouldn’t be able to penetrate the Scarab’s thick armor, but that wasn’t the point. K-5 wanted to slow them down and do everything possible to hold their attention away from Jay. The suppression fire only helped for so long as the other Scarab Javeline readied it’s own rifle and started shooting at K-5. While K-5’s armor was very strong, he wasn’t impervious to gunfire. One stray bullet, hitting the wrong place, and K-5’s systems would be in jeopardy. K-5 knew this, so he jumped to the nearest mound of earth to use as cover. K-5 put his back to the earth mound and waited. The Scarab continued to fire, trapping K-5 while they advanced. K-5 waited, tracking the Scarabs as they closer. 100 meters. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Bullets continued to drive into the dirt behind K-5, sprinkling dirt over his chassis. 50 meters, the Scarabs were almost on top of him. Relentlessly shooting and cutting through the earth. 20 meters. The branches still stuck to K-5 started splintering from the gunfire. 10 meters. K-5 holstered it’s rifle and bent into a crouch. It’s gears winding up and hydraulics pressurizing in it’s legs and arms. 5 meters. “Now,” K-5 thought to itself. K-5 grabbed the top of the mound and used it’s whirling mech arms and legs to push himself up. Leaping over the mound and landing inches from the nearest Scarab. “Nice of you to come to me.” K-5 belted out of his speakers. K-5 grabbed the arms of the Scarab’s with his own and with one swift movement, ripped the metal arms off. Oil and hydraulic fluids spewed from the Scarab’s open appendages. K-5 could hear the pilot’s scream as it looked like K-5 had also ripped the arms off of the pilot inside. “One threat eliminated.” K-5 exclaimed towards the remaining Scarab. The last Scarab, stunned, looked at K-5 who was still holding the limp arms of his fallen comrade. The remaining Scarab pilot howled in horror, raised it’s rifle, and sprayed bullets in K-5’s direction. K-5 swiftly dropped the appendages and grabbed the fallen Javelin mech. He then raised it between him and the enemy. Bullets screamed off the armless Scarab as K-5 advanced closer to his target. The enemy Scarab’s pilot bawled as his fallen comrade inched closer and closer. When within range, K-5 reeled back and threw the lifeless mech at his friend, knocking him over. The pilot tried using his Scarab’s arms to push his fallen comrade off of him, but it was too heavy. As K-5 walked to the defeated man, the pilot started cursing at him. “When my men are done with you, your soul will be dragged into the deepest pits of hell where it belongs!” K-5 leaned directly over the Scarab pilot, blocking out the sun. “Luckily for me, we AI don’t come equipped with souls.” K-5 clasped his right hand’s fingers into a spear like shape, and stabbed into the Scarab. Piercing through the thick metal armor straight into the pilot’s chest. K-5 removed his hand out of the now slumped enemy’s body. Unfolding his blood soaked hand, K-5 began shaking off the filth. He stood up and looked to where Jay was hunkered down. He could see Jay smirking back at him from atop the cliff. Raising his right arm K-5 gave a thumb’s up to her. “He can clean himself after we get through this,” Jay thought to herself. A thunderous explosion erupted below her. Ears ringing, she saw the horrific site in front of her. An artillery shell streaked towards K-5, ripping through K-5’s chest, shearing the cockpit and sending him back 20 feet. Jay watched from atop the cliff, helpless, as K-5 landed on his back, lights flickering. “No! K-5! You fucking bastards!” Jay screamed through gritted teeth. She took out two grenades, pulled the pins, and lobbed one to each of artillery gun. Two concussive explosions were followed by screams of pain. With her rifle armed, she slid down the cliff looking for survivors. She noticed a disoriented soldier who was struggling to his feet. Jay kicked in his knee with a gut wrenching crack. The enemy cried out in pain, falling back down. There was no sympathy in Jay’s eyes, or pause, as she turned her rifle to his head and fired. Silencing the man instantly. Jay risked a quick glance at K-5, lying there. His lights looked out. A crack of a bullet whizzed by Jay’s head. She instinctively crouched behind the closest artillery crate as more bullets peppered the air she used to occupy. “You scum!” A surviving Imperialist grunt screamed at Jay. “We’re going to fill you with holes like we did with your robot friend over there!” “Yah! You’ve got nowhere to go! " said another grunt. Both recklessly shot at Jay’s cover. Splinters of wood struck her face as she peered around her cover. “Shit,” Jay whispered, assessing her surroundings. There, within arms reach, she noticed a dead soldier within. She patted the soldier down, finding a smoke grenade in his breast pocket. “I can make this work,” Jay thought as she pulled the pin and dropped it at her feet. Thick green smoke billowed all around her, making it impossible to see anything, including her. “You think we got them?” The first Imperialist grunt said cowering behind a wooden crate as the second continued to shoot into the smoke. “How would I know? You should go check. I’ll cover you from here.” The second one had stopped firing but didn’t dare take his eyes off the thick green smoke. “You kidding? I’m not going to walk blindly into some smoke where a crazy soldier is waiting to ambush me. You go in there!” The second grunt ponders, weighing his odds. “Fine, how about we both wait and keep watch. The smoke will eventually stop and they can’t go anywhere. We’ll pick them off then.” “Good idea! We can just wait and see!” Both men agreed, trying to hide the fear in their words. A female voice came from the smoke, “Thanks for talking dick wads. You make this much easier.” A bullet streaked through smoke, creating a thin vortex protruding from the green cloud, slamming into the second grunt’s head. The first Imperialist yelped as his fallen comrade hit the dirt floor, blood leaking out of his head. Screaming in terror, the last Imperialist scrambled to his feet, attempting to dash away, jumping over dead bodies and spent artillery shells. Jay, stepping out of the green smoke, aimed her rifle and fired. Crack! The last Imperialist fell. Panning the area, she confirmed the area was clear, and sprinted towards K-5. Jay screamed at him, “K-5 are you ok? K-5 respond! Damn it K-5 respond! That’s an order!” Jay could now see black smoke coming from K-5’s chest as she got closer. “K-5! Failure to follow orders will cause immediate discharge. Now you get your ass up!” K-5 remained motionless on the ground. Jay’s eyes started filling with tears. “No. K-5,” Jay choked in a whisper. She slowed her pace upon seeing the extent of K-5’s wounds. His body was littered with dents from gun fire, oil from other Javelins or his own, and one big hole at the center of it’s chest where the cockpit used to be. Tears streaked Jay’s dirt covered face as she knelt next to him. “Come on K. Can you hear me?” Silence. She lowered herself into what was left of the destroyed cockpit and looked around. She prodded at the remnants of a central control panel, tearing off the screen exposing five control drives. These drives were what stored K-5’s core functions and saved data, basically K-5’s soul if he had one. Three of them were cracked, who knows if they’d be salvageable. She undocked each one carefully and put them in her pack. Jay slumped down, legs folded into her chest. “You can’t leave me K-5, ” Jay whispered. “I need you. We need to finish this war, together.” Jay laid in K-5 for several minutes before standing up. She stepped out of his metal body and brushed the dust off. A rough smoker voice echoed in the back of her head. “Buck up your bootstraps Jay. Mission’s not over.” A faint smile washed over Jay. “Roger that Dad,” Jay whispered. Jay walked through the battlefield, stepping over javelins bodies alike, to the mysterious metal door. She examined it, noticing it had not been opened and didn’t appear locked. Jay readied her rifle and rested herself next to the iron door. She listened for anything on the other side. She could hear computer beeps and what sounded like chains moving. Jay grabbed the door handle, took a deep breath and the flung the door open, aiming her rifle into the unknown. As sunlight bled into what looked like a small warehouse, Jay’s eyes adjusted to see the contents. Jay gasped and lowered her rifle. ______________ INCOMING TRANSMISSION......SENDER: SERGEANT JAY HOPKINS..........DOWNLOADING.......2% ....... 28% .....57%....... 95% ....... SUCCESS!....DECODING TRANSMISSION..... _______START TRANSMISSION_______ [SOL 127 - 0958 ] Command, the artillery east of Grenrik has been taken care of. Tell our soldiers in Grenrik to get a move on. I’ve destroyed an Imperialist jammer causing the issues with our communications. You wouldn’t be receiving this otherwise. You’re welcome. Reporting single casualty of the Mantis Class Javelin “K-5”. Retrieved memory drives for possible recovery. Returning back to Frethlin base to resupply. Will not be alone. Requesting eight fresh beds. See you in two days. Over and Out. Jay _______END TRANSMISSION_______

Staring down intently, Aevia watched her target as he wove his way through one of the many crowded markets in Vace City. He was a noble, born of wealth and not afraid to flaunt or abuse it. She had been following him for several blocks now, using the rooftops of the tightly packed buildings in this portion of the city. With a graceful ease, that would seem effortless to any onlookers, she leapt gaps from two feet to eight feet without strain or concern. Her black hair, with streaks of bleached white showing throughout, streamed behind her as she went. When the nobleman reached his destination, a well guarded inn built of heavy stone blocks and polished wooden timber, he gave a nervous glance over his shoulder before being ushered inside by two doormen. Aevia crouched low, waiting on an adjacent roof with an ever vigilant eye on the doors and windows within her view. She pulled out her small crossbow, light enough to wield with one hand as needed. She grabbed a bolt from the quiver on her back, running a finger over its tip and blade out of habit. She snapped it into place, where it would hold fast until she pulled the trigger to set it free. If anyone got in her way, she would be ready. With it ready and loaded, she clasped the weapon back onto a strap over her shoulder. When she felt the appropriate time had passed, based on her recent observations of the nobles patterns, she raced across a series of rooftops in a roundabout way to the least guarded, most shadowed side of the inn. It did not take her long to locate the window to the room the man had taken, as she could hear the voice of the woman she had followed a few hours earlier to this same inn, the woman who had been sleeping with the noble in an effort to earn his offer of marriage. Aevia reached into one of the many pouches attached to her tight leather armour, finding two small, iron balls. The patrol guard, who did laps around the building every ten minutes, was now on the opposite side of the building, leaving just the stationary guard who seemed more alert than she would have liked. Waiting any longer could make things worse, so she proceeded to toss the balls several feet away from the guard, in such a way that they would roll further down the side of the building away from where she was. When the balls struck the cobblestone street they made a loud sound, catching the attention of the guard immediately. As they continued to bounce, a trail of grey smoke trailed behind them, quickly filling the street with a haze. They emitted a hissing sound, as the minor enchantment within them ran its course. The guard dashed towards the thin smoke and odd sounds, with his sword drawn and his posture showing he was ready to kill. Aevia took the opportunity to make a running dash towards the end of her rooftop, leaping the much larger gap of fifteen feet between her roof and the Inn. She sailed across the gap with a practiced ease, and minimized the sound of her landing with a crouch and a roll before spreading out her body and grasping at the wooden tiles of the rooftop. The impact was a bit painful, and she grimaced as some of the stiff, curled edges smashed into her armour. There would be bruises for certain, but nothing she hadn't experienced before. Not wanting to waste a moment, she slid herself to the edge of the roof, then dropped down, grasping the ledge of the roof. A quick glance saws that the smoke had risen to eye level, and was starting to disperse. It would not be long before the guard realized the distraction for what it was and began an alert inside the Inn. Thankfully the Inn was a haven for more than just this noble, it was an establishment for many of wealth to seek out their sins in secrecy. Aevia had placed herself exactly where she had wanted to be, swinging herself forward directly into the closed wooden shutters of the nobles room. The shutters swung inward, as she knew they would, for she had fixed the hinges and bypassed the lock several hours ago when she had uncovered where the mistress would be waiting. Bursting into the room feet first, Aevia landed on the plush carpet at an angle and slid forward on the plush carpet a few feet, falling backwards onto her outstretched hands. With the elegant grace and strength of a spider, Aevia snapped back forward into a standing position as she drew her hand crossbow and pointed it directly at the chest of the startled woman, who was already down to her underclothes from the nobles hasty fondling. "Don't move." Was all Aevia said, in a stern yet quiet voice. He made no effort to protect her, and actually fell away to cling to a nearby wall as she stared in shock at the weapon aimed her. "Take what you want, anything at all!" she shouted at Aevia, raising her hands in the air without a thought of self defense. Aevia kept her outstretched weapon arm pointed at the woman, while turning her attention to the noble. "Harvin, Lord of Gnost... she stated, her slanted eyes showing no emotion. "Y..yyess..." He stuttered, while wetting himself in the process. "Your lady has a message for you, the Lady of Gnost that is." The noblemans' pupils expanded with a fear far beyond what he showed from her arrival. The stories of the nobles wife told her to be a very protective and wrathful woman. He didn't even attempt a response. "Return to Gnost, forget this mistress of yours, and understand that this will be the last time your adulteress habits leave you intact... or possibly even alive." Her deadpan tone, and unblinking stare, left no doubt as to who would be fulfilling the threat. The man fell to his knees as he pressed his palms together in a prayer motion. "I will, I swear! Just don't tell her about the others..." He groveled, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Aevia hadn't known about the others, in fact she had only just found out about this one a few days ago when trying to figure out her next source of income. The Lady of Gnost had no idea who Aevia was, or that her dear Lord was ever disloyal to her. None of that mattered though, all that mattered was that he believed it, and he was certainly demonstrating that he did. "Toss me your coin pouch," she said, tilting her head to the table he had placed his belongings on. "If there's enough there then your secret is safe." "There's others!" the scantily clad mistress shouted out, realizing what he just admitted too. She dropped her hands and was about to rush at the Harvin in a fit of rage. Aevia let the bolt fly, after angling it downward. The woman's dash turned into a fall as the bolt tore through her bare foot, pinning it to the ground. She screamed in pain, clutching at the foot and trying to stem the blood with the bottom of her shift. Harvin tossed the pouch at her, while Aevia reloaded her weapon with a quick and practiced ease. She picked it off the floor and lifted it with one hand. "Twenty, that covers you for week." Aevia said, wondering how much she might get out of this wretch before he decided it wasn't worth it, or began to doubt her. She pressed a bit further. "That ring, give me that and I'll forget about you, and your whores." "That's worth a small farm!" He gasped, "I can't poss..." "Your choice." Aevia said curtly, turning towards the window. She knew the gaurds would likely be at the room soon. "I'll see you in Gnost." "It's yours!" He snapped, frantically trying to pull it off his finger. He kept trying, but to no avail. "But I can't get it off. I can send it to you, just don't tell her!." Aevia didn't have any desire to see this man again, or risk and future encounters with him or his connections. Time was running out. "Use her blood, now!" She snapped, pointing her crossbow at the wenches foot. Although the noble was shocked at her request, he dashed forward and shoved his fingers into the small pool of blood that had formed on the floorboards, then was able to pull the ring off with a few twists in the slippery crimson liquid. The woman didn't object, just wimpered in pain and frustration with what was transpiring. He tossed the ring to Aevia. "When you get to Gnost, speak nothing of this." Aevia said, making sure her words were clear and firm. "The Lady does not want to be reminded of why she sent me, and your silence is the only way she will forgive you. Should you speak of this, she has told me she will hire me to permanently prevent you from sleeping with others again." Aevia motioned her crossbow towards his pelvis as she said this, and the color drained from Harvin's face. "Understood?" she said, now perched in the ledge of the window. The noble grasped at his manhood with his bloody hands, nodding fervently but saying nothing else. Aevia jumped up and out of the window, grapping the roof ledge with a firm grip. With the elegance of a gymnast, and the strength of a climber, she then hopped and spun a half circle before grabbing the ledge again. A quick jerk of her upper arms and chest pulled her up onto the roof, where she heard a guard down below shout out "There, I see 'im up there." Aevia dropped down to the rooftop immediately, narrowly avoiding an arrow that whizzed overhead into the night sky. Breathing a sigh of relief for avoiding the attack, she crawled forward a few feet before making a relatively easy escape across the rooftops of the crowded city quarters. Her newly earned coins and ring would be able to support her for several months if she ran out of targets... although she never had run out of targets before.

But when she took me home to her place, the bloody sock was a huge red flag. Red means stop. As we stumbled arm and arm up the stairs to her apartment, I stole a glance at my phone, but dammit, it was dead. She slammed me against the wall and kissed me violently, my hands covered familiar territory as I kissed her back. My heart was pounding as I absorbed the warmth of her lips, so soft and tasting like hot whiskey. She reached in and unbuttoned my shirt as she fumbled for her keys. This was a roller coaster near the top going click click click--no brakes no way to get out, it was all straight downhill from here. It had been a dull night at the bar until she showed up and picked me up. She broke away from our embrace for a second and in one smooth motion unlocked the apartment door and kicked it open. I froze for a second when I saw the bloody sock on the floor. I've never seen a bloody sock before. And yet here it was, just a normal sock saturated with blood. *Lots* of blood. Maybe it was red paint or some sort of varnish? She seemed to read my mind and said, "No, it's blood. One of the painters had an accident and had to go to ER, thank goodness for the plastic...." Maybe I watched Dexter a few too many times but clearly this apartment was wrapped in plastic and -- "Dexter, the TV show, ever watch it?" She said as she held my hand and led me inside. My head started racing and quite frankly I was feeling a bit woozy. Maybe I drank too much. Earlier that night I was sitting at the bar with one of my single friends when she approached and asked if I knew what band was playing. I said I didn't, but to me they sounded pretty good so far. She said her name was Kate and shook my hand and flashed a smile. She had a short black dress and her hair was spiky. She looked to be maybe 25 with sharp green eyes and just the right amount of makeup. I gave her a drink and we made small talk. I recognized her accent and guessed she was from Chicago, she said it was Wisconsin and was surprised I could tell. I was smitten. -- As my eyes adjusted to the gloom of the apartment, I realized that everything was wrapped in plastic. The tables, the sofa, even the walls. "Um yeah. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea and..." suddenly my mouth went numb as my legs turned to jelly. She helped me to gracefully collapse onto the plastic covered floor. This isn't good. Not at all. "This was a *great* idea", she said "The ketamine I dropped in your drink at the bar should now be taking effect, and this won't hurt a bit. Well maybe a little." She started to laugh as she hiked up her skirt and sat on my chest while casually donning a pair of black latex gloves. "Actually, this is going to hurt a *lot*". Then the lights went out and the music started.

#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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 provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** &nbsp; *** #This week’s challenge: - **Sentence: Freedom felt so far away.** - **Bonus Constraint:** A map plays a meaningful role in the story (this means it needs to be more than a passing reference). / This week’s challenge is to include the sentence “Freedom felt so far away” in your story (it is required). **You may change tenses/pronouns and/or add onto it, but the original sentence must stay intact to receive credit.** The bonus constraint and use of the included image and song are not required. **Please ensure that you follow all post and subreddit rules.** **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. You can check out previous Micro Mondays . &nbsp; *** #How To Participate - **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, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. 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.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. &nbsp; *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live 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! &nbsp; *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback. &nbsp; *** #Rankings for - - u/OneSidedDice - - u/ZachTheLitchKing - - u/oliverjsn8 ###Crit Stars - u/OneSidedDice #Rankings for - - u/GingerQuill - - u/oliverjsn8 - - u/MelexRengsef ###Crit Stars - u/GingerQuill *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

She awoke in a dungeon of her own creation. The physical manifestation of her mind: a semi-circular room offering dust-gray walls, ebony doors, black marble floors, and an ebony table and chairs. This was her first time seeing it--but not her first time trapped here. She had expected no better. Her surroundings represented a life fragmented by memory lapses, blank spots that she struggled to explain to puzzled coworkers and her boss, to whom she couldn’t afford to reveal her affliction. Some days, she woke in the morning, and, next thing she knew, she saw the moon in the onyx-black sky, and she spent the rest of the night wondering what she had and had not done during the missing hours. She could not plan; how could one know what one was going to do at any given time if one didn’t know who they would be at that time? She had hoped that her father’s death would solve the problem, but it hadn’t. And so she had had to seek help elsewhere. She had found it via an online advertisement. “Struggling with Dissociative Identity Disorder? I can cure you in as little as one session!” written in navy blue Courier New font on a lavender background. Beside it, a photo of a thirty-something woman with a white smile and perceptive-looking brown eyes. Adeline Carrigan, M.D. Jeanie had had her doubts but found the prospect of a quick fix for a condition she’d expected to struggle with for years, if not the rest of her life, too enticing to pass up. The following day, she’d landed on Dr. Carrigan’s burgundy velvet chaise lounge, telling her story. Dr. Carrigan listened, nodding and scribbling on floral-print stationery. When she finished, Dr. Carrigan said, “I’m so glad you found me, Jeanie. I’ll have you healing in no time.” She explained the process, after which, eyes sparkling, she proclaimed, “As I’m sure you know, nobody’s ever tried anything like this. It’s a huge breakthrough--and a huge help to people like you.” They got right to it. Dr. Carrigan told her to lie back and shut her eyes. At first, panic gripped her, as it always did when she did so, but then Dr. Carrigan started talking, sculpting her words with cashmere-soft hands. She felt herself slipping away, into darkness. Only this darkness didn’t scare her. This one embraced her. Now, she found herself wishing for that darkness again. The door on the straight wall opened, and in walked her doppelganger. The sight stole her breath, and she collapsed against the nearest chair. Yes, she’d known what she would face, known that Talia was her, at least in the physical sense. Yet seeing her in the flesh brought a weirdness no one could possibly have foreseen. “What’s the matter, Jeanie?” Talia drawled. “Astounded by your own beauty?” She sauntered to one of the chairs, sat down, and folded her hands on the table. “We need to talk,” Jeanie said. “Yeah, I know what you’re here for.” “You...you do?” “I’m not an idiot.” Her father would have begged to differ. He had declared both of them as such what seemed an infinite number of times, like during his conference with her seventh-grade algebra teacher; the teacher had told him that Jeanie had been having a hard time with variables, and he’d snapped, “Well, what’d you expect? I’m sure you know by now, kid’s more than a few beams short of a house.” Jeanie’s cheeks had grown so hot that it seemed a wonder that their flesh hadn’t melted off their bones. Much like what she felt right now. Talia gestured to the chair before her. “Park it.”Legs wobbling, Jeanie did so. Talia speared her with a glare. “So you wanna get rid of me--after all I’ve done for you.” “No, I wanna integrate us.” She’d read enough articles on the topic to know that alters were not the other one felt they were, but, rather, another side of oneself that would, rather than disappear, meld with one’s “host” personality when one achieved integration. Apparently, Talia either didn’t know that, or didn’t want to acknowledge it. Talia leaned back, the parentheses beside her lips darkening. “So that’s that. You take away my autonomy, and, boom , a happy ending?” “I didn’t say that.” She didn’t know whether she’d have a happy ending, even if she did get what she wanted. She simply knew that failure to do so would make that impossible. Talia shot her a glare icier than any of which she’d thought her own eyes capable. “Don’t play with me. I know what this is: You got what you wanted outta me, and now you wanna dump me. At least own up.” “I’m not saying you never did anything for me,” she said, bristling. “I’m just saying, I can’t do this anymore.” Talia’s face reddened, her eyes glinting like fiery coals. “You don’t get it, do you?” “Get what? What’s there to--“ “He called you a waste, did you know that? A waste of a body.” She felt as if skewered through the chest. She didn’t remember that. Why didn’t she remember? “And he shocked you,” Talia continued. She shook her head, a humorless smirk stretching her lips. “Man, he loved that taser. Bought it just for you. It hurt like hell...But you don’t remember that, either.” No, she didn’t. It sent her mind spinning, recalling cop shows on which she’d seen people enduring what Talia had described, writhing in agony, their screams stabbing her despite the crimes that had invoked the punishment. Talia had committed no such crimes. “Oh, and the time he tried to drown you in the bathtub. Remember that?” Jeanie slammed back against her chair, the room tilting and smearing into a whirl. Drown her. He’d tried to drown her. She’d had no illusions of him, with any facet of his being, loving her as a father typically did his daughter. But she’d had no clue that he’d despised her enough to do something like that. And Talia had had to find a way to live with it. She opened her mouth but, for several moments, couldn’t speak. Finally, she managed, “I...I had no idea.” “No, you didn’t.” “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” Her gaze sharpened still more. “I didn’t have to go through it, Jeanie. I chose to go through it, for you. ‘Cause, if I didn’t, that would’ve been it.” A part of her wanted to argue, but she knew that Talia had spoken the truth. She’d barely survived what she had endured at his hands. If she’d suffered the events Talia had described, she wouldn’t have held on to the very little sanity that she still possessed. Twisting, searing pain bloomed in her chest, coupled with longing to fold within herself until nothing remained. Instead, she told herself to focus on here. Now. Regrets would not make amends. Finally, she asked, “Would you...would you wanna talk to someone? Get some help?” Talia’s expression changed in such a way that it left her face nearly unrecognizable. Her eyes flickered and then sharpened, staring at Jeanie as if seeing her for the first time, and shocked that such a creature could exist. She said, “You know, with this little shortcut and everything, I didn’t think you’d go that way.” “What--“ “You wanna integrate? Is that what you want?” “Yeah, but--“ “As long as you know what you have to do.” Questions danced in her head, but she didn’t have time to sculpt them into words before Talia closed her eyes, leaned back, and started fading, becoming translucent. That rattled her so much that she still couldn’t articulate her inquiries, or anything at all. Talia continued fading, fading, fading. A ghost. A film. A wisp. And then nothing at all. She stared, eyes nearly popping out of her skull. A rumbling sounded. The room vibrated. The wall crumbled, revealing the rest of the chamber, which looked identical to this half. A pile of splinters had formed on the floor, but, soon, they, too, disappeared. She felt her mind stretching. Expanding. Remembering. Standing in the living room, a paperweight slipping through her fingers and shattering on the floor. Her father screaming. Worthless. Pathetic. A waste of a body, a waste of space. Her mother should’ve aborted her. Her father gesturing toward some laundry she’d folded. Telling her that a five-year-old had more sense. Reaching into his pocket, producing the taser, aiming, and shooting. White-hot pain wracking her, agonizing even in the abstractness of retrospect. Weeping on the floor while he sneered above her. Praying that he wouldn’t go another round. Her father confronting her as she came in the door two minutes past her curfew. Remarking, “If you’re not gonna be here on time, don’t come back at all--Actually, my life’d be a helluva lot better if you didn’t.” Tears running down her face as she apologized. Her father telling her that he’d had enough of her whining. Grabbing her by the hair. Yanking her into the bathroom, where he filled the tub. Pushing her head under the water. Scorching pain wracking her skull where it hit the porcelain, her nasal passages and throat as water rushed in. Flailing, clasping, desperate for something, anything, to relieve the pain, finding nothing. Her father letting go. Her shooting up, coughing and sputtering, flames in her chest. Wondering whether she should allow herself to feel relieved that he’d stopped this time, or whether she should feel terrified because, next time, he may not. A flash. The sense of zooming through space and time. A jerk. She opened her eyes to see Dr. Carrigan looking at her. “All good?” she asked. “All done,” she said. But definitely not “all good.”

At this very moment, Sally feels uncomfortable. The umbilical cord has wrapped around her arm causing her terrible pain. In her attempt to get comfortable, she moves and collides with Saulo, her twin brother. Saulo, furious, lets a kick escape inside the belly of Mary, their mother. Mary isn’t having a good time; she is forced to drop the last intact porcelain plate that remained from the *Cisne Royal* collection obtained from the marital property inherited by her grandmother. “Fuck” she says. Mary has no one to help her picking up the porcelain. Her husband, Víctor Alfredo García Rojas de Zúñiga, is signing the last page of the contract that will appoint him as the sales manager of the furniture distributor *Cositos&Cositas*. Víctor Alfredo wouldn’t even tell the news to his wife Mary, because he plans to celebrate with Daniela Costa first, the niece of the executive director. They have arranged an appointment at the *El Paraíso* (two stars) Hotel, and Víctor Alfredo has already bought the perfect *pisco*. But Víctor Alfredo García Rojas de Zúñiga is not insensitive; he had already planned to reserve the first of his salaries as sales manager on a Super Duplo T soccer ball that he would give to Saulo, his future son. What he doesn’t know is that, 13 years and 2 months later, Saulo would be selling the same ball in his attempt to save up for the sex reassignment surgery he planned to do since he was 8 years old. “You disgust me” his twin sister, Sally, would say to him. “Why would you do something like that?” “I feel it’s the right thing”. “Mom says that God only created man and woman...” “That’s not even relevant to this debate, stupid” Saulo would respond. “And don’t you dare tell Mom or Carlos about this”. Sally tells Carlos, the famous “Talara’s real estate guru” with whom Mary managed to marry after finding two used condoms wrapped in toilet paper inside the second inside pocket of Víctor Alfredo’s shirt. “I can explain it”, her ex-husband had told her. But he couldn’t. Carlos, the real estate guru, is alarmed by Sally’s accusation. He knows he would be a terrible stepfather if he goes around with the gossip to Saulo’s mother and a bad husband if he keeps the secret from her. “This bullshit wouldn’t be happening to me if I hadn’t married”, Carlos thinks as he remembers the last afternoon he spent feeding his fish Pepe, the only consolation he had during his miserable elementary education. At that time, the real estate guru was molested by Felix, the son of the whore Tula Cantonera (stage name). The brawl had begun when every fourth-grader found out that Carlos liked to collect *Clementoni* puzzles. “Little fag!” Felix shouted at him in the middle of the tumult. Thirty years later, the real estate guru listens to the same words again. While he and Mary are in *Cositos&Cositas* looking for a crib for the baby they were expecting, he is attacked by Víctor Alfredo García Rojas de Zúñiga's insults and provocations. “Carlos, do something!” yells Mary in light of her ex-husband’s threats. But the real estate guru doesn’t move. “This bullshit wouldn’t be happening to me if I hadn’t married”, he thinks again as he decides to leave his pregnant wife in the middle of the store. Three weeks later, Mary loses the baby in a miscarriage. No one feels less affected by this loss than her daughters Sally and Saulo, who now prefers to be called Sara. They receive the news in the middle of the purification retreat “*Mente Sanasa*” that happens in Calca. “Everything goes wrong in my life. No man loves me”, cries their mother Mary on the phone. “In the blink of an eye you’ll have already turned 20. All my life I have been alone”. Sally doesn’t know if it’s due to the effect caused by the *ayahuasca*, but she doesn’t feel like continuing to listening to her whining speech, so she hangs up. The two sisters leave the place and sit next to an old carob tree. Sara cries. Sally comforts her. “What’s happening?” Sally asks. “Everything is happening”. They remain silent, but it never feels uncomfortable. At a certain moment, Sara stops her crying and observes the sun hiding between the *Sahuasiray* and the *Pumahuanca*. “Do you realize that we could’ve been born in any other body and could’ve had any other life? For example, look at that peddler down there in the square: he’s old and sad, isn’t he? But what if he was thinking the same thing at your age? What happens if that were your hypothetical future?” “Nonsense, Sara. Nonsense”.

If Crawley were in America they’d call it a bumfuck town. There’d be hillbilly’s living on the outskirts and two thirds of the residents in the town would have the same grandfather. This is Britain so only half of the residents share the same grandfather and, being British, he’s not quite as vocal about his racism. We’re far more polite about our prejudices. You’ll be pleased to know I’m one of the other residents - with a different grandfather. And different skin. And a different accent. And I went to a different primary school. But don’t worry, my dad works at Gatwick just like everyone else’s parents, so we’re united on that front. Marcia’s different too, we sit next to each other in maths and she lives on the road behind me. She doesn’t share my deep love of Kerouac, or Sylvia Plath, or Salinger, but we do share a love of Japanese horror and a gaudy desperation to leave this place behind. My phone lights up with a message to say she’s leaving now and I regret telling her I was almost ready. Only mildly disgruntled at my lateness when we met on the corner, she quickly dives in to tell me about how amazing Bad Orange’s new album is. I drink in her enthusiasm, and make the right noises for her to continue effortlessly, as she describes the lyrics and how they make her feel; the sampling ‘to PERFECTION’, and reeling off references I never understand but adopt into my own repertoire to sound more cool than I am. I’m a good parrot in that way. Our knees knock together as she hands me half a headphone to listen with her. She wants me to understand, see? The cinema is mostly set up for parents to take their kids for a couple of hours of peace, Disney movies and rom coms but, in some strange small effort to unfuck this bumfuck town, they’ve tapped into some funding to also show ‘culturally relevant content’. So we’re watching Black Water, from the same director as The Circle and The Circle 2. Yes, it’s Japanese horror. No, we aren’t technically old enough to get in. The person on the desk either doesn’t care or Marcia’s strange ability comes into play and the tickets are in our hands without any questions. Marcia wears footballs shorts everywhere. She’s great at PE and in the football team so she somehow gets away with it throughout the school day when I get picked on for my tie not being knotted quite right. And then - like this - getting into the cinema or buying beer. Either people just like her or they don’t believe anyone would be dumb enough to try to buy anything underage while dressed quite so much like a teenager. Whatever, it works and I benefit. There’s no one else in the whole theatre. ‘No more subtitles for you, Crawley’ I think. At least they tried, eh? The movie starts. We’ve sat ourselves at the back at the top right next to the speakers and the fear makes me tingle as much as the bass. My way of dealing with fear is to stick my fingers in my ears, Marcia’s is to squeeze my hand very hard and open her eyes even wider at the screen. The whole room is very dark and in a moment of almost silence (the black water is very still right now and no one is being murdered, currently) I hear a click and notice a sliver of cold light creep through the wall a few rows down from us. ‘Fuck, Marcia, look’ I whisper. She looks. She darts up and clambers over the seat as I hiss at her ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ I don’t know why I’m whispering. No one else is here. Out of respect for the characters on screen who’re hiding from a maniac and soon to be decapitated, I guess. Her hand grabs the crack of light and opens a small door before disappearing through. I sit motionless before her head pops back round the door. ‘Come on then!’ Half expecting a time portal behind the pale light, it’s disappointingly pedestrian, just a sparse steel ladder leading up into darkness. She’s already half way up when I start climbing and she bangs the hatch at the top open to reveal the night sky. You can’t see many stars, Gatwick lights made sure of that. But it’s warm and there’s a view of our town I’ve never seen before. It’s strangely quiet, just the constant hum of the motorway in the distance and I suddenly feel very alone. Marcia has found a slightly higher spot where you can better see over the walls surrounding the roof. We could be on the top of a mountain. Or in a tree house. But we’re on the roof of an imax in the world’s worst town. Marcia points up to the inky night sky ‘could be Black Water couldn’t it.’ I follow her gaze, mouth open in wonder at the vastness above us. A seagull shits in my mouth. I wish this were a joke. A seagull. Shits. In. My. Mouth. And I’m transported straight back into Crawley. ‘Fuckkkkk’ Marcia is rolling around, crying with laughter. I’m spitting and gagging and rinsing my mouth with overpriced doctor pepper. ‘Fuck Marcia you cannot tell ANYONE about this!’ ‘Only in Crawley babe. What happens in Crawley stays in Crawley.

I shivered at the reflection on my dressing table mirror. I couldn't recognise the person I had become. Trying to hold on to the edges of the table as a quake tore through me forcing my glass of water to move to the rhythm. Trying to hold my lips shut as a loud shriek fought to be released. And what shook me so bad? Memories, too many of them. Some of them I couldn't believe I survived. And the girl looking back at me, she was terrified. The tan on her skin seemed to be slowly fading into the darkness around her. Her pupils shrank to merely a spec floating in the white of her latina eyes. I wished I could hold her and tell her everything would be okay, but I couldn't lie to her. I couldn't tell her to calm down when my own heart was racing. Couldn't sing her to sleep when the only song on lips was that of death and torture and the evil that is... Sex trafficking. Why am I even here? I should be dead with each piece of me buried in different depths of the seven seas. Where my family would never find me. Where clownfish would make my skull a chamber for their eggs. Where I would be at peace. Then came a loud bang at the door. I jumped to my feet and rummaged through the table-top for a weapon. Any weapon. I finally grab hold of a pair of scissors and as the banging persists I curl up into the tightest little ball. It's how I protected myself, even though it barely ever stopped them from hurting me. "Valeria, is everything okay? You're up in five," the voice at the other end tried to calm my nerves," I know you must be panicking, but don't worry. You're going to be okay." It worked. I realised that I was not in a brothel in Amsterdam nor some perverted billionaire's luxury yacht. I was backstage at the New York Amphitheatre. I was supposedly safe and about to give a speech to thousands of young women out there. Tell them the story of how I survived the dark world of sex trafficking. About to make them believe that I made it out whole. But was I ready to lie that I didn't leave a piece of me behind. Was I ready to pretend that the scars had left my soul? Ready to relive it all? "I'll be out there in a minute," I silently muttered as I slowly rose to sit at my table. I locked eyes with her again. She seemed a little calmer, but I could still see the terror painted all over her face. Then I looked down at her lips and there was blood flowing down at both corners. I don't know what came over me, but I felt a burning desire to help her. After all she was me and I was her. I took out my handkerchief and reached out to wipe the sparkling crimson blood off her pretty mellow face. If only I had known... I happened to cut right through the silver. I could feel my hand on her face and a warm tear ran down her blush red cheeks onto my knuckles. Then she grabbed my hand and pulled. She wanted to leave that place, and fast. I resisted as hard as I could but I failed. She pulled me right into the other side of the glass and next thing I knew, I was lying facedown on a cold cold floor. The air caressing me was freezing. The stench of cheap perfume was choking. There was loud drunk chatter outside and deafening jazz music desperately trying to mute the cries of the girl next door. I felt empty and scared. I recognised these two emotions so much, I didn't have to open my eyes to know... I was back at the place I hated the most. The hellhole I was lucky to escape. The place where it all started... I was back home. As my mind raced out of control, trying to snap out of whatever illusion I was trapped inside, I heard a familiar voice. And that's when I was sure that somehow time had reversed itself all the way back to my time in Amsterdam."Valeria, are you in there?" And it was followed by three distinct knocks. "Lorenzo, is that you?" I asked with narrow disbelieving eyes as I crawled to the door. "Yeah, I brought you food," he softly said in the tone I remembered all too well,"I saw the client just leave, so I thought I would check up on you." It was him. But how could it be? He took a bullet to the head right in front of me all those years back. The mafia not only took away my freedom and my innocence, they also took the one thing that kept me sane. But by some heavenly grace, my sanity had returned to me or had I lost it even more? "But... But... But... You're not..." I stammered to tell him he was dead as I unlocked the door slowly just to be sure it was him. "Not allowed to? I know," and he walked in with a tray of sweet smelling somethings," But you know I..." He laid his eyes on me and his face dropped. He put the tray away and knelt to caress my face," What did he do to you?" I looked down at myself and saw I was barely wearing a thing, which was weird because the minute before I was in a glamorous red velvet dress. And I had bruises all over, not to mention the blood flowing down my legs. And I remembered this moment from long ago. A wealthy politician had booked me for the night and tortured me. But after seeing the condition his beatings put me in, he had ran off before finishing his time with me. And as Lorenzo looked into my eyes, holding me and waiting for an answer, I forgot everything about the new life I had made. I forgot that I didn't belong here, that I belong in the present, not this haunted past. That I was pulled in here by the girl in the mirror, I forgot it all. And all I could say was," He hurt me, Lorenzo," as I cried into his muscular arms. He held me tightly in what felt less like a hug and more like him strangling the politician. But it was warm and I felt safe. After a few minutes of peaceful, yet awkward silence, he looked into my eyes again and spoke with his eyes red," They will never lay a finger on you again, we leave tonight." As I said, in that moment, I forgot everything that was to happen after that. In that moment, I forgot what I needed to remember. I was back to being that blank little teenager, full of hope and fear at the same time. All I could feel was how badly I wanted to leave, so I mistakenly uttered the same words I did so long ago," I can't take it anymore, baby, let's leave all this terror behind, but tonight? There's the grand anniversary tonight, how will we even leave?". "Don't worry, I've got everything planned and the three of us are leaving tonight." "Who's the third?" "My buddy, Rancho, he's sick of this place too." "Are you sure we can trust him? He is the matron's right hand man after all." "The matron treats him like crap and he wants to leave this dirty world as much as we do." He sounded sure of his friend's loyalty to him saw I just kept quiet and looked into his blue eyes. I saw the tender love and care in them and just as had happened long before, I planted a deep kiss on his lips. A kiss of hope. A kiss that could say more than my lips alone ever could. I love you, I trust you and I want you to carry me home. One thing led to the other and he lifted me off the floor, placed sweet tingly kisses down my neck and placed me on my bed. Now we were lying down nose to nose after intense making out. He felt my fingers trailing down his pants, but considering my state, he stopped me and asked," Are you sure? You're hurt. Do you really want to do this?" I nodded yes and the rest was history. For a few glorious heartbeats, I was part of him, and he of me. He would look into my eyes and gently hold me as we made love. He was always careful not to hurt me like clients usually did. I swear the way he did it was simply divine. His movement had a rhythm to it and I enjoyed every part of the symphony. It was like watching a great artist paint, but instead of Da Vinci, it was him and I was his Mona Lisa. He tilted his brush at just the right angle and used only the finest of paints. He occasionally reduced his speed just to make sure his brushwork was beyond standard. And as he approached the climax of his masterpiece, he would stroke his brush with gradually increasing vigor and in a blissful blink, he was done. He would moan only at the end, loud enough to tell me I was sweet, but quiet enough to keep us from getting caught. He kissed me, and I, not knowing that this was his last time entangled in my sheets and resting between my legs, whispered," When can we do this again?" And he whispered back," When we're free, my love, when we're free." And another one of his life giving kisses landed on my lips. His hands were back around my waist and I could feel him regaining arousal. I couldn't complain when I wanted the same thing over and over again. I hung my legs on his broad alluring shoulders and he kissed both legs all the way down... But in the middle of paradise, I heard a voice in the hallway. A voice that still brings all the nightmares back, it was the matron." Lorenzo, Lorenzo," he looked up at me with his face all wet," it's the matron, hide!" And he erupted from the bed into the closet. I quickly threw his clothes under the bed and sat there, nervously anticipating her entry. And without a knock she burst in like she owns the place and in her defense, she did. "Hello, my pretty American," she spoke in her sickening Southern French accent," Have you been a good girl today?" I looked down and nodded. "Get dolled up because tonight, you're performing and all eyes will be on you!" And she left, banging the door as she walked out. Lorenzo broke out from the closet in only his briefs. He gave me a confused look and ordered,"You can't perform tonight!" "If I don't they'll kill me," I said under my breath as I pulled my rough thin blanket as if to hide myself. "Don't you get it, Val?" He said as he paced around the room," This ruins everything, baby. I only want the two of us to be free and start a family somewhere out there." Then he came onto the bed and crawled closer. He held my face in both his hands gently and said in a calming tone," Am doing this for us. You can't perform." And I looked away, I couldn't give him an answer. The matter at hand was beyond me. And I thought it over, an escape plan with half a chance of success or my life. I made the same mistake I made so many years ago and I chose... My life. It was time for my performance. As I walked to the pole I spotted him in the midst of the many of the repulsive perverts that frequented this hellhole. That was an undying quality of his, he was a diamond in the rough. I quickly broke eye contact with him as I could not bear to see the disappointment in his eyes. And like I was told to do, I danced my heart out like every other night before that. When you're forced to do something for two whole years, it kinda grows on you. A bullet was fired and I fell from the pole. I wasn't shot, but the sound startled me. Everyone was running every which way and I tried to spot Lorenzo again, but he seemed to have blended into the thick crowd of expensive suits and ties. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and I looked back, it was him. "Take my hand, let's go," and we ran through the crowd. He took me to an emergency exit and we were out of the building. But all of the sudden, we stopped. I looked at him and asked," Why are we stopping?" "Rancho, he was supposed to bring a car," he said. "That won't be happening, Lorenzo," Rancho said as he came up from behind us. We slowly turned back and were met with guns pointed at our faces. Rancho was with her, the matron. She was pointing her gun at me with an evil old hag smirk on her wrinkly face," You thought you could run from me that easily? Well, as we say in France, think again. On your knees, you fools!" "Rancho, brother, put down your gun, please," Lorenzo pleaded as we slowly went down on our knees. But as he spoke to Rancho, he slowly slid a gun into the back of my lingerie. I figured, he was the one who fired the bullet as a distraction. I didn't resist and I adjusted my waist so it would not fall out. Stripper lingerie can be really disappointing at times. "Hands where I can see them," Rancho yelled at him as he went closer to my love. "And you, Valeria. I trusted you," the matron said as she put her gun away," You are our most seductive and celebrated dancer and that isn't enough for you? Once Rancho blows your lover's brains out, I'll have him torture you the same way your favourite client does." She was referring to the visitor from earlier on. The was a frequent at this brothel and he was merciless. But I didn't care about that, I couldn't let them take my Lorenzo's life. So in that second I made the another deadly mistake. One that bought me back my freedom, at a hefty price. I took out the gun from behind me and shot at Rancho. I had never held a gun before so the bullet only scratched his arm. But he was down for a second so I, at lightning speed, pushed the matron away, grabbed Lorenzo and ran. It was while we were running for our lives that I heard another gunshot. I looked back and saw him fall to the ground. Nevertheless, I kept running, tears running down my cheeks, but still running. Rancho and the matron tried to shot me, but I managed to escape. I got to a hidden alley and I stopped to rest. My breathing was out of control and my head was spinning. I was sobbing my eyes out and then in a fit of rage shot at the wall in front of me and I screamed," Lorenzo!!!" Then all I saw was black. I opened my eyes and found three figures looking down at me. My manager,Laura, my sister, Vanessa and my mom. I was in my dressing room again. "Valeria, are you okay?" Laura asked," what happened? your speech is in a minute." "How can you ask about her speech when you can see the condition she's in?" My mother scolded Laura," she's not doing it!" I was glad I was back and as mother scolded Laura, I drifted away in thought and realised I had a lot to be grateful for. I was still alive and about to tell my survival story to millions of young girls. I was about to tell them how to protect themselves from the same, about to give them hope and affirm to them that being a girl wasn't a crime. That the people who do these sorts of things to girls must and will pay. I was an inspiration and regardless of my past demons, I had the power to save so many other souls. And I felt my previous anxiety fade. I was ready. I sat up and said to my mom," Don't worry, mima. I'll be okay." And kissed her on the cheek and stood. As I walked on to the stage, the crowd went wild. I gave a brief smile at their supportive affection for me and I began," If you told me five years ago, that I would be standing here in front of all of you lovely people, I'd have slapped you crazy." And they all giggled. "Because I lost all hope, I lost myself. But now, God has given me back what the devils tried to steal, my life and my happiness." "Just a few minutes before now, I didn't know if this speech was actually going to happen, but I was reminded of how much I had to be thankful for." "That is why I stand before you tonight, to tell you a story. Not just any story," I said to intrigue them as I walked across the stage," the story of how I fell into the lion's den. Of how I suffered, then in the middle of that suffering got delivered and how I found a love that went as fast as it came." "A story that doesn't deserve any other beginning than... Once Upon A Nightmare."

Her eyes had the kind of wild you only dream about. The intense ferocious roar that you could see miles away. Her hair had the kind of fiery you only imagine. Like fire, the tendrils flowed around her shoulders and down her gently back. The only difference was the color- her curls had the lightest ombre of blue, and even from where I stood it was clear no dye could get the magnificent shades her hair held. Her skin, pale, almost translucent in the dying rays of sun struggling to break the clouds, glowed freely. The sweet tenderness of her pose, how elegant and free she was, meant something. She was a beautifully cold sight to witness. She was startling and sweet and innocent but there was something about her. The sand beneath her toes struggled to be seen, wrapping closer and closer to her ankle, a small wave etched into her skin. Light blue, almost too small to be seen- yet it could not escape my keen eye I suppose- and the white sea foam at the ends almost didnt show up on her skin. I sighed in true contentment as I watched her. The beautiful emerald and blue sky stretched far across the horizon. She started it out softly. Her voice barely rose above a decible. The roar of the tide drowned it out almost completely, but never fully. She giggled, before her calm voice rose gently above the crash of the sea fighting itself and in a flash it was still. I felt a calm I had not felt in such a while i forgot the feeling. Everything crashed back to reality as her voice sung so clearly and purely I did all I could not to fall deeper in love with the beautiful sounds and sights of the girl. The sea seemed to swirl and twist with her melody floating through the air. It drifted and floated towards the sea. The sea mist brushed around her like a cool blanket. She welcomed the embrace with open and outstretched arms, her grace moving freely beyond the human race. She turned to me with a smile pulling the corners of her lips up. I didnt know her, yet I felt safe. Maybe I did. She was familiar, a warm touch on my cold cheek. Her startling blue green eyes, ringed with grey, caught mine as she began to dissolve in the mist. I startled, though it was never a real surprise. "Its time for me to go home," filled my heart without a care, her words cocooning me in a sweet sense of love and comfort with a hint of reckless fire. Home. For she was the sea, and I was only there long enough to enjoy it dearly. And with a long crash as the curl of the wave arched its proud neck and carried the mist into the sea foam, she was gone but never to be forgotten. Day after day I would come to enjoy adventuring into the sea as her protection would always surround me, even in the deepest waters. Oh, I will never forget the girl. The girl in the waves. The girl of the sea. And the hum of her melody.

I watched her purple trail leave the atmosphere. I ran to James and got on my comms while tending to his shattered leg. "Edith, what the hell are you doing?" "The only thing I can do, Val. It hurts too much. I'm too tired." "You're not talking about the energy, are you?" "My whole life... I've fought for people. I fought for my world. But I can't do it anymore." "Then retire. Don't do this. Edith, get back here!" "That won't work. You know that. This life always brings us back. Well... Not anymore. Not me." "Edith, people care about you. Your daughter is seven! What am I supposed to tell her?" "Tracie. Oh, God. I'm sorry. Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I-" I watched as the Exodus exploded. "Edith? Edith!" I shouted. "No!" I saw several things falling from the sky. They all landed in front of me. I shielded myself and James with Black Ice. I went into the debris field and looked around. Right in the center, the sword of Lady Thunder stood, hilt deep in the Earth. Like Excalibur waiting for the next king. James sat up. "What happened?" He called. I went back to him. He repeated himself. "She... She took out Exodus. Edith did, I mean." "Oh, that's good. Did she kill the big dude, too?" "Yeah. He's a puddle." "Good. I bet she can't wait to see Tracie again." He said. I hesitated. He noticed. "Wait... Where is Edith?" "She's..." I choked up. "The Exodus beam, when she absorbed it... I guess it was too much. She felt ready to blow. So... She went to the Exodus. She's gone, James." I said. James let his head fall back to the ground. "Oh, God. Tracie..." "I don't think I'm gonna be able to look her in the eyes. She's seven. And her mom is dead." "Let's go. Tracie's at HQ. Let's go there." He said. I nodded and picked him up. I activated my teleporter on my belt and the portal shimmered to life in front of us. I stepped through and met Derek and Tracie at the table. Tracie was drawing with crayons, and Derek was looking at her with a lot of pain in his eyes. He looked at us. So did she. "Auntie Valerie!" She said happily. I loved when she called me auntie. She came to me and hugged me. The portal closed behind me. She looked around me. "Where's mommy?" She asked so innocently. I looked at Derek. He looked down at the table. He couldn't bring himself to tell her. Not that I blame him. Tracie was more hopeful and bright than her mother. I set James on the table and he sat up. I got on my knees and got at her level. "Hi, Tracie." "Hi, Auntie!" She said again with a smile. "Where is my mommy?" I hesitated. "Well... You know your mommy is a hero. She saves a lot of people." I said. "Yeah! She said she's super-mom." "Well, your mommy was tired. She took too many hits. She got hurt." Tracie was confused, and I was tearing up. "Tracie, you precious girl. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." I said, starting to cry. Tracie couldn't seem to figure it out. "Why are you sad?" She asked. She dropped her crayons and paper and hugged me. "Don't be sad." She said. I pushed her off me. "Baby... I failed your mom. She's gone. I let her down." "She's always at other planets," Tracie said. "That's not what I mean. I don't know... I don't know how to say it." James slid off the table and slid over to us. "James, you're hurt." "You're hurt worse. Let me." He said. "Hey, little firecracker." He said to Tracie. "Why is Valerie sad?" She asked. I hugged her again, holding onto her tightly. I wanted to protect her forever. "She just loves you a lot. So she's sad because she doesn't want to hurt you." "She's not hurting me." "I know. But... There's something about your mommy you have to know." He said. I looked into her eyes. She was nervous. "Where is she?" "She got hurt. She... She's gone. Forever. She can't come back." He said. She processed what she heard. "Why?" She asked, scared. "I... She died. She sacrificed herself." He said finally. Tracie understood. She started to cry. She wailed. I held her tightly, letting her cry into my shoulder. I rubbed her back. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." I said. I stayed there with Tracie for a long time. I picked her up and carried her to a chair. Derek took James to the infirmary. "Auntie?" Tracie asked through her crying. "Yes?" "I miss my mommy." She said. That line left me speechless. I felt like my lungs were frozen. I kept her close to me as she cried. "I miss her too," I said after a while. In an hour, Tracie tired herself out. I carried her to my room and set her up in my bed so I could keep an eye on her. Edith had no family records, so it was the moment I set Tracie in my bed that I decided I would adopt her. Her father had gotten close to Edith to try to take us apart from the inside out and nearly succeeded. He hadn't planned to get her pregnant, but apparently, Edith had wanted for a kid for a while. It was when the father put the child at risk when Edith realized he was a bad man. When he threatened Tracie... I was ready to freeze him right then and there, but Edith turned him to ash long before I could. I looked at her, so peaceful and comfortable. I swept her hair out of her face and put the covers over her. "You still have me. You will always have me." "I promise.

After a night of fitful rest, Madeline awoke with a start. *Something was wrong!* Freezing, she listened closely. Besides her own shallow breaths, she could just about make out the sound of someone else breathing. At least it *sounded* human. She couldn’t remember ever having *heard* a Poiloog breathe, other than the strange rasping sound they sometimes made as they died. A creaking floorboard confirmed her suspicion. She was halfway to standing by the time she heard a familiar voice. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you!” Catching herself before she put too much weight on her bad leg, Madeline sagged back onto the sofa. “Lena?” she sighed with relief. “What are you doing here?” “We figured it’s best to head out as soon as possible -- should be able to put enough distance between us and the meeting place today.” She walked further into the room as she spoke, setting her pack down on the floor. “Then we won’t need to move on again for a while, and we can get you properly rested and healed.” Madeline glanced out the cracks in the curtains. Although there was some light breaking through, it was still the greyish-blue of predawn. “So you’re an early riser too, huh?” “When I have to be,” the woman chuckled. “But if it helps, I got a similarly rude awakening from Billie. They were very eager for me to check on your injury. May I?” “Go ahead.” Lena stooped to grab a few things from her pack while Madeline pulled her trousers down far enough to make the wound visible. The doctor worked as quickly and effectively as before, her touch firm but gentle. In a matter of minutes, the injury had been cleaned and redressed. When she’d finished packing away her things, Lena turned to ask, “Do you need anything? Food? Drink? Or are you good to go?” “Errr...” Madeline considered herself, trying to listen to her body’s complaints instead of suppressing them as she usually did. “I should probably eat something, but I think I’ve got plenty.” “Alright then. I’ll let Billie know. Then they’ll probably come and bother you so... Be warned.” A wry smile tugged at Lena’s lips. “And don’t dilly-dally.” “I wouldn’t dream of it!” Madeline chuckled. \ She was ready just in time for Billie’s face to appear at the door. “All good?” they asked. “Yep.” As she started limping over to them, they dashed forward, grabbing her bag and slipping their arm into its now familiar position under her shoulders. Soon, they were on their way. The day passed similarly to the one before. Lena kept her distance, sweeping the area they were travelling through in preparation for the slower-moving pair and keeping in contact via walkie-talkie. For the most part, that left Madeline and Billie alone. They passed the time in quiet conversation, wary of making too much noise lest they miss the hum of an approaching Poiloog ship. Though she felt as close to Billie as she ever had to anyone, Madeline realised it was the longest she’d ever spent in their company, for fear of drawing the Poiloog’s attention. They might have stayed up all night talking via radio, but never this long in person. And never while in such close proximity to each other. She could feel the ripple of her friend’s muscles under her arm and the warmth of their skin next to hers, smell the sweat built up over the day practically carrying her, and see practically every pore in their olive skin. It made Madeline conscious of what she must smell and look like. With her injury, everything felt like so much more effort than normal, and she was sure it showed. But she was equally sure that Billie would never judge her for that. That was if they even noticed. She couldn’t imagine her friend was paying her anywhere near as much attention as she was paying them, busy scanning the streets for signs of danger as they were. Over the course of the day, they paused a couple of times at Lena’s instruction. Whenever she heard a Poiloog ship, she’d let them know. Then, Billie would hide Madeline somewhere safe before retreating to a nearby building in the hope they would avoid detection. It was a system that seemed to be working, though Madeline couldn’t help but feel that they’d got lucky so far. And soon, that luck would have to run out. But, despite her misgivings, the journey passed without serious incident. By the time the sun was grazing the horizon, they’d reached the outskirts of a new city. Lena scouted out the houses again, selecting a few that she deemed the right balance of proximity and distance. While she kept watch, Billie helped Madeline into the middle of the three dwellings. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” they asked as they half-carried her to the sofa. “I feel like I should be here with you in case... Well, in case anything.” “Of course,” Madeline replied. “As much as I might enjoy your company, I do need a break every now and then!” Although it was said in jest, she instantly regretted the words. Why would she say something so completely untrue? “Besides,” she added hurriedly, “it’s safer this way. You know it is.” Billie sighed. “I just wish...” “I know. Me too.” A sad smile pulled at her lips. “But we’ve got the walkies. You can check in any time. And I promise I’ll let you know if I need you.” “Alright.” They nodded before looking around the dishevelled living room. “Do you need anything before I go?” “I’m all set,” Madeline replied, patting her bag lightly. “In that case, I’ll leave you to it.” Unbidden, something rose inside her that she couldn’t bite back. “Billie?” she called out after them. “Yes?” They turned back to her, eyes wide. “I just wanted to... to say thank you.” Madeline paused, taking a deep breath before plunging onward. She’d started now, so she may as well finish. “You changed me and my life for the better when I met you. I don’t think I’d have coped without you, to be honest. And now, all this.” She gestured at her leg. “You’re a literal lifesaver. So thank you.” Billie’s eyes widened further still, boring into hers. Madeline glanced away, embarrassed by the outburst. The creak of a floorboard warned her of their approach seconds before strong, warm arms folded around her. “I’d do so much more, Mads. You know that,” they whispered, breath tickling her neck. “Thank you for being in my life.” Slowly, when the shock had worn off, Madeline returned the embrace. The pair remained like that for what felt to her like a flash of eternity. When Billie eventually pulled back, their eyes were swimming. They muttered, “Sleep well, Mads.” Then, they hurried out the door. Alone, Madeline became acutely aware of her racing heart. And then there was how her skin tingled where Billie’s arms had been moments before. In a way, she felt as if she was still held in their warm hug. But as the corners of her mouth lifted further and further, reality came crashing back. Given the world they were living in, how could she possibly be indulging a silly little *crush*? And worse still, she needed Billie. Not just because of her injuries, but because of everything else. The support. The connections. The knowledge. She definitely shouldn’t do anything to jeopardise that. Besides, from what she’d seen, Billie seemed to have a way with people. She didn’t want to just be another in a long line of conquests. Pushing the foolish thoughts out of her head, she lay back with a *humph* and closed her eyes. But no matter how much she *decided* she wasn’t going to think about it, her mind had other ideas. It looked like she was in for another long, sleepless night.

This place was once home, or at least, Skie thought it was, alive under the roof of her rumbling years caught in the cobwebs of the cellar. The crystal chandelier was still as dazzling as starlight, glistening like a foreign galaxy above, reflecting the youthful, curious eyes of Skie’s once future nostalgia. It was here that she became who she was in the guest room of her ancestors' home. Plastered with pink floral paper and cheap, fluorescent candelabras, Skie pictured this empty room as it once was: filled with laughter, love, dolls, and books: everything she needed to be the studious mischief-maker she knew herself to be, the way her grandmother saw her. The same remaining gold-encrusted windows of a cotton king were a mere parlor trick for the masses: her wide eyes lit like a flickering flame in the memory. As for the diamond mirror, Skie could see the curtains behind her move like dancers in a dead ballroom from decades before, something she could not quite picture with her whole heart, yet tried. It was nothing short of painful fun, cast away in the cloth containing the remnants of the storm that shook the kingdom. And this specific towering torrent of all the terraces took the hit. “Please, don’t leave me, Nana, I just wanna be with ya, like you promised you would be,” an adolescent Skie cried, with tears cascading from her curled lashes to her clementine-charcoal cut. There was no more anguish she needed to hide- the war was a time for fear and sorrow. And death: but not just blood and bones, but broken hearts and bonds, severed with the baron distance between souls. It boiled her blood like a melting pot of gumbo from a crawdad feast, a tradition in the manor she loved almost as much as she loved her darling grandmother. “We will be together soon, child,” Lily Jane responded, holding her granddaughter’s clammed hands in her own. Pulling a jewelry box from her house dress fur, she clamped the young fingers around the velvet frame, kissing the head of her kin. “I will miss you, turtle,” Lily trembled, hugging her child in the nooks of her arms. “I‘ll always sing for you, Bluebird,” Skie smiled, as her grandmother pushed her away, behind the door of a horse-drawn carriage. Her grandmother’s fate forever remained a mystery to her. Skie rubbed the warm glass from her silent eyes at the sight of a familiar painting in tatters on the wall: the living history of a ruinous ransacking, and she never really knew why. Reaching her rough, slightly wrinkled hands into her denim pockets, she plucked her gifted chest from below a zig-zagged zipper and held it to the beating of her breast. Lifting the lid, her eyes widened like they did every time before: to the graceful angel playing her harp on a cloud. The music was a memory of the joyous life she once lived: a life that disappeared into thin air the way her family did: the way her Bluebird did. Nostalgia sank into her bones and seeped into the surrounding, familial smells of the plaster ceilings and decadent doorways, now darkened with the empty bliss of abandonment. This place was no longer home to anyone but the ghosts of the past generations, now grounded in sullen graves. Skie was alone in the ruins of her runnings, and in the routines of her clockwork cheer with the rising and setting of the sun. “Who am I to you, Bluebird? I don’t know if your turtle is still here,” Skie paced, hoping for a sign from the fathoms above in the cloudless blues of the serene sky. “I love you Lily Jane, and don't you forget it.” She rubbed her fingertips across the painting in tears, remembering the blueprint of her childhood. Not a symbol anywhere else of it remained: not even in Skie’s reflection. It almost seemed too distant to have happened. “You skank, have you lost your mind,” Lily Jane shouted over the railing to the ballroom floor, glaring at her daughter Clara King, a woman of rebellious, wild nature. A nature of reckless loving and whim: the very nature that landed her a child of wedlock, a pregnancy of premature measures. This was an unthinkable humiliation to Lily and her family, they did have a reputation to withhold. “But mother, I love George and he promised to pay his dues to his child, whatever the cost. It is not as bad as y’all be thinking. Just hear this once again and I will be free from your world, by Jesus, I will,” Clara contested, rubbing her hairline once over with the comb of her fingertips. She knew she had made a mistake, but she wasn’t going to admit it: especially not to her mundane and traditional mother. Lily Jane never wanted anything to do with change. In her eyes, women were homemakers in the making, just misled by fantasies and whimsical theories of evolution and industrial advancement: there was nothing that needed to change in her eyes. It wasn’t broken, so why bother fixing it? She hated hearing that women were more than that these days. “That man is a no-good cheating criminal from a family who is all the same, and I thought you would have known better than to tangle yourself up with the help. He’s an idiotic boy of ideas and theories that only enchant the maiden's wallet and get her a family before she even seals the deal! You have brought this on yourself, thinking that your juxtaposition was a delicious sight to the kingdom, well now it looks like you’ve seen it. Good for you, child. I hope you roast in the devil’s deathbed with that George from the north with a mouth bigger than a brain!” Lily’s face was a flaring red, burning under the candle-lit chandelier, refracting the rain from the elegant lattice sill. The sky was crying for her, as it would seem, with not a chirp of the sparrows to dote on. The haze of gray was no darker than the fog of her anguished eyes, sobbing in pure embarrassment: she wished she raised her child better, to be smarter, wiser, with just a hint of logic. She had failed as a parent, as a mother and a daughter alike. And she knew that in nine months, her own Clara would do the same. She had birthed another reckless trouble into this sophisticated world of willful greed, as sharp as a dagger in the pulsation of her thumping heart. “Well, I suppose I just tip the scale, don’t I mother?” “Maybe you do. We just don’t make the ends meet the way they should.” “I guess I’ll just be off then,” Clara whispered, pushing back the raindrops from her eyes as best she could, but her mother let the water fall. Was this it? The wallpaper seemed to shrink around the frayed edges, leaving nothing but the foundation of a concrete chapel leaning into the hurricane winds of the southern storms. Yet, this fortress was far from falling apart: in fact, it seemed to keep Skie together. This palace represented who she was and who was a part of her in another life: a glorious life, long misplaced. While lighting the hanging chandelier, she noticed how the flames glistened like a bottle of sparkling champagne. “This brings it all back, doesn’t it Bluebird,” Skie muttered into the ceiling, envisioning her reincarnated life with love in it. Lifting the lid of her jewelry box, Skie hummed along with the familiar melody like a lullaby, singing softly to the beating of her laced lungs. Her home was entrenched inside the soft beat. Rubbing her fingers along the chilled lip of her treasure box, the dancing angel flipped to the force of her palm on the right rotation, turning an encryption to the outside air from underneath. Flabbergasted and surprised, Skie couldn’t help but explore the hidden element of her grandmother’s only living legacy: what she wanted her dear child to one day discover. A sudden tap at the door knocked Lily Jane straight out of her cushioned loveseat, “James, would you check the foyer for our midnight visitor?” A man in a black suit pulled open the gold, creaky knob at his employer’s request, only to reveal none other than a basket, crying in the blistering cold of the winter wind. “Bring it to me, James,” Lily called from the heat of the hearth before her feet. Upon uncovering the wicker-handled lid, Lily couldn’t help but collapse to the floor in agonizing pain: and staring back at her were the second generation eyes of her runaway Clara. Running to the courtyard gardens of the manor, Skie needed to catch her abandoned breath in the clouds and honeysuckle of the towering vinyl archway. The cold, metallic gleam of the golden frame sent a chill through her spine: it was a riddle. THE KEY ENTRENCHED IN HOLLYS PAVED, A QUESTION UNKNOWN AND EVIL ENSLAVED Skie must have read the scripture over a dozen times from start to finish, like a record on repeated skip. Why would this have been left to her by her grandmother, and what did it have to do with Foxglove Manor? Pacing throughout the courtyard grounds, Skie made her way to a cemetery of faded rock, destined to be lost with the hands of ticking time. Planning each step with great caution, she made her way through the rows of deceased daughters and sons, placing a single-flowered dandelion at the foot of each name. James, Johnathon, Clara, Holly. “Tell her to be quiet, my lord, please. The sound is more dreadful than a dying mountain goat in a spring avalanche.” “I’m sorry Madame, but the child is rather ill with hunger,” responded a nursemaid, old enough to have been Clara’s governess many moons ago. Lily sashayed over to the nursery from her study across the hall, a Victorian mundane coop to asymmetrical butterfly’s wings, swinging from the hallowed sphere of the antechamber. Lily tried hard not to look squarely at the array of Arabian shapes and shades. “Give her to me,” she scolded, taking the child into the crook of her elbow. The nurse bowed as she climbed out of the room and into the thickness of the molasses hall, making it even more difficult for Lily to scold her to a point of potent pleasure. But this time, she sang to the child a song of hope, plague, and fertility. She sang her a song of repentance. Foxglove Manor was for two types of people: the respected and the cowardly, like a cycle of dependence and service. The long line of slave owners and cotton royals made their true mark of each level, with a gold staircase and crown molding to seal the deal of disgusting wealth. These were the respecteds, going so far as to kill to keep a secret, with only the silent servants as unseeing eyes. Skie felt as though the eyes of the stone were focused on her, zoomed out from the years in the barren sandstorm winds. This was it. Crouching to the engraved letters, Holly Daniels McKinney seemed to be a forgotten name of history in a place unknown to the outside world, except for Skie. She recognized the name as more than a century old. Could it be that easy? Rubbing her fingers along the weathered tomb, Skie noticed a number upside down in the year of the woman’s death. Pushing away the wild foliage, she turned the number right side up to the fact she knew to be true. “Curious,” she exclaimed, just as the ground began to shake under her feet. Falling on all fours, she closed her eyes and sheltered her head with her hands as she fell through the ground like a raindrop from the clouds. The collapse of the cavernous cemetery seemed to be something from a historical novel, an Egyptian treasure secured at the bottom, but what Skie found was far from it. It had been a wonderful vacation to the Middlelands, as she liked to call it, in a world drenched in crater lakes and evergreen glades of green fir flames. “Are you packed, darling,” Lily Jane asked through a thin tent flap no more extravagant than the dirt grass and peat moss itself. But all Skie wanted for her birthday was a camping trip with her Nana, and of course, Lily had to come through, especially because of the life her daughter gave her grandchild. The orphan wanted relations the way she never had with her flesh and blood: Lily had to make up for the terrible daughter she raised. “Ready, Bluebird” the child responded, all dolled up in pigtails and charm bracelets, like Barbie straight from her plastic wardrobe: Lily absolutely adored her. “I have a surprise for you, darling,” she whispered into her granddaughter’s bejeweled ear as she handed her a package wrapped in the same green velvet fabric she made lopsided gowns out of in the ballroom. Skie’s sole excuse was “it spoke to her”. “You haven’t had much of a family besides me, Skie. This gift holds the key to your very existence and breath in this wood. You are one with Foxglove Manor.” Every night under the butterfly lampshade lit with a dim kerosene flicker, Skie relished in the genealogy of the book’s thick, parchment paper like a scroll from the library of Alexandria. She cherished the book, keeping it hidden and safe in the pillowcase under her very head each night. Nothing would come between her and her family, and she meant it literally. She eventually came to memorize the names on each page: Dolly, Mason, Ivan, Holly, the list went on like the Bible. She finally felt as though she was one with Foxglove Manor. When Skie opened her hazelnut eyes, she could barely hold her tongue as she yelled in shock through the layers of solid dust. “What kind of sick joke is this?” Just as she was about to forget her French filter, a glimmering portrait caught her eye. “Wow.” “Hold still darling, or Monsieur Nelson won’t get your profile right.” “Hey Mr. Nelson, I like your dress and top hat!” “This, Mademoiselle Skie, is a beret, not a ‘top hat’,” the artist scoffed, rubbing his horsehair brush across the yellowing canvas, “And child, not a dress, but an apron for the shell paints.” “My sincere apologies, Monsieur, she has never been painted before,” Lily Jane stated, adding the slightest tinge of embarrassment to the sympathetic mix of her silky voice. It would seem to Skie as though she was never angry, or even, that she didn’t know how to be. After the several-hour ordeal, Lily and Skie took a walk in the garden, sharing secrets and stories like they always did. And there it was, hanging just above her sewn-up hair like a stag head on the wall, showing proudly the hunt at the manor decades ago. A swell of tears came to Skie’s eyes as she stared at her grandmother’s face for the first time since their parting. Not even words had been shared that day, and Skie regretted not even saying a simple ‘thank you’ to the only family she had truly ever known or had for that matter. Weaving her way through the maze of sod and rubble, Skie touched the face of her elegant Bluebird dressed in a fur cloak over a ruby red ball gown only seen on the occasional eve of her favorite festivities. Skie pictured her own soft hands in her grandmother’s pearl-gloved hands, like the Virgin with a sinner under white fallen snow: pure magic. After making her way past the painting, she noticed a golden wardrobe closet strung on fading sketches with flowers on a bundle of sullen ivy. The wrinkle in time had been resurrected with the masses. “Now darling, as this gown was Great Aunt Holly’s willed to be, it shall be passed down to you,” Lily Jane pet, braiding the hair of her second chance child. “I don’t like wearing animals, Nana,” Skie interrupted as the tears flooded her whimsical brown eyes. She liked to pretend that her grandmother was wearing a living bear still intact, not a dead one reduced to a bellowing fur pellet. “Alright then, maybe not the cloak, but you will have this ruby dress.” “Nana, whenever I think of you, I think of that dress. Is it magic?” “It has the power to keep people connected through love. Just as I loved my darling Aunt Holly, you will forever love me the very same way.” Skie couldn’t help but gush at the thought that she and her Nana would be together forever, one way or another. It was a power that seemed to vanish over the hazy years. There was something special about the closet, Skie could almost feel it the minute she settled her gaze on the wonderous glint of the wardrobe. Pressing her fingers to the hollow drawers of the chest, she noticed a knob was missing on one of the levels. Tracing the outline of the puzzle piece, she noticed its immediate similarity with the music box her grandmother had given her at a time of comfort and golden memories. It was nothing but nostalgia now. Skie untucked the gift from her pocket and placed it in the exposed wood, mimicking a jigsaw at its finest. She turned the makeshift stub to the side, cracking the lid of the rectangular secret. Excitedly, she forced her hands into the unknown and pulled out a ruby red cloth protected in bearskin fur. She was finally one with Foxglove Manor. She had reunited with her Bluebird.

You love being the center of attention. You love being adored by the rest. You’re kind and sweet and caring and your personality is what makes people want to be around you. You’re also smart, you know your stuff, people want to work with you, people enjoy hearing your ideas and seeing you get so excited over future projects. They love your smile. They love your face. They love your body. You love that. You know your smile is a radiance of good energy, people like your company, they like your aura. Your face seems to be molded by goddesses of beauty, carved with delicate features and lovely touches that bring a sense of pleasure admiring you. Your body is to be a temple which only those worthies get to see, but to you, few are worthy enough, you play hard to get, they love that. You know they do. You are walking perfection, no one can hate you because if they do you have a whole army willing to kill at your command to make sure that all that negativity is not a foot around you and your glorifying presence. You love all these feelings people have for you, yet you hate every single one of them. You are very good at putting up masks and layers to create a persona. You don’t hate being a beauty standard, you hate that people remark it over and over to you. You hate the obnoxious comments of how perfect you are. You are annoyed by the people who can’t take a hint. It’s a good thing I look after you though. It’s a good thing I got to know you first. I wouldn’t want you to hate me. Trust me, darling, you are going to love me. Because I know how to listen. I know all about patience, I’m waiting for the right moment for us to meet, for you to realize I’m the man you been waiting for all these years. You won’t have to tell me about yourself if you don’t feel ready, curiosity won’t kill me, I already know you. All of you. I know you struggle with your body image so much because even though the rest wish they could hold you and feel you, I know you squeeze a non-existent fat around your stomach, your toned legs, your arms. Everywhere. I wish I was there to assure your beauty. I wish I could whisper in your ear the things you need to hear. I know you have daddy issues, he would come and leave your life as he pleased, only to fuck your mom when he couldn’t find himself a whore, and then by dawn, he was gone. Which left you to have a little brother you adore with all your life. You are good with children. You will be a great mother to our children. Don’t worry I won’t judge you when you tell me about your abortion of last year that almost cause you to kill yourself as the father wouldn’t even be around for the procedure. You still think about him, but you won’t for long, when you meet me, I’ll be the only man you think about. Does your mother know about the student-teacher relationship? I do. I hope you tell me about it, I’m a simple man, I want there to be a trust between us, for us to share our darkest secrets to one another, I won’t forbid you to have guy friends but if you don’t feel comfortable with my friends they are out of my contacts by the next hour. I want you to feel good. I want you to feel like you can do anything you want and feel confident enough to tell me. I despise liars, I despise secrets. Don’t make me despise you. I know we haven’t met but I love you. I know you will love me just as much. I will treat you right, I will cook for you, take you out on the best dates, go wherever you want to go, anything. You will feel as if you are some princess around me. You and I are just meant for each other. I like to think I’m the complete package, at least to what you need. I know at first you won’t think that way, knowing you (is it clear I know you very well) you’re going to put up many challenges, darling I’m up for them, in fact, if you gave in so easily I will be... disappointed. I want your wedding speech about me to talk about how I fought for you, about how much of a good man I am. I want you to say that I’m patient, caring, understanding, intelligent, hard-working, amazing, everything you wanted in a man. I want to be the kind of man who makes you want to share the spotlight you get, to show me off just as much as I’ll show you off. I will be the one to make you love yourself, I know you cry yourself to sleep, almost every night you have a session, you are embarrassed to shower because you see all of you, without any layers of clothing nor a single drop of makeup to cover your eye bags. You dig your nails on parts of your skin you know you will be able to cover easily. I’ve seen them though. I sometimes just want to hold out to your hands and give you a hug. It breaks my heart to see you hurting yourself, why are you doing this to yourself? With me, that will stop. All your scars and insecurities and issues and problems and hatred and tears and sadness, everything will disappear with me. I’m your salvation. We will meet very soon, I told you what I’m willing to do for you, and slowly I will gain your love. I will be prepared for anything and everything. I am always watching over you through the screen.

&#x200B; She had been a regular at Tony’s Salon for 5 years. As a woman of some means this meant maintenance cut every 6-8 months, and the occasional stop in for a color or chop-off. However, there was something markedly different during her last visit. Her scalp itched. When she asked Tony if he was using a new product, he assured her it was business as usual. Perhaps she was developing an allergy, or maybe there was pollen in the air. Whatever the cause, this itch was new. By the time she was home, the itch on her scalp became warm and unrelenting. When she examined herself, the mirror showed no redness, no bumps. She did notice, though, the itch had moved to behind her ears and to the nape of her neck. By days end the itch had migrated to her shoulders and was so unrelenting she took a sleep aide to rest. After a morning of trying desperately to keep her hands of her tingling skin, she went back to Tony’s to try and remedy the itch. Tony ushered her into his chair, and there was a sudden, hot shiver across her body. Sitting became an unbearable task as she felt her entire body quietly rattle with the itch. When Tony’s answers were no relief, she wouldn’t allow him to put any products on her as she feared it would only exacerbate the burning itch. Her entire body trembled in the chair, and Tony suggested she may just be sick and should rest. She resolved to take the rest of the day to sleep in hopes of dulling the itch and what felt like a sweltering skin fever. Once again she took sleeping medication, and in getting ready for bed, the itch had become all-encompassing to her extremities. She couldn’t bear to put on pajamas as her skin throbbed under a sickening heat. How was she not sweating? How were there no blisters, no cracks? When she ran a brush through her hair before putting it up for sleep her scalp stung as though all the heat of her brain matter was pushing outward. She sent the brush across the room, ran a cold shower. Sat down, wept, and fell asleep. By morning she managed to move her body to her bed, where she eschewed all covers and clothing. Her bones vibrated inside of her skin as the itch grew. Within her skull there was a vibration that would not cease, no matter what remedy she applied. No medicine, no salve, no amount of scratching. The only thing she knew was that this began in her scalp. She recalled the searing pain of trying to brush her hair, and when she inadvertently ran her hand through her hair at the thought, the stinging began again. In the following two days she could not sleep. Her body could not touch any surface without the creeping itch growing into a full-body sear. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of her sleeplessness. Her speech slurred and her hands seem to move slower than her manic brain’s stream of consciousness would allow her. When she tried to silence her thought and stop her shaking body, the only thing that remained was the itch. Her lack of sleep and the overwhelming desire to pull every inch of her scalp and skin off overrode her conscious behaviour-she expended the lingering energy she had calling a cab to take her back to Tony’s. When she approached him her hand was trembling- but she couldn’t tell if it was the itch, the insomnia, or the mania she took on as the former two grew. “Please take it all off. I need it gone. It’s the only way.” Tony, shocked, obliged. It took only but 4 minutes to run the clipper through her hair to take it down to the scalp. As Tony left to get the broom, she let her head slump into her hands, and she wept. The itch remained. Her sobbing became uncontrollable until she heard it- the hard slap of Tony’s soft body hitting the ground. He had slipped on her fallen hair- and as his head hit the ground let out a hard, wet, thud. Her body itched as it paralyzed in shock. She sat, staring down as his twitching body became slow and lifeless, her skin throbbing. Until, the blood began to pool under him and his fluttering last movements had stopped- so did the itch.

Ones I had posted a photo on Instagram and after 2 hours I got the message from unknown person which is in my followers list and also facebook friend but I never know about him. The one message from that person who is unknown for me,changed my life fully. He is my junior in college time. We are from same department and in college we came across with each other but never talked. Coincidentally we are from same hometown. So when I post that photo I mentioned the location so he had came across that and send message to me. The message was very simple that hii you are from that hometown?and I replied yes how you know that hometown? ...and the chatting was continued till last night.After that we were talking on Instagram daily. It's just upto hi hello what are you doing like this, later on this continued and we became the good friends. The bond which made in us is very good. Later on we exchange our contact number with each other and start chatting on whatsapp. We regularly share our pics,thoughts and ideas with each other. In that period we knew each other very well and the trust were bulid in us. Slowly we are in the relationship which is more than the friendship. We like each other and most of the time our thoughts are similar. The feeling is awesome and it devoted towards the love. Because I felt that this is the person I am looking for. Many times he came to hometown for his work but we didn't meet. Because we had that much rules and regulations in our home. So we decided to meet other place which was far away from our hometown. In that period we felt that how was our relationship going on. Basically the other couples had meet there partner daily or weekly,enjoy the moments with their partners, taking selfies with each other share on social media. We were far away from that. After one year we had decided to go for the date. But in that one year period we only talk on whatsapp and calls. So that was very awkward moment for us and we had the small amount of fear in our mind. How we meet with each other we had that habit of talking on mobile only. How we face that moment is the main problem of us. And finally that day was came when we meet. That was the Sunday when we were going to meet with each other, finally see and feels the feelings. He send me the address where we had to go, and finally I go. We meet at the coffee shop where he was waiting for me. Just seeing me he smiled and said please seat. That was the first day when we are infront of each other. His smile and eyes shows that he was very happy. The same feelings I had also. First time we were together ❤. The moment was very happy and shying also. Around us many people were there. The waiters came and asked for an order. He ordered two coffees because coffee is our favorite drink. After some time when we finished our coffee he proposed me Infront of all on his knee and gifted me the watch. I really shocked at that moment because I never thought that he proposed me like that way and I cried at that moment and said yes to him. I really liked that moment which was memorable for me. He also cried because we are in the relationship from last one year and that was the first date. He hug me and kissed my forehead. That was the moment which is lovable for me. I felt like I got the all which I want in my life. He gives me the watch and my favorite chocolate which I like most. The people around us were clapping and said congratulations to us. After that we go to the theater for movie. He booked the tickets 2 days before, and he decided to feel me special through this date. The movie was started we were together and hi hold my hand,kissed and said that I love you from my bottom of heart I will never break this bond. Later on we kissed each other and that was the feeling I liked most. After that we goes to mall and he gifted me the dress which was pretty. We talked around 2 -3 hours continus. And finally the time had came when we had to go. He hold my hand and said next time I arrange good things which you love the most, and my answer was like I don't want precious things or gifts, I want you only🥰. That time he hug me and said goodbye by tc to me. Our love is different from others. Other couples are in relationship but they have a small amount of trust on each other. That was the thing which is not good and many times broke the relationship. Many relationships are based on love,sex and other factors. But the most important is soul,love and the trust. Soul is the important parameter of our relationship. Trust is the main things in relationships, without trust relationship can't be true. The true life partner is who? The person who is always support you in any situation. Always with you in your difficult times. Love your soul from bottom of heart,never let you go. I am very happy and feel proud because the partner which is in my life is a good person and love my soul. I am luckiest person in world because of my partner. We both have trust on each other and that trust is unconditional, and we never break that trust. We can't make the misunderstandings in us. Because we are that much mature and having the trust on each other. This is my story of first date with my partner.

People always look at me funny when I walk into Flora’s Flower Shop. Today is no different. They also gave me the stink eye when I placed a headstone for a man when there wasn’t even a body. My husband disappeared over three years ago, though. Even if I did order the headstone a year after his disappearance, it was more for closure. I also wanted a place that I could lay flowers down for him. Not in memorial, but in hope. I think that if people can, then they will judge you for just about anything and everything you do. Unfortunately, I am judged quite a lot. Before my husband, Peter, disappeared, he used to buy me a dozen red roses the first of every month. So, in honor of him and hopeful he’ll return, every month I buy a dozen red roses and place them at his headstone. I know there’s no body or ashes there, so talking to a headstone without anything there would be, different. So, instead I pray. I pray Peter is safe and alive. I pray he will return home one day. I also pray for strength to get me through each day I am without him. I don’t know what happened to Peter. He was a healthy twenty-seven-year-old man with a bright future ahead. I like to tell myself that he just got scared and ran away. It’s better than the alternative of thinking he’s dead. I know that’s what everyone thinks, but I can’t. I won’t. Not only for my sanity, but also giving our daughter hope that her father will one day return home, flowers in hand. As I stand here in front of my husband’s headstone, I wonder where he could possibly be. I wonder if he misses us as much as we miss him. I see so much of him in our daughter, April. His beautiful blue eyes, cute button nose and even his smile. I’m scared that one day she’ll ask where her daddy is, and I won’t know how to answer that. I place the dozen red roses I purchased earlier today, at my husband’s headstone, say a quick prayer, and walk away. I’ll visit again next month. On our wedding anniversary, I decided to leave April with my parents and visit Washington, DC. The cherry blossom trees are beautiful there around this time. Only a four-hour drive, yet I haven’t made this trip since Peter disappeared. We used to visit every year and take pictures under the cherry blossom trees. However, on this trip, I never expected to find my lost love. At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I even shook my head a bit, thinking I must be dreaming. It was real! I walked closer and reached out to touch his arm. As he turned around to face me, I saw another woman holding his other hand. I believe he was just as shocked as I was. I wanted to say something, but the other woman spoke first. She called him ‘James’, which just so happens to be his middle name. I tried to convince her that his name was ‘Peter’, and he is my husband, but she insisted that he was her husband. Hearing those words caused my heart to instantly drop to my stomach. I couldn’t think of anything to convince her or to snap him out of it. They started to walk away. That is when I told him I named our daughter April. April James. The man who now calls himself James turned around and smiled. Our wedding was under the cherry blossom trees in April and Peter’s middle name is James. The woman looked confused. Honestly, that made two of us. After countless hours of coffee and conversation, Peter had what he called a difficult decision to make. Either the love he left three years ago or the woman he left her for. Peter sat there looking back and forth at two women who loved him unconditionally. Suddenly, a thought entered my mind. As much as I wanted April to have her father back, I wanted him to come back on his own. I also wanted it to be easy, not this back-and-forth difficult decision. If he truly loved me, loved us, it would be the easiest choice ever. So, instead of waiting for him, I answered the question that would decide our future forever myself. Leaving that diner alone and not looking back was easier than I had thought. I had always imagined finding Peter, returning home with him and we would live happily ever after. But this is real life, not a fairy tale. Which is something I had to repeat to myself a few times on the drive back home. I never told a soul that I saw Peter that day. Not my parents, who asked constantly what happened when I went to Washington, D.C., because I came back acting different. Different good, according to them. Not the police, who still think Peter ran away. They’re not wrong, but I’m not going to be the one to tell them that. And not my job, who wonders why I decided to quit after Peter disappeared but begged for my job back three years later after a trip to D.C. Nope. Not a single soul. Maybe one day I’ll tell April, if she asks. But, then again, maybe it’s best she just doesn’t know. Sometimes, I wish I didn’t. I no longer buy flowers for Peter’s headstone. People are starting to judge me because I’m now not buying red roses. Funny how things have flipped. After learning the truth though, I realize Peter doesn’t deserve my love. Even if it was in the form of flowers on a headstone every month. So instead of expecting him to walk through the front door with a bouquet of a dozen red roses in hand, I water the plants in my front yard and watch April play with her toys beside me. I smile and for the first time in three years, flowers are not on my mind.

FRIDAY!! It was finally Friday, the end of the week, the start of the weekend, and most importantly the day I was having a party. Everything is going to be perfect, it will be the best party of the whole school year! I had a swimming pool, lots of food, games, and music! All I had to do was get through this one last day of school, the 8 hour long school day. Sounds easy? Well, it's not. I could not focus at all today, but it was worth sitting through all those boring classes because it was finally party time. I wanted my party to last extra long so I asked my mom to decorate, set up the food, and set up the music for me. All of my friends and I went straight to my house after school. We were all excited and knew how perfect it was going to be...until we arrived at my house. The front of my house was covered in eggs and there were forks all in the front lawn. We were astonished, who would have done this? We decided it was just a joke and left it to go in the back, where the party was. My mom stopped us when we were walking through the house and told us to not go into the backyard because she heard something out there. We thought she was joking so we went out anyways. The only thing I have to say about that is how much of a mistake he had just made. The pool's toys were on the roof and the pool was only half full with water. If you think that's crazy just wait there's more. The water that was left in the pool was a disgusting green and it was slimy. The speaker was no longer here and nobody knew where it was at. The worst part of all is that the food was almost completely gone. Empty pizza boxes thrown everywhere, bags of chips all over the ground, every bottle of drink was spilled. There were leftovers left all over the ground and mashed up. I was so embarrassed and could not have thought of anything worse that could have happened. My party was ruined. I started crying and ran up to my room. My friends followed me up and they comforted me. We all really wanted to know who did this. We decided to set out for a mission to discover who this awful party crasher is. We got all the materials we needed and set out. We each grabbed a flashlight and a notepad to write down clues. Oh and If I haven't mentioned it my house is right by the woods, so that's where we looked first. We saw nothing for a while, but then we found a napkin that looked exactly like the ones I had. We picked it up and found some chips that I also had at my party! We got so excited, but it was also nerve wracking at the same time. There was a trail of a bunch of items from my party. We continued to follow this trail for hours. We were finding more and more clues getting closer to solving a mystery. Until the trail ended and led us to absolutely nowhere. We hit the end of the road, nowhere else to go. We decided to take a break and sit down for a while because our feet hurt from all the walking. While we were sitting it turned dark and got kind of scary. We then heard footsteps. They started off quiet and slowly got louder and bigger. it sounded like they were coming towards us! They were happening faster and faster and faster. Then music started playing and the footsteps got louder. The longer we waited the clearer the music got and the louder the crunches of footsteps got. We were terrified. You will never believe what we saw. A BEAR! The footsteps came from the bear and it was holding MY radio, eating the food from MY party, and the bear was dripping wet. The bear WAS the party crasher!!! He must have smelt the hot pizza and came out of the woods to find it. When he got to my house he fell into the pool and splashed out all the water. When he tried to climb out he freaked out and threw all the pool toys into the air and then they landed on the roof. Then by the time he got to the food he ate it all and was mad from falling in the pool that he threw the extras everywhere. I guess he liked our music and took the speaker too. That explains everything that happened in the backyard. But a bear can not put forks in the lawn and throw eggs all over the front of my house. If he did not do that, then who did? Fun Facts about me and this story: I do not know what else to write but I thought the story was funny. I came up with it on my own. I wrote this kind of fast but I enjoyed it. I do not usually enjoy writing; it is super boring to me and I tend to struggle but this came to me quite easy. I hope you enjoyed my story. It is fictional of course. I based it off of things I enjoy. I always enjoyed a mystery to solve. They just seem super fun to me. I also like being a little bit scared. I also love comedies so I figured if I am going to write, it has to be about something I am interested in. I am right below my word minimum which is 1000 words and I honestly think that is kind of a lot for the type of story I wrote. It is supposed to be short, sweet, and to the point. I do not like when things are over explained and you can tell it is just so people can reach more words because it looks good for them. I am at minimum word count now though so have a great day and I hope you enjoyed my story.

A funnel of chopped salt water spilled uncompromisingly down his throat as the realization of what he had just done grasped hold over his body. The cold which enveloped him paled in comparison to the pain of his legs, ribs, hands and feet - deep and pulsing from the outside in, and back through again. When he was young, he had been afraid to jump off of the diving board and now had plunged half a football field into the stark bay below. There he had met a fate which shocked him more alive and wanting for life than he had felt for the past decade. Arms thrashing with the primal motor twitching broken legs like a broken egg beater, he clung to nothing more than the promise of something better replacing the need to feel feel something else within him. He glanced up from his agony and there it was. Not but a quarter of a mile away a sailboat tacked and started toward him. He began to hear shouts from the boat grow in volume - hope had a sound. Yet, despair had a sight as a dull grey fin appeared flowing seamlessly larger and larger in the same trajectory toward him. The shark - for that he was sure of now, moved sinuously; a greyhound in the water compared to the lumbering mastiff of a boat which gasped for speed. He looked up and the welcoming international orange of the golden gate beckoned him back to safety and life. For even emptiness was better than this. For within emptiness there were options; he just hadn’t seen them; he just hadn’t felt them until this very moment. John swam like a motherfucker - he didn’t have a chance in hell but he didn’t care. For cares were for people with time of which John had none. The fin moved toward him as a hand on a clock moves. Closer and closer toward darkness. He had been swimming away his entire life. John that is. From what he wasn’t sure. This shark of life which had chased him; maybe that was it he figured. With resolve, John turned and gritted himself. That thing giving chase surged and bared itself. The ragged and gaping mouth revealing itself to be a soft bottle nose replacing the mirage in his mind. The porpoise glided to his side to buoy him. John’s life might be saved after all as the thing chasing him his entire life revealed itself. This thing which had stalked and hunted him. This thing wanted to save John all along. All John had to do was stop -stop and see it. This thing which would carry him through. John floated to the other side. John was pulled rag doll style from the water by the livid hands of the sailboat’s crew; some crooned, some cussed and others just stared, yet all were in disbelief with the enormity of the situation which had dropped into the placid Sunday afternoon which their lives typically were. John belched and groaned on the foredeck of the Kevlar sailed 50-footer presenting a stark contrast to the bleach clean atmosphere which the captain was trying desperately to reinstate. The captain shouted to the others, “Nothing to see here! This happens quite often. He’ll be OK! The Coast Guard is on their way!” John now felt that he had been safer with the porpoise; safer in the water which had seemed to float and accept him for who he was swapped by a reality now awash in yacht shoes, murmurs and shame. He felt abandoned like a homeless man on the corner for the authorities to pack up and put elsewhere lest he disturb the sanctity of the sterilized sight. Was it not for one, John would have been tempted to drag himself back off of the deck and into the water as her hands cupped the back of his head and she asked, “Where did you come from?” John looked up toward the bridge and intonated that he had come from up there- he had a collapsed lung and it was too difficult to speak at this point and she followed his eyes to the sky responding gently, “You fell from heaven?” This sent John gurgling and gasping wet and pain, his best attempt at a laugh at this point, as she covered him in her coat and yelled for more blankets which the captain begrudgingly handed her. She detly stuffed John’s screaming body in the warmth of the blankets and once the task was through she paused for a moment and smirked, “By the way, I’d like to be the first to welcome you to the good ship 'Second Chance.

On a sunny afternoon in the former Portuguese colonial town of Ilha de Sombria, Senor Bruno rides his old Fiat to fetch the new visitor of the town, Don Miguel. While waiting the weather of Ilha de Sombria being reliably unreliable as usual takes a gloomy turn and the clouds shroud the sun beneath them. Just as this bright afternoon turns gloomy Don Miguel steps out of his heritage home Casa de Joy. "Don Miguel, your umbrella?" says Bruno. "Shall not be necessary." Don crudely replies. "Sim Senhor Miguel, where are we headed?" " To cemitério de poetas." Bruno revs the engine of his old Fiat and starts racing towards the old cemetery of the noble-born. "Don Miguel whose grave are you visiting today?" asks Bruno eager to strike a conversation Adjusting his black hat and unbuttoning his tailcoat Don Miguel says "A lover's... a poet's perhaps." Hearing a faint clap of thunder from afar predicting the onset of a storm Bruno is eager to make the trip as quick as possible. As they pass by an abandoned lighthouse. Bruno starts reciting local lore, "You see Don Miguel that abandoned lighthouse over there. It is believed that two centuries ago a poet while waiting for his lover was murdered by the lover's father and to this day the lighthouse stands haunted and one can hear echoes of poetry every night resonating from within the walls of the lighthouse." Don Miguel clearing his throat asks, "Do you want to hear poetry?" Bruno eagerly replies "Si senhor why not?" Don Miguel, as slender as he was, his voice carried a lot of weight starts to sing. "One night, I hold on you. With a red rose, a burning candle, the Lighthouse still awaits." "A lover who promised the world, The blue lips, the burning heart, the Lighthouse still awaits." "Pardon me, lover, for death is more beautiful, Flinging the self and embracing the ocean. You don't take the blame. For the lighthouse that spreads darkness The Lighthouse still Awaits." "Bravo! senhor bravo. Your poem speaks beautifully about the poet's wait at the lighthouse. Although pardon me, but it was a murder, not suicide. Or rather a mystery that we might not unfold" says Bruno. "Ah, or will we?" Just then the old Fiat comes to a halt at the gates of the cemetery. The clouds now darker than before have started thundering even louder. Don Miguel thanks Bruno. And steps out of his car. "Don you may borrow my umbrella" Bruno offers. "Shall not be necessary" Don replies. Bruno revs the engine of his car and rumbles down the road. A bolt of lightning strikes the lighthouse. Fearing for the wellbeing of Don, Bruno looks back through his rearview mirror. But the mirror does not cast a reflection. He stops the car and bends his neck to call out for Don. Don not hearing him. Takes out a solitary red rose from the pocket of his tailcoat. Just then the packs of raven start cawing in the cemetery. Thunder strikes again. And this time Don vanishes in thin air leaving behind a solitary red rose. On a tomb that reads ‘Here lay Don Miguel Gonzales. A poet. A lover.

I stared at him. He was wearing the blue sweater I had gotten him for his birthday. He had a scratch on his jaw from shaving, but other than that he was whole. He was standing in line at his favorite bagel shop. Ordering a regular coffee. I was nudged by my handler. Right. I didn’t have forever. Less than fifteen minutes now. God. I crossed the street to intercept him. Made sure to look both ways. I felt my eyes start to water. I’m surprised I wasn’t already bawling. He was leaving the store as I approached him. “...G-George?” I croaked. There were the tears. I’m sure I looked like a mess. His face showed confusion. Of course he didn’t recognize me. My handler stepped up then and began to explain everything in a whisper to George. An envelope was passed between the pair, I assume it was the proof. Then we started walking at the ushering of my handler. George was staring at me now. I could tell he was confused, and, hell, I would be too in his shoes. “I really don’t have time to explain anything. I wish I did. I wish I had more time, George, I really do,” I grabbed onto his arm as my handler trundled us along down the street. George still clearly didn’t know what was going on, but I continued, “I just had to let you know that I love you. And I will never forget you. And I’m sorry about all the stuff that I said and did that was just dumb and mean. I didn’t even mean half of it and the other half I didn’t mean for it to hurt you. I was an idiot; I’m still an idiot.” I looked into George’s eyes. God I had forgotten how blue his eyes were. And there was the shaving cream in his ear that always ended up there. How did I forget the colour of his eyes, the sound of his voice, his smell, but I didn’t forget that goddamn shaving cream. I looked. And there was that big, black, hair in the middle of his forehead. I remember warning him that he’d get a unibrow. “I’m doing good now. I hope you’d be proud. I’m not a lawyer. I learned more about your family, met up with your brother a few times. I traveled the world too. Saw Africa and went on that trip to Europe we talked about. Five countries in ten days. I did go back and stay for longer on another trip, but I wanted to do the trip that we had planned. I lived in Japan and South Korea before I moved to Washington. Seattle. I heard from your brother that’s where your family lived before you moved down here.” I think he was starting to believe me. I knew a lot. Too much to be a fake. And who would fake this? Still he was always a logical man, and this didn’t make sense. Not in his universe. He still had the coffee in his hands. He had to have those. I looked at where we were. The corner of Glennerson and Travis. Too close. I looked back at my handler, but he had sunglasses covering guarded, grey eyes. I’d find no sympathy there. I felt something land on my head. The mist that had enveloped the city was hardening into a full out rain. Of course it would. But it was happening too soon. Too goddamn soon. I had to keep going. I still had so much I wanted to say. “I-I’m really sorry about what I did. It was my fault. It will always be my fault. You don’t know what I’m talking about, but I’m really sorry.” It was getting hard to see. I hadn’t cried so much in years. “Carrie is doing well. She’s happy. She’s married. She’s going to be a mom soon. She lives on the east coast now; I don’t talk to her much but I try. She’s one of the last links to you that I have.” The rain was starting to get more consistent and heavier. We didn’t have an umbrella; my handler wouldn’t allow it. “I speak to James even less. We found it hard to talk after you. Imagine that. He graduated. I know it was touch and go there for a while but he came through. He’s still living around here.” We were getting onto numbered streets now. There wasn’t enough time. Why couldn’t I have had more time? “We found an ID from when you were in college. You had some long hair. And we found you with a moustache. I heard from one of your friends that you were into rock. I wish you could tell me about that. I wish that I knew about your childhood and the rest of your life.” 7th Street. My handler had us turn onto it. Now it was just a few more blocks. Maybe five more minutes. I just stared at him. He had stubble. Streaks of grey at his temple. Wrinkles around his eyes. His nose. I had forgotten his nose. It wasn’t anything special, but I had forgotten what it looked like. And he was still so much taller than me. I thought that one day he wouldn’t be, but I guess it would never happen. We never stopped walking. My handler wouldn’t let us miss the deadline. K Street. I looked at the time. It was close. I was sobbing now. Hiccups and everything. I hugged him. He was soft and warm. I missed this. So much. I missed him. My handler pulled us apart. George’s phone started ringing. He looked down as he answered it and my handler pushed him into the street. Into where he was destined to be. I felt my knees go weak. That hadn’t happened in over twenty years. I hadn’t finished. I still wanted to talk to him. To hug him. I hadn’t got to hear his voice. A car came as he was falling into the street. Their headlights weren’t on and the rain was battering down on their car. They were going way too fast. I saw them see George in the street, but their car started to hydroplane as they slammed on the brakes. I saw him hit, fly through the air, and land on the road. He was bleeding from a wound on his head. Spilt coffee mixed with his blood. His phone went farther than him. He had never answered it. I remember being angry when he didn’t answer my phone call. I remember not learning about what had happened to him. It had been hours later when someone told me. I remember no one told me what was happening as we drove to the hospital. I remember the first time my knees had gone weak, I was standing in the doorway to the hospital and being told why I was there. But I don’t remember his voice. Why can’t I remember his voice? My handler grabbed my shoulder and pressed a button he was holding in his other hand. The bracelet on my wrist began to vibrate as it did it’s work. It was five minutes before I was back in the all white chamber. I was twenty three years away from that moment. And that’s all I would have. A fifteen minute walk from George’s favorite coffee shop to the corner of 7th and K. The last conversation I would ever have with him. The last hug. The last time I would see him, the last time I would smell him. It would have to last for the rest of my life. It already wasn’t enough.

Murder is a subject that not many people care to consider. The idea of losing a loved one by the hands of a murderer is a chilling and unwelcome possibility. The idea of being a murder victim is one of the most terrifying prospects. The idea of being a murderer is very rarely contemplated by sane minded people and so I am utterly unprepared for what I have gotten myself into. I am in complete disbelief. My eyes have begun to water and sting yet I cannot draw them away from the empty shell of what was once a human being that lays on the cold ground before me. The Body has lost all essence of life already. Within the minutes that have passed the skin has become waxen with an almost bluish tinge. The face is expressionless, the eyes closed and the mouth relaxed into a natural grimace. No matter how long I study the subtly changing features, I cannot convince myself that it is just sleeping. My stomach convulses and I heave. It comes to me that I have become the last glimpse of the living world to a human being. I recall how that last glimpse was filled with terror and, what had to have been, an excruciating amount of pain. I, suddenly, need to be away from the alleyway and I clutch my excitable stomach as I run out into the dark street. I am relieved to find the night is deserted and I am able to throw up amongst a pile of discarded rubbish, undisturbed. It takes me a few seconds to regain some composure before I realise that he has not come after me. I could run, faster and further than I ever have in my entire life. I could run far away from this situation, from this city, this entire country if I wanted to. If anything, I could lose some weight in the process and become a whole new person. I feel a migraine begin to evolve in my head and I shake away the completely inappropriate thoughts that crowd my brain. Of course I will return to that alleyway. How could I do anything else? I do not consider him a friend in the conventional terms of the word...but he is the only thing I have that comes close. I now realise why he has not called after me or come to drag me back. He expects me to return. It appears that he has discarded the contents of his stomach, too. His face is flushed, his hands shake, uncontrollably. As I stagger back into the nightmarish scene, he looks away from The Body and searches my face with concern. “Ok?” His voice shakes with the telltale signs of someone who is struggling to contain their emotions. I do not trust my own vocal chords at that moment and simply nod. “Ok...ok, we can sort this. We can fix it...” he is walking around the alley now. He examines The Body from various angles and swears a few times. I carry out my own, swift, inspection and my eyes move upwards. I realise that there are two windows from the opposite building that overlook the alleyway. There are no lights behind them at the moment but should someone decide to peer out into the night... “We need to call the police,” I say in little more than a whisper. With a spontaneous burst of energy, he leaps across The Body and shoves me, hard. I am caught, completely, unaware and fly backwards. My back slams into the hard plastic of that large, industrial bin and I am momentarily winded. It is my turn to swear. “What’d you do that for!” I snap. He marches towards me and I take a protective stance. He slams his hands on the bin at either side of my head and I wince. “Will you shut up! Do you want to wake up the entire street?” he hisses. “Well, then, don’t go throwing me all around the place!” “Well, then, don’t go saying stupid things!” he snarls. “Call the police? Do you want to go to prison? Do you? Do you want to become the mistress of a butch, skinhead lesbian called Sandy? Cause that’s what’ll happen-!” “Ok!” I snap. “She’ll probably make you wear a dog collar and beg for treats. And you’re so pathetic you would do it-” “I said ok!” I whack his arms away from me and rub my throbbing back. I catch sight of The Body once more and I am shocked to find I had completely forgotten its presence on the scene. “What’re we going to do, then?” I ask. He runs his fingers through his, already, tousled hair. “We’re going to have to move it...” I wish I had run away when I had the chance. “How?” I say, weakly. “Should we just...grab a leg and an arm each or...?” “Don’t be stupid. How d’you think we’d look walking down the street like that?” I want to tell him we’d look like any other group of friends after a night of drinking in the city. But I decide now is not a good time. I stand, silent and awkward, as he concocts a plan in his head. He paces the short space available, muttering to himself, pausing, occasionally, to consider The Body. Finally he rubs his hands together and announces that we, “need the Iron Beast.” In the fifteen minutes I am left with The Body I am sure that I struggle through several panic attacks. I have no means of determining the time but I feel like it has been night for too long. I am expecting the sun to rise any minute and a swarm of morning pedestrians to crowd the streets. When I hear the Iron Beast approach I feel no relief. He seems to have gathered his wits together more effectively and when he comes to stand across from me, The Body in-between us, and says “Ok, now you can grab an arm and a leg”, I comply with no arguments. Somehow, I hadn’t expected The Body to be as heavy in death as it was in life. Our first two attempts are unsuccessful. On the third, I misjudge the gap and the head whacks against the bumper with a dull thud. I take a step back and refuse to engage in a fourth attempt. “This is ridiculous,” I gasp. “Look at what we’re doing right now...I’m sorry but after everything that’s happened tonight...I don’t think I can bring myself to drive around town with a body in the boot of the car, ok?” He is, clearly, arriving at the end of his patience with me. He considers my face, set into a defiant scowl, and strides around the car to open the passenger door. Another fifteen minutes later and we are driving along the steadily, brightening street with The Body strapped into the back seat. He relays the rest of his plan as we drive. I enjoy his decision to drop me off at the shops to ‘pick up a few things’. I am less pleased by his request for me to meet him at the waterside. “We’re going to dump it in the river?” I ask, revolted. “Why not? It’ll just join the millions of other bodies and shopping trolley’s that are already there. Unless you’ve got any better suggestions?” My mind races. We could take it outside the city, burn the Iron Beast with The Body inside. Dig a ditch and bury it. Dump it down an embankment on the walkway and let the squirrels and foxes have their way with it. Then I realise that the sun is rising and we have no time to do any of these things. “Fine...” I mutter, like a grumpy child. Despite having lived my entire life riddled with low self-esteem and disastrous amounts of self-consciousness, I have never felt so out of place as I do now. The supermarket has just opened its doors and the aisles are vacant save from the very few early morning shoppers and grumpy staff members. Everything seems far too clean and bright. I realise I am sweating and my hair is a frizzy mess. I move to flatten it before I realise my hands are filthy and I stuff them in my jacket pockets. I wonder if I will ever be able to stroll through a supermarket without appearing awkwardly unnatural. My eyes flit towards the security cameras. I cannot tell if they are actually turning to follow my movement or if I am imagining it. The cashier gives me a contemptuous look as I toss the two packs of black bin liners onto the conveyor belt. I see, quite plainly, her eyes moving over my torn leggings and filthy t-shirt and I fold my arms, self-consciously. Beep. The first pack moves across the scanner in a swift motion. I can’t help but tut, impatiently, as the cashier struggles with the shopping bag. I watch her ridiculously, perfect, manicured nails fumble with the opening and my patience snaps. “I don’t want a bag.” She continues to rub the plastic between her fingertips. “I said I don’t want a bag. Ok? Just leave it. Why would I need a bag to carry some bags? I thought all you big corporations where into saving the planet and being green and all that. Just leave the bag, ok?” I realise I am rambling and bite my lip to stop. The cashier stares at me, completely unconcerned with my distress. Her eyes don’t leave my face as she passes the second pack across the scanner and holds out a hand for payment. Only when the money, soaked in the sweat from my palms, touches her skin does she look away, making no effort to disguise her disgust. I calm, slightly, when I am stood outside the shop, bin liners having been, successfully, purchased. It takes me a full five minutes of care-free walking before I remember The Body. By the time I reach the waterside the streets have become more active. I, suddenly, regret my refusal to accept a shopping bag. Every stranger I pass is a potential witness and the items I hold in my hands are incriminating evidence. I try not to seem too conspicuous as I clamber over the fence and make my way down the embankment to the water’s edge. He has been going spare waiting for me. I am pleasantly surprised and most relieved to find he has chosen a decent location, with plenty of cover from the trees and the bridge above us. The Body lays in a straight position in the dirt. The skin has lost any hint of colouring and is now a waxy grey. The ground around it is littered with cigarette stubs. I guess that more than half of them have come from his own hands. “What took you so long?” he hisses at me as I approach. I noticed he has stopped shaking but his eyes are still manic with anxiety. He snatches the bin bags from my hands and inspects them with unnecessary fixation. I decide to be generous with my patience and perhaps I will only have to pull the bag over The Body’s lower half. Somehow, after everything I have participated in, pulling a bag over The Body’s head just seems cruel. “You are the biggest idiot I have ever had the misfortune to know.” His voice sounds completely calm all of a sudden, and it is this that unnerves me. “What are you talking about?” “Of all the times to make a stupid mistake!” I open my mouth, already equipped with an angry retort, when he rips apart the packaging and tugs one of the bags free. He shakes it in front of me and, as the air fills inside it, I realise what I have done. “Yeah, these would be helpful. If we were disposing of a bloody midget!” he snaps, tossing the bags at my feet. I had been far too preoccupied to check in the supermarket, although it had never really occurred to me that black bags came in different sizes. In my mind I can see the shin-high metal bin in my mothers kitchen and suspect the bags would line the inside of it quite snugly. “Oh...” I am sure he would have hit me then, if he hadn’t lost his footing on the uneven ground and fell on his backside. “Fuck this day!” he whines. “Ok, we need to get an axe...” “An axe?” I squeak. “Or a really big knife.” I understand what he is proposing but the thought of even witnessing such an act makes my empty stomach heave again. “We can’t...” I manage to whisper. He bites his lip and I can see his is not particularly partial to the idea either. “No...no, I don’t think we can,” he concedes. His hands move over the pebbles on the shore and I can almost hear the gears working in his brain. “What are you thinking?” “I know what to do. Grab a couple of those bags. We need to start acting quicker...” It seems to take no time at all before we have several bags filled with pebbles. Our fingers steady themselves long enough to allow us to attach our makeshift weights to The Body and roll it, none to gracefully, into the murky waters. We watch with shuddering breaths as the head bobs just above the surface for a few seconds then, slowly, sinks into the icy-cold depths of the dark waters.

The gypsies played their hip-throbbing tunes on this fine evening, hired by the groom out of respect for his elders. No wedding is complete without Romani music, they thought, as the fast-paced rhythms mixed with raki cajoled the younglings into shaking their bodies with an exuberant lack of coordination--a dance best described as pulsing mini-seizures. Of course, some of the kids and men were crafty with it, synced with the notes, dancing on beat to make quite a show, drawing claps and roars from the onlookers. This idea of grandeur originated from times of solitude and stigmas when one man couldn’t inquire a woman for her name, except at events such as these, where slipping away into the crowd proved easy and useful. This is how Sharani and Mustafa had met, the groom’s parents. Dancing teens, musicians blowing on clarinets, confetti-spreading kids, and a large man holding a camera fit for his size--all overlooked by the couple’s innocent-white table. Hazan and Nazli had known each other since high school; he was senior to her by three grades, although older by two years. They started dating when Nazli graduated, and the wedding came not long after. Seated next to them were Filiz, the groom’s sister, and Halim, her betrothed. They flirted in a parading fashion. Halim flaunted his bourgeois roots by consuming expensive red wine together with Filiz, the only ones to do so, and laughed vociferously at her remarks. “He can’t tune down for even a second!” rebuked Hazan into Nazli’s ear. “Someone should have reminded her to dress more appropriately! This is my wedding, after all!” she hissed back, sneaking a peek at Filiz’s velvet gray gown with pleats that formed a flower, a flourished rose. Hazan's brow furrowed at his wife-to-be's rude comments. He grabbed a cup, his hand shaking slightly, and downed the drink in one gulp. A grimace flickered across his face as the liquid burned its way down his throat. The singer of the brass band halted the music and approached the couples. “Time for a dance, applause for the celebrants!” he cried, rallying the spectators. Hazan stumbled, leaned on the table, and kissed Nazli’s hand before leading her into the center of the now-empty dance floor. He sported a cream-toned three-piece suit, with a black stowed handkerchief. Complementing him, she wore a simple snow-white gown, stretched over her décolletage, adorned with golden jewelry. Hazan pressed her to himself, holding her by the waistline with one hand, and locking palms with the other, they danced, semi-rhythmically to the song. Filiz's eyes narrowed as she watched Hazan stumble on Nazli's dress. “He is stepping on her dress, the drunk fool,” she muttered under her breath, tapping her foot. Halim placed a hand on her knee, attempting to still her restless leg. “Let them be, love,” he said, his voice soothing her irritation. “This is their day.” The attending crowd gradually fell into silence; roars muffled, and chit-chat whispers disappeared in a gust. To an outsider’s eye, they would seem miserable: a drunk speeding up and pausing mid-dance, and a woman whose bitter smile soured. But this was tradition, with only one rule forbidding one to not be blackout drunk, so that one can still perform his manly duties. As the song ended, a new one began, a less formal one but still composed for couples. Mustafa led Sharani to accompany the celebrants first, followed by Kalim and Afize, the bride’s parents. Halim, confident in his timing, ready to interject themselves now, darted up, pushing the table aside and spilling the wine, dotting red on the innocent-white tablecloth. Filiz frowned deeper. He kissed her hand and led her to the dance floor. They weaved their bodies into one, moving tenderly like waves on the sea. Unlike them, Hazan and Nazli resembled ripples, clashing with another dancing couple every two minutes. “You are as drunk as my brother, spilling wine on their table!” Filiz taunted. “Drunk on love and lost in your beauty!” He laughed cheekily. She looked away, and he took the opportunity to land a sly kiss on her cheek. “The boys will fix it, don’t worry!” he added, nodding towards the waiters. The boys began toiling away, throwing everything they could to remove the stain, but it persisted. Lucky for them, the tablecloth stretched longer than the table and gently rested on top of the pavement. They moved it a bit, and voila! The spillage was hidden successfully! Filiz watched the servants clean up the spilled wine, a small smile playing on her lips as they worked. Glancing over Halim's shoulder, she noticed Hazan's sweat-soaked face and vacant eyes, while Nazli's gaze seemed to linger too long on Halim, her eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. “Halim, she is watching you,” she whispered. “Had I known then the circumstances that I would be cursed with, my love, I would not have done it.” His eyes locked on Filiz’s tender face. “I know, I don’t blame you...” Their movements slowed, yet still languid. “My mind is troubled, love. What if tonight, there is a problem?” She stared at Halim, her eyes shining, reflecting the full moon on their damp surface. “Don’t worry, love, as long as he is drunk, no one will know!” He reassured her, landing another soft kiss on her clavicle. “She seems a bit...Full? Nazli was always a thin girl.” Filiz narrowed her eyes and observed Halim in suspicion. In silence, they danced, swaying from one side to the other and spinning flawlessly. The men couldn’t see them, but the signs spoke to Filiz. “Please... Filiz, you know it has been a long while!” He reassured her. The enlarged breasts, constantly leaning her head on Hazan, the mess she left yesterday, and the way she avoided alcohol... Filiz suspected Nazli. The signs were there, but she relieved herself, calling it stress, the weight of the wedding. “Your parents are a nice bunch, love! I am glad to have finally met them,” Halim pulled away Filiz from her worries. “They are, mostly. Although, I am afraid for my father, his sudden hair loss and how thin he became in such a short time!” “It comes with age, love. Do not worry yourself,” he whispered, gently patting her back as he hugged her. “His eyes have changed...” “They seemed fine to me. A happy bunch, him and your mother. I hoped mine would attend, but alas...” “Have you inquired about me?” She frowned. “Are they still against our marriage?” He pulled himself back to meet her eyes. “They are not against you, love. They are against this! Anything but traditional, they hate this music and the aura it radiates.” “They deny their roots then. We shall speak of this later.” “I do hope Hazan finds the happiness he seeks in Nazli.” “Oh, please. His love is for the bottle, and she still clings to yesterday’s events. Misery clouds trail them,” she hissed. “You are always skeptical of him. Give it some time, he will change...” The music swiftly adjusted into the rhythmic traditional type, and the couple went back to take their seats. “He has to...” Halim muttered.

Steel against steel, my blade swam through the air, as swiftly as the eels in the depths of the famous river. The sounds of metal clashing and the smell of sweat around me stimulated the pumping blood in my veins. I stepped left and then right, dodging the sharp edges of my opponent, counting my movements in preparation for a strike. I feinted one last time - sliding neatly to the left, as my adversary attacked right, and spun around just in time to place the cool, sharp edge of my blade against the back of his hairy neck. He gasped in disappointment as he fell to his knees, long blades dropping from both his hands. He raised them up, empty in surrender. I smirked. And then neatly removed my sword from his flesh. “You’ve come a long way,” my partner said over the grunts and shouts of the other fighters, busy with their own brawls. He rubbed the back of his neck and stood up slowly. Glancing at his hand, he chuckled when he found blood. “If this is how you practice with your own army, I would hate to meet you as an enemy in battle, Princess,” he said bending to collect his swords. He turned around and bowed his head at me at the mention of my title. I breathed rapidly to catch air, feeling the heat of the exercise. Unlike the bare arms and muscled torsos around me, I was covered from head to foot in a tight black suit. The material was glued to me with sweat, running from the top of my head and trickling down my face, which was hidden. Only my eyes were visible through a rectangle slit, and I turned them now on the military man expectantly. “Isn’t that what I’ve been training for?” I asked, raising my eyebrows and running my exposed fingers along the sharp edge of my sword, to remove the fine specks of the First Lieutenant’s blood. He coughed self-consciously, averting his gaze. “Your training has progressed it’s true-” he began. “So, I am ready for battle, you agree?” I asked, taking a step closer to him. I held my sword at my waist, blade pointed in his direction. “Your Highness must know that this is really not up to me,” he replied, eyes flicking to the blade and then back up to my face. “This decision is one for your superiors,” the First Lieutenant said, suddenly stern. He looked and sounded his age now, I thought. Scolding me like I was one of his lambs at home. “My ‘superiors’,” I said stepping back and lowering the sword. “Will listen to you if you persuade them of my skill.” “I will do all in my power to help the Princess,” the First Lieutenant said, bowing his head again. “But I am not convinced of my authority in this regard. I believe that your brother, the Prince, and your father, the King, may yet be convinced by yourself.” I scoffed loudly, my brows knitting in irritation. “Your Lords require much more than the appeal of a sister and a daughter. I need the recommendation of my teacher, sir,” I said firmly. I turned the sword at the hilt, offering it up to him. “Please,” I said, bowing. He paused. Then he sighed, reaching for the hilt warily. “As you command, your Highness,” he spoke formally, bowing back deeply. He stood upright and walked backwards from me, then turned and disappeared into the depths of the cave. I stood still in the middle of the sparring arena, surrounded by the dirty, sweaty army. Then I turned and walked out of the cavern, into the blazing sunlight of the desert, feeling deflated despite the day's victory. I undid the covering over my head, allowing the slight breeze to cool me down, and took a sip of water from my skin. Suddenly, I spotted a small cloud of dust in the distance. I squinted. Two horses I counted, pulling a closed chariot, flying the flag of my family’s emblem. I sighed and mounted my horse. No doubt this caravan was here for me. I rode fast towards the messengers, who stopped upon seeing my approach. I paused in front of them, palace guards. They bowed their heads and began speaking. “Your Royal Highness, King’s Daughter, Princess-” “Oho! Oho! Is she out there?” a high-pitched squeal interrupted. “Oho Princess! Princess!” My lady’s maid pushed her head out of the window of the chariot and wagged her finger at me earnestly. My mouth curved to smile automatically. “Princess! Princess!” she called beckoning me urgently now. “You are not supposed to be here, no!” I laughed and dismounted. Walking to one of the palace guards, I handed him the reins to my horse. “And yet you are here, Merit!” I exclaimed running to her and grabbing her fingers. I kissed them and she pulled them away in disgust, clicking her tongue. “Inside! Inside at once!” she squeaked crossly. I laughed, obeying her, pulling open the door and sliding into the cramped space. Merit hit the roof of the chariot with her palms to signal to the guards, and the horses began moving. “Don’t be angry my favourite one,” I said, pouting. “It was only a little training.” “A little - oho!” Merit huffed. “You should not be training at all Princess! No no, you should be practising for the banquet.” I scoffed. “The banquet is nothing to me.” “For shame, for shame!” Merit cried, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping sweat from her face. “This is a very important night for the royal family - for your father, the King!” she squeaked pointing at me sharply. I rolled my eyes, setting her off on a string of rebukes. The chariot slowed as we neared the gates of the city, and slowly wheeled through the arches. I looked outside the window as we passed through the bazaar - full of shining wares, delicious spice, and crowds of my beloved people. We passed by a cook and the smell of smokey meat entered the chariot. “Mmm, I’m famished,” I said flopping back against the velvet seat. “What - where you even listening to me?” Merit demanded huffing. “Yes, my sweet Merit of course I was,” I said leaning forward to take her hand. She drew them to her bosom tightly. “No, no touching,” she said shaking her head firmly. “You stink of man sweat!” “Man sweat?” I asked, bursting into laughter. “It’s not funny Princess, it’s unbecoming!” she squeaked sternly. “You shall bathe in milk and lavender as soon as we get to the palace. Pray to the Gods that we do not encounter your brother or father.” I stared at Merit in amusement but said nothing. She was right about me, I needed to get cleaned. She was also right to be cautious: I had yet to tell either my father or brother that I had been training at the cavern all these months. But it was time, I thought. War was coming and I was ready to fight. *** “The King’s Daughter smells as fresh as the perfume of a flower and looks as clean as the linens in the King’s court,” Khaem said handing me a grape. I grabbed it from him and popped it into my mouth hungrily. “You’re welcome,” I said swallowing. He offered me the whole bunch and I took it readily, pulling at the green fruit and shoving the sweet globules into my mouth. “Hard to believe then, that just a few hours ago, the Princess was seen in the training caverns sparring with the First Lieutenant.” I stopped chewing and swallowed hard, choking and spluttering. Khaem sighed irritably and handed me a skin of water. I took a sip and swallowed. “You- you know?” I said, wiping tears from my eyes and taking another sip. He sighed again. “Did you think that this would go unnoticed, Kiya?” he asked seriously. “I knew about it after your first visit all those months ago.” “But - But you didn’t say anything to me!” I said searching his face hopefully. “Did you tell father?” “Of course not!” he said, eyes widening. “He would be furious, you know that.” I stared back at my brother defiantly. “Maybe he wouldn’t be angry if he knew how well I fight now, Khaem.” My brother scoffed at me and grabbed the skin of water from my hands. “I’m serious!” I said loudly. Some heads around court turned their gazes at us, whispering. Khaem looked back at them smiling politely. “Keep your voice down,” he said, his expression fixed. “Khaem if you knew about me training, then you must know of my skill,” I said, attempting to speak quietly. “I’ve been training everyday for almost a year. Even the First Lieutenant thinks I’ve improved-” “I know. He told me so,” Khaem interrupted, passing his hand over his eyes wearily. I grabbed his fingers and held them in my hands. “So - so you think I could fight? I could join you and father on the frontlines?” I said, my eyes lighting with excitement. Khaem turned to me and smiled sadly. I knew that look. My face fell and I dropped his hands. He caressed my cheek. “Kiya, sister,” he said kindly. “ I believe you could fight. The First Lieutenant would have never dared approach me in such a way if he didn’t have faith in your abilities.” I looked up at my brother, anger and sadness mixing behind my eyes, forming involuntary tears. “But you know that father will never agree to it-” “Even if you ask him, brother? Even If it comes from you?” I begged, tears falling now. I wiped them away impatiently. “I fear that I am not as brave as the man who trained you. Even I do not dare make such a request of the King,” Khaem said quietly. He pulled my head to his chest and held me, allowing me time to collect myself. I wiped my face on his shirt and pulled away, picking up the bunch of grapes and attacking them. “I’ve - I’ve worked so hard Khaem,” I said looking down at the green pulp, speaking through gritted teeth. “All I want is to protect the kingdom, to fight in my family’s name, for my family’s people.” “There are other ways for you to do that,” Khaem replied gently. I laughed derisively. “By hiding under the city? With the woman and children?” “They look to you for courage and guidance Kiya,” Khaem said patiently. “Riding into battle, wielding weapons, spilling blood. Those things are easy. But protecting the innocent and vulnerable, being a symbol for the people and leading by example, that is strength.” “Don’t patronise me!” I said quietly, swallowing tears. “I wouldn’t dare. I heard you drew blood today.” I looked up at Khaem, he was grinning. I laughed in spite of myself. He leaned over and hugged me. “I suppose I should go back to practising for the banquet then,” I sighed gloomily. Khaem pushed me away from him and smirked. “Oho! What’s this hasty change of heart?” “I don’t know what you mean,” I said untangling from his arms and looking away. He laughed and shook his head. “I expect you will be back at the cavern tomorrow?” “I will be practising for the banquet, as I am required to,” I replied in monotone. Khaem laughed and pushed my arm playfully. “Save your theatre for Merit. She’s more willing to play the fool for you than I am.” I laughed. I rode to training as usual the next day, and for weeks afterwards. Nobody came to collect me, not even Merit. I had a suspicion that Khaem had a hand in that. I didn’t complain, it gave me hope. My swordsmanship was improving and fighting had made me stronger. It had given me purpose, an occupation that made me feel worthy and useful. I spent the mornings in training and the afternoons practising the arts: dancing, singing and playing the harp. The people deserved a well-rounded princess. We opened the city gates for the banquet, unlocked the palace doors. My father thought a celebration would lift the spirits of the people, and it did. Until night fell. Thousands of enemy soldiers exposed themselves amongst the crowd of revellers. Fine clothes were torn off to reveal battle armour beneath, concealed weapons were unsheathed and utilised swiftly. Blades flew threw the air, spilling blood and turning the celebration into hysteria. I stood on the balcony looking down at the chaos, suddenly shocked into paralysis. I looked behind me and saw fighting in the King’s Court, my father shouting a war cry, his swords held high. “Princess!” My limbs felt cold, as women screamed and ran in every direction, taking the nearest means of escape. I saw Merit’s face, white with terror, rushing towards me in the throng. “Princess!” she cried slamming into me with the weight of her full body, waking me from my daze. “Princess! Oh! We have to get beneath the city! We must go now!” she cried grabbing my arms and turning to run. “What- wait,” I said trying to stop her. “Khaem and father-” “They will take care of our enemies!” Merit screamed as the body of a soldier fell in her path, bloodied and dead. I stared at the face of the man, eyes open to the sky. Merit was pulling me away, dragging me back inside the palace. “Kiya!” I spun around, Khaem was running towards us. “Oho my Prince!” Merit cried in fear. Khaem ignored her and grabbed me by the shoulders. “You have to follow the women and children to the caves beneath the city,” he said urgently, pushing me towards the staircase. His blade had a crimson sheen, his face was sweaty and bruised already. “Khaem, I- I’m afraid,” I cried, the words escaping my lips unexpectedly. “You’d be a fool if you weren’t!” Khaem replied strongly, he glanced back anxiously, looking at our father. “Listen to me Kiya, you have to do what I said.” From his back he unsheathed his long blade and handed me the hilt. I hesitated. Then took it from him and looked into his eyes and nodded. “For your Kingdom, for your people,” he nodded back, and shoved Merit and I down the stairs. I ran then, dragging a hysterical Merit behind me. Outside, a few enemy soldiers came running towards us. I pushed Merit from me and raised the Prince’s sword, stepping and slashing as I had that very morning in the training cavern. Two soldiers fell at my feet bleeding, but one dodged and slid his blade across my arm. I cried out in pain and anger, shouting a war cry and turning my sword to attack. He pulled back in surprise and I struck him before he could recover. “Your Highness!” I put my blade through all three soldiers to finish my work and ran to Merit who was screaming - in terror of the soldiers or of me I could not tell. “Your Highness!” the First Lieutenant came running towards me breathlessly. He glanced at the dead soldiers, then back at me and bowed. “We have begun moving the women and children into the caverns,” he said quickly. “Some of the other lieutenants and I sealed off the entrances, only one remains open. We need you and the rest of the subjects to make their way down.” “Understood,” I said nodding firmly. “Lead us, Lieutenant.” He bowed and we began running towards the last entrance of the underground caverns. Soldiers came for us left and right, and we fought them off. When we reached the entrance to the tunnel, a small stream of women and children were trickling through. I turned to Merit. “Inside, now!” I commanded. She whimpered and nodded, running to obey. “These are the last of them, or the last we could round up,” a palace guard said bowing. I nodded and turned to the First Lieutenant. “I suppose there’s no chance of me staying above ground to help you fight?” He smiled sadly and shook his head. Then he took my hand, lowered his head and kissed it. “It has been an honour training you, Princess,” he said. I clasped his hand in mine for a minute. And then he straightened, nodded to the palace guard and both set off running towards the fray. My eyes glistened as I turned and ran towards the tunnel, I nodded absently to a guard as I flew in and heard the stone door shut behind me. I ran down the stairs and walked through the cavern, sand raining down intermittently as war thundered above me. When I reached the open plateau, a hundred or more faces turned towards me. “Oh King’s Daughter!” an old woman cried bowing. “What is to become of us?” I looked over at their faces: children and women looking up at me, pained yet hopeful. I remembered what Khaem said to me. “Whatever happens,” I cried back gripping my blade tightly. “I will protect you, my people!” I raised my sword into the air. “For my Kingdom, for my people!” I shouted. “For our Kingdom, for our people!” The crowd chanted back in unison. The chant echoed through the cavern, the strength of our voices soaring high over the battle above.

CW: violence A bear meandered at the edge of the backyard, big and brown. Bears weren’t native to the area, so this merited some wide-eyed gawking. It even earned the kids’ attention, had them scrambling over furniture--and each other--to join Liam by the sliding glass door. Emily looked uneasy. The apple tree at the back of the yard had dropped fruit in a ten-foot radius around its base. The bear gobbled them up. With its dog-like face and mannerisms, and the way it used its tongue like a spoon, Liam found it rather cute. But the cloud of dirt that flew from its fur when it shook spoiled the friendly illusion, reminding him that this was a dangerous animal. Liam ushered the kids upstairs. With them tucked safely away in their rooms, he retrieved a spear from the back of the bedroom closet, where it lay behind a row of mothballed suits, still in the box it arrived in. He took it downstairs. Emily fretted over their cat. Fumbles, chubby and orange, warmed himself on the back porch, oblivious to the danger. The bear and its smorgasbord of half-rotten fruit were a dozen yards away. Though the cat lounged closer to the door, Emily didn’t want to grab him. Fumbles didn’t like being approached when outside. He might run off, and one of his avenues of escape contained a bear. The creaking stairs sounded Liam’s descent. She took one look at the spear, at his face, and set her own face in opposition. “No. Put that thing down--what’s wrong with you? What do you think you’re gonna do?” Liam had expected the challenge, but hadn’t prepared a rebuttal. He felt ridiculous all of a sudden. What had he meant to do? “I... I don’t know.” He took the spear back upstairs, resolving to just sell the thing. When he returned, Emily had slid the patio door slightly ajar, tapping a can of cat food with a spoon--a siren’s call to which Fumbles promptly responded. The bear raised his head too, but then returned his attention to the apples. Emily closed the door. “We need to call animal control or something.” “Why? It’s not hurting anyone.” “Didn’t you just have a spear?” “Well I wasn’t gonna use it. I don’t think.” He really wasn’t, forgot he’d even purchased the thing until it showed up on his porch, and only kept it because it looked cool. Now, with a staircase separating him from the violent influence of that sleek, expensive, oversized kabob, even calling animal control began to feel too extreme. He didn’t want the bear shot just for wandering into their backyard. Fumbles ate the can of cat food as though it were his first time eating. An idea formed. During a brief interest in aerial photography, Liam bought a drone. He returned from the garage with the expensive, little-used toy. Grabbing lunch meat and string from the kitchen, he tied up some ham and attached the wad to the drone. “It’s got a camera and a mile radius.” “I think we should just call animal control.” “Let me try this. There’s nothing but marshes out back anyway. I’ll lure it away, then we can call.” Liam placed the drone on the porch, then stepped back inside and closed the door. Watching his progress through the small screen on the controller, he teased the bear to get it interested, dipping near and rising up as it swatted. He kept it low, and led the bear out of their yard to the fields and forest beyond. “What if it just follows the ham back?” Emily asked after he’d flown it half a mile. Liam hadn’t considered this. Fortunately, the problem resolved itself as the drone hit a tree and the video connection broke. “You’re not going after it. Not right now, anyway,” Emily said as she called animal control. Liam stood by the door, watching for signs of the bear while Emily was on the phone in the other room. She came back a few minutes later. “They said it’s got something to do with the climate--bears are coming further east. It’s probably going to get worse. We’re supposed to keep our cat inside and put up a fence if we want to avoid a recurrence.” Liam tried installing a fence. He’d dug latrine pits in basic training and thought the skills would translate. They didn’t. After several attempts, they paid a company to do it. * * * * Once a month, they went to Liam’s parents for dinner. Out of familial duty, the kids raked their grandparents' leaves into neat piles, then messed them up by jumping in them. Liam’s father, Frank, cooked food on the grill while his mother listened intently to Emily’s recounting of the bear story. When Emily finished, Frank spoke. “You said ‘We paid a company to do it.’ What do you mean?” Liam regarded his father. “Well, I’ve never installed a fence before. I tried but, you know, it’s hard.” “No, I get that. But what did she mean ‘we’ paid for the company? You ain’t got a job.” “Emily does, but we--” “Ah, so your wife paid for it.” “Well, it’s our money--both of ours. That’s how we’ve always done it.” “She’s been supporting you for a while now and it’s supposed to be the other way around. How long since they fired you? Four years?” “Six years, and I quit to stay home with the kids. You know that.” It might have ended there, but Emily stepped in. “It’s better with him home, it really is. He gets the kids ready for school, cooks breakfast, cleans--honestly, I don’t know how we managed before.” Frank turned away from the grill. “So he’s the wife? He does the wife stuff?” “Well, he...” her voice faded to nothing. Liam shook his head at her. Liam’s mom went inside, got Frank a beer. He took it from her and popped the cap off with the edge of the patio table. “It ain’t right for you to work and not him. Not my son. The club we go to just posted a help wanted ad for a security guard. He’s gonna take the job. Third shift, so he can still be home to cook and clean and all that other nonsense.” Liam, ever the peacemaker, pushed the conversation along. “How’s the club been? I read they renovated the gym.” By the end of dinner, everyone was joking and having fun. But as they packed up to leave, Frank grabbed Liam’s elbow and said, “You’re taking that job.” He repeated this to Emily once they got home. “He’s got a point, Em.” “If you want the job, take the job. But we both know you’d only take it because your dad is bullying you into it--and I think I finally had enough of that. From now on, they can come here to see the kids. They can come to my--our house.” The slip did not go unnoticed. “But, Em, it isn’t okay for me to mooch off you. And anyway, it’s not like more money is a bad thing.” “You quit because I got a big promotion and would be working longer hours. It made sense for us to do it that way. I make more than what we both were making together. It’d be better if you stayed home, but whatever--keep caving to your dad’s demands.” * * * * Like most humans, Liam was a diurnal creature. The abrupt reversal of his sleeping pattern proved hard to reconcile. His first night at work, he showed up with a gallon of coffee in a comically large mug and bags under his eyes that could hold watermelons. His second night was much the same. And the third. He got used to the night shift in stages. Each day got easier, but in the way lifting heavy weights got easier--through application of tremendous effort. The repetition of non-events was a waist-deep mud he slogged through nightly. So little happened around the club at night, the camera feeds were more like movie stills. One night, something triggered the motion sensors along the fence surrounding the golf course. A corresponding node on the security room's electronic map blinked red and beeped like a watch alarm. They didn't have cameras installed that far out along the perimeter, so he grabbed keys for the security golf cart to investigate. In the distance, a light scored through trees. He approached the source--a truck idling outside the fence, its dangerously bright headlights bathing a group of people with its beams. Liam turned his own lights off to surprise the trespassers. He got within a stone's throw of the group without them detecting him. It was a group of teenagers. Trees of all kinds grew along the fence, a tasteful way to disguise the chain-link that also blocked the view of houses further out. Some of the trees were apple trees, like the one he had at home, and the kids used shovels to pick up fallen apples and whip them at each other. Liam switched on the cart's lights, red-and-blue like the police, and the group all jumped and backed up to the fence. There were eight of them. Cans of cheap beer littered the ground. The kids’ surprise melted, and some mental math played out on their faces. Liam misread their sums and exited the cart. “Just stay where you are and we’ll figure this out.” A boy took a few steps towards him. “I said stay where you are, dammit!” “What’s your plan, man? Gonna chain us to the cart and drag us?” said the boy, propping himself up with his shovel. These words were the camel-breaker. Before the boy could say anything more, Liam grabbed the shovel from his hands and pressed the butt of it into the boy’s stomach. “Now, if you don’t want me to call the police, get--” The boy rocketed forward and punched Liam in the face, snapping his jaw closed and breaking a tooth. They ripped the shovel from his hand and swung it against his legs, knocking him on his face. All the kids punched, kicked, and stomped him. Liam crawled, and the edge of a shovel shattered the elbow of his right arm. He tried dragging himself with the one that worked. In doing so, he exposed his stomach--an opportunity quickly seized. They kicked him so hard, he vomited as he rolled on his back. From the ground, the kids didn’t look like kids--they didn't look like people . Their faces were stretched, misshapen, and hungry. He stopped his feeble attempts to protect himself, resolved in his mounting delirium to just let the event play out. Then, a deep roar sounded, sonorous as mountains forming. It caused the kids to scatter like a burst bag of marbles. The chain-link fence rattled as the kids hurdled themselves over it, and the truck peeled away. For a while, all was quiet save for the sounds of nearby munching. With great effort, Liam opened an eye. There was a bear. A big brown one. It nuzzled at the ground, moving away the cans to eat the apples strewn about the area. Liam groaned. The bear noticed, lumbered over to Liam, and sniffed. So cute with its dog-like face--but when its wet nose touched Liam’s own, he smelled the animal's breath, and the illusion of cuteness was shattered. Chances were slim this was the same bear. It wouldn't mean anything even if it was. Thinking he was going to die anyway, Liam lifted his good arm and pet the big head. The bear lingered a moment longer, then went back to the fruit.

I wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and stared at my reflection. You can do this! I jumped on the spot getting my blood pumping before exiting the bathroom & getting dressed for the day. By the time I was ready to leave with coffee in hand I was almost vibrating with first day jitters. It was still dark out when I pulled up curb side & checked the time on my watch. I was a few minutes late but the light was still on behind the window so I wasn’t worried. You can do this! You aced your training! You’ve got this! The front room light turned off. I popped the hood of the car as I jumped out. She was out the front door & walking towards her car. “Hello! Miss! Can you help? I need a jump start.” I saw her quickly glance my way but she kept walking to the car. “Hey! Do you have jumper cables?” No reaction. She got in the car & turned the ignition but didn’t pull out. Maybe.. I waved & pointed under the hood of the car. “My battery’s died. Can you give me a jump start?” After another minute, all while holding my breath, she reversed out of the driveway and drove off quickly down the street. Taillights disappearing as she sped around the corner. What the hell?! I slammed the bonnet shut & got back in the drivers seat. My hands shook as I fumbled to put the keys in the ignition. How had this happened? I’d apprenticed for a month! Absorbed all the training! Aced my practise test! I started the car & drove towards the office. How was I going to explain this to the boss? Would I be fired on my first offical day? The boss looked surprised to see me as I walked into the office, shoulders slumped. He must have seen something on my face because he looked over at his receptionist while motioning me back to his office. “Janette hold my calls” I sat down in the chair by his large desk as he shut the door & came around the desk. Before he could say anything I held up hands. “Sir I’m so sorry! I don’t know what happened! I was all set, standing beside the car with the hood up before she came but..” “But what?” “Well I called out just like we were taught. Didn’t deviate from the script I swear! But she didn’t come over! Besides a quick glance over she just went straight to her car and left! I didn’t know what to do! What was I supposed to do? She never tried to help” I all but wailed. Unprofessional, sure. But it wasn’t like I was getting a second chance after this. I wrung my hands staring at the boss. He came around the desk & put a hand on my shoulder while looking down at me. “Son, listen. It’s okay. This is a her problem not a you problem. What kind of a psycho doesn’t go over to someone calling out for help! Not to mention she was getting into her car so it would have been no bother to give you a jump. No.” He shook his head. “You did everything right. I’m proud of initiative and planning. You’ll get the next one, just you wait and see!” The pressure in my chest released. He was right! What kind of a psycho wouldn’t help out a stranger? This wasn’t about me. This was about her! I just needed to increase my surveillance before the next one to make sure she wasn’t heartless like this women! I left the office feeling light stepped & determined to make my boss proud on the next one.

Theirs was a typical relationship. For the first few years the two were completely inseparable. He couldn't stop thinking about her. She treated him like a proverbial king. They were so emotionally connected that they finished each other's sentences but after their five year anniversary, the 'love' endorphins greatly dissipated. The admiration and mutual respect were still in abundance but it was definitely different from that point on. Though solid, the relationship was on a slightly downward arc. There were no specific reasons for it. They didn't fight or argue. It was just a naturally-occurring decline in carnal attraction. The downside to knowing your partner so well is that everything they do becomes very familiar. There were no surprises anymore. She knew all of his rituals and he knew her routines. Life and ordinary complacency got in the way of maintaining their initial spark. Suddenly her cute quirks were no longer endearing. They grated on his nerves and it was exactly the same for her. His personality was annoying at times. Anyone observing them might have marveled at how the same traits went from cherished to aggravating in just a few years. It was just human nature. We become desensitized to the same old thing, no matter how amazing it might have seemed before. This static trend continued for a few more years. She wanted more and more time to 'find herself'. His company in and out of the bedroom was less desired; and he was hurt by that ongoing physical rejection. It was the first marriage for both so they had no frame of reference to gauge their perspectives against a previous relationship. At different times they both assumed it just reflected a normal couple's growth. Even if that so-called 'growth' was expanding in opposite directions. In the next few years, they had a handful of very heated arguments. It was never physical but there was definitely some simmering animosity and resentment below the surface. Their philosophical disagreements grew broader. Not surprisingly, their intimate relationship also dwindled to smoldering ashes. Despite these personal woes, they excelled in their professional lives. They acquired a very nice home and many desirable possessions in the trade-off. It was perhaps the complicated financial entanglements which kept them together during this difficult phase. Near the eve of the holidays, he fretted over what to buy for her. He had to settle on a gift card from her favorite store. In the beginning of the relationship, he knew exactly what she desired but the further they drew apart, the more private and secretive she became. All the personal 'space' she used to find herself, was also a distance buffer away from him. His gift card idea was uninspired and boring but at least it insured she could get what she really wanted. It was the 'safe bet'. She opened it up and couldn't even feign enthusiasm. A sigh of disgust escaped her lips. He threw up his arms in frustrated surrender. He was officially out of patience. In her hands she held his gift. The small box was expertly wrapped and topped with an ornate bow. He was filled with a sense of dread. It clearly wasn't large enough to contain what he really wanted and he didn't want to cause any more of a rift between them. If it was possible, he was even less of an actor than she was. He couldn't even begin to fake his true feelings; even to prevent a fight. He pulled at the ribbon slowly. The bow unraveled and fell to the floor. As he pulled the lid off the box, he tried to prepare for whatever was inside. Instead of an electronic gadget that he expected, there was only a single piece of paper in the bottom. It wasn't even as thick as a gift card. He nervously reached inside to retrieve it. In bold lettering it read: "The bearer of this coupon is entitled to one (1) no-strings-attached, sexual encounter with the person of his choice. There will be absolutely no repercussions from his spouse." As she stood in front of him, he read the card a half dozen times to make sure he read it correctly. His initial reaction was that of confusion. Then doubt. The whole thing stunk of a cunning trap, or a cringeworthy joke. On the back of the embossed card was a clever, very relevant footnote. "No, it's not a 'trap'. I promise." "That's the very sort of thing that a wife's 'gotcha' trap would proclaim."; He thought in amusement to himself. He made brief eye contact with her for the first time since reading the bizarre coupon. She wasn't smiling. She looked dead serious. Was she gauging his reaction to the one-time 'infidelity coupon offer', or just trying to reassure him it was really ok to use it. He couldn't decide. "Is this some sort of joke, or test?"; He stammered. She shook her head slowly from side to side. There was no hint of amusement on her lips. It was apparently a serious offer. His mind began to wander at the unlikely possibilities. If it really was a serious proposition, who would he choose? There were several ladies who had caught his eyes over the years but that would only open up another can of worms. Then as logic returned to his brain, he began to question the real reason for this unusual 'gift'. Why would she offer to let him have an unanswered dalliance? It was more than just a little bit suspicious. People generally only display that level of unjealous 'generosity' when they had already taken a turn on the infidelity merry-go-round, themselves. It was almost as if she was trying to assuage her own guilty conscience. His mind reeled at the terrifying possibility. Rage, fear, suspicion, and disgust coursed through his veins. As much as it pained him to visualize, it would make sense and explain a great deal about their strained relationship. Regardless, he dared not ask 'that' question. He wasn't sure if he could handle the answer. Instead he just stood looking downward with mouth agape. She spoke, to break the pregnant pause. "I know what you're thinking. No one else in the world knows you as well as I do. I've already went through those same dark emotions. Many, many times, I've anticipated your unspoken questions about the coupon. I've also imagined how you would respond, if the situation was reversed. No, it's not a joke or a trap to see how you would respond. And no, I've never been unfaithful to you, sweetheart. Our distance in the past few years and my lack of affection is because of my own distractions and personal issues. I'm deeply sorry about the wall I've erected around myself. It's not you. It's me. Please try to be patient as I slowly remove those bricks, ok? For this reason, I want to offer you some form of... 'compensation'. All I ask is that you try to avoid an emotional connection with whomever you choose to hand it to." Tears of relief welled up in his eyes. He extended his arm and handed her the coupon. It was the best gift he ever received.

Greg clung to the rosary for dear life. The mansion creaked around him, every dark stain in the abandoned place making him think of the blood spilled there long ago. “I’m here to make a bargain.” He was supposed to speak the words in a loud, clear voice. Instead they came out as a half-shriek. Nothing answered. “Axaroth, I am here to make a bargain,” Greg repeated, his voice a little calmer. Nothing was going to happen. Not really. His friends had been messing with him. “Speak!” The voice rang out from every direction at once. It boomed with a deep bass, and demanded compliance. “I...I...I...” Greg stuttered as he tried to get words out. “I..I..I...I will perish if I don’t speak and waste the time of beings infinitely more important than mine own. Speak or be damned.” “I have requests.” “And you are willing to sell your soul?” Gregory held up the rosary in defiance. “You must make a bargain for an earthly price if I am protected. There was a moment of silence, and then laughter rang forth from the walls. Deep, bellowing laughter. It went on for some time. When it finally halted, the demon answered. “That protects against lesser demons. I am Axaroth, Prince of Hatred.” Gregory bolted, but froze with his hand on the doorknob. He had come here for a reason. “It offers no protection.” “Half of your soul, so you are doomed to half an existence. Unless, of course, you come to hell. Then your soul can be reforged for an eternity of torture.” “Kill my father.” Silence. It stretched out, like a rubber band, thinner and thinner until everything threatened to *snap*. “I said kill my father,” Greg screamed when he could take it no longer. The next voice Greg heard wasn’t the demon Axaroth. It came from upstairs. Several voices, in fact, were arguing. Greg followed them. Up the stairs, down the hall, he found a bedroom. His friends, if he could call them that, sat around a laptop and microphone, the laptop displaying a view of the foyer Greg had just been in. His friends turned and looked at him in shame. Greg looked over them all once, then turned without a word. They chased him to the entrance, pleading their excuses, how it was supposed to be funny, how they thought he’d ask for Jessica to date him. As they reached the front door, the lights went out. “It isn’t funny anymore.” Mike, the ring leader, pleaded their innocence as the room turned cold. “I said it isn’t...funny...any...okay, what the fuck is that?” Something was rumbling, almost like a chuckle, in the darkness. The boys turned, and from the darkness stepped forth something large. Something evil. It stood eight feet tall, ten with its horns, a goat standing like a human, a pentacle of blood upon its forehead. As it strode forward it stared into the eyes of each boy in turn, the blacker than night holes in its head seeming to suck out their secrets. “Gregory.” The demon’s voice was deeper than was possible, it rumbled like the Earth moving, it was fear itself, made manifest. Greg reached behind him and yanked at the doorknob, but it refused to budge. “Gregory dear, these friends of yours need to go. Say the word.” Mike turned from the beast, the only one to do so. The rest plead on their knees to the beast, overlapping voices crying out for their mommy’s for the first time since leaving for college, crying out for mercy where there could be none, crying out for salvation from the very thing they had wanted to be. Their eyes locked. For a moment, Gregory saw Mike. He had wet himself in fear, and that was what he had wanted from Gregory. Fear. Embarrassment. Shame. The video was supposed to go viral, shaming Gregory into leaving college and going home. “And your father too. I know you hate how he treats your family. Let me punish them for you. Let me punish them all. Say the word.” Greg’s mouth moved silently. One of Mike’s friends charged the beast, only to be effortlessly backhanded across the room. He fell in a slump, the moaning the only sign he was still alive. “Choose quickly, lest I give them the chance to choose your fate.” Greg ripped his eyes from Mike as Mike spun back towards the beast. “Yes,” Mike screamed, “yes, kill him, kill Greg and let us go.” The beast ignored Mike and held Greg’s gaze. “Say it.” Greg swallowed as the word came to his lips as if on its own. “Yes. ***** Entry for the /r/WritingPrompts spooky campfire, happening Saturday.

Terra tilted her head to the canopy of stars over the glade. A cool wind blew from the trees surrounding her, covering the area with the energy of the earth and stars. She stretched her arms overhead, the silver bond around her wrists sparking in the full moonlight. Your energy is mine. “This tribunal is called to order,” Alinta said from her throne on the north end of the circle. Her dark form glowed with the fire of her magic, warming the space in front of Alysia. “Alysia, you are charged with magic negation. How do you plead?” Terra’s brown eyes glinted. “Not guilty.” “How can you say that?” Zephyrine said in her whispery voice. “You clearly stole our magic for your own gain. How else can you explain how we fade while you strengthen?” Terra stiffened in the coldness emanating from Zephyrine’s wispy form. “I’m of the earth. My power is from the alignment of life. If you’re out of alignment with your element, then you aren’t using your energy properly.” “We’re talking about magic, not your mystical energy,” Maren's smooth voice washed over Terra. “I am of the water. How can you explain why the tides are running low? Or the streams are running dry?” Terra channeled the earth's energy through her feet, fortifying herself against the binding of her sisters’ accusatory forces. “You’re out of alignment.” “We form a symbiotic circle,” Alinta said. “Fire, wind, water, and you, the earth. It’s impossible for three of us to be out of alignment and one to overpower the others. The nature of the world is balance, but that balance has been disturbed. Earth is strengthened in direct proportion to our weakening forces. Explain yourself. What have you done?” I rise. Terra silenced the thought. She could not reveal herself. The cosmic forces needed more time to complete the cycle of redistribution. “I have done as I always did, living in alignment with the power of the earth,” Terra said. “You are my sisters. You know that my strength comes from the living world, not from the elements. I have only what the universe chooses to give to the growth and sustenance of life.” A golden light streaked across the sky. Terra smiled. If it chooses to give more, then I will gladly take it. “The skies are strange with new lights, and the planetary forces are shifting,” Maren said. “This is no natural phenomenon. We feel it in our elements. There’s been a shift in the cosmos, and our magic reveals no other enemies or disruptions from without. That means that the problem is from within.” She leaned forward, pressing the force of her cold presence against Terra. “Except for you. You’ve grown stronger these past months, and more vibrant. It’s as if you discovered some secret that you did not share with your sisters.” “There are no secrets. We’re bound to one another as we are bound to this planet,” Terra said. “We share access to the same knowledge, power, and energy.” “Magic,” Zephyrine hissed. “Your magic is simply a redistribution of energy,” Terra said as she willed the energy from her wrist bond through her body as another gold light flashed across the sky. “The only difference between us and the mortals is our ability to manipulate that energy through the will of the mind and body.” “This is blaspheme,” Maren said. “We hold this world together. We keep order in nature. If not for us, cataclysmic forces would have destroyed the planet, the people, and this entire system eons ago!” “The earth only exists for us,” Alinta said. “We keep the balance. We direct the forces through this world. We hold the key to the light of life and existence. Without us, they are nothing!” “You are becoming nothing through the abuse of your energy,” Terra said. “Has it occurred to you that the reason you wane isn’t some dark threat, but the sullenness of your soul?” “You are a heretic and a thief,” Alinta said. “How dare you accuse us of tainting this world with our magic? You are the one who needs to learn your place.” She stood, casting her red shadow over Terra. “We will hear no more of your lies. I proclaim you guilty of magic negation and heresy. I sentence you to the dungeons of purgatory until you repentant and rehabilitate enough to rejoin our forces.” Terra smiled. “You mean until I’m more firmly under your control, but you forget one thing: one of us cannot control the others. We only control our elements.” A firey finger flew through the sky. Terra stood up straight, inhaled deeply, and raised her cuffed fists in front of her. “Your energy is mine. You control nothing of this world anymore.” Rise. White light burst from the cuff, breaking it off Terra’s wrist. The light swirled around Terra, jolting her with the full energy of the system. She stretched and exhaled deeply. A gust of wind erupted from her, knocking Alinta, Maren, and Zephyrine to the ground. A band of light bound the three to the ground. White light and wind swirled around the glade. Terra expanded her awareness from the natural world to the universe above, adding the cosmic energy of expansion to the swirl and harnessing it to her will until it swirled and contracted into a single point in her hand. She walked to the three forms of her sisters on the ground and kneeled in front of them, holding the sparkling energy against her heart. “The problem isn’t that I was guilty of anything. The problem is that we’re just too different. You choose to use energy for the magic to keep this world under your control. I choose to harness the energy to evolve the planet and all of life upon it. I don’t seek to rule this world. I seek to liberate it.” “No, that would be chaos!” Alinta said. “Mortals don’t know what do to with this power!” Maren said. “It must stay hidden with the ancients!” Zephyrine cried. Terra stood and held up her hands. “This was not meant to be under any person’s control. This creative energy is a gift to all.” She opened her hands, releasing the energy to the sky. The ball expanded and spread over the glade, widening as it rose into the sky. The stars overhead sparkled, raining their energy over the earth. “It’s time for this world to break free of your tyranny and rise into the joy of freedom.” “What have you done?” Alinta asked. “You offered up our essence. We’ll die!” Terra took another deep breath, savoring the deep scent of the earth. “I offered only what was already given by the supreme power. Humanity was meant to grow, not stagnate under our power. The energy revealed the ancient knowledge that they were meant to rise while we were meant to blend and sustain the elements. We set this world in motion. After creation, we were destined to maintain it, not rule it. I merely set things right.” “I will drown your selfish ambition!” Mara cried. “I command the air to suck your energy dry!” Zephrine rasped. “You will burn for this!” Alinta hissed. Terra smiled as she looked at the sky. “All is as it was created to be.” She took a last look at her sisters'. “What this new reality becomes for you is entirely up to you. You can continue to drown, suffocate, and burn the world. Lie there and fade, or rise and embrace the new reality. The choice is yours, as it always was.” Terra inhaled deeply, breathing her strength over the glade. “My choice is made. Yours is upon you. I pray you go in peace, but the same freedom lies before you. Use it as you will. Just remember that it always comes back.” The light holding the sisters down swirled into the sky, releasing them as Terra walked into the trees, the glow of her form blending into the life energy of the woods and rising into the sky as she passed into the world beyond.

“Don’t do it that way. You’re going to strip the screw.” Dad corrected as he pushed up from his chair to retrieve the tool out of mom’s hands. They were replacing the screens in the kitchen windows, the last home improvement project of the summer. Winged insects buzzed in and out into the night air. My mother handed the tool over, the familiar look of defeat in her eyes, and went back to the stove to stir the boiling pot of pasta. Her eyeglasses slipped to the end of her nose from the moisture in the air, grey tendrils escaping from her loose ponytail. Dad returned to his seat across from me to read his newspaper. It was the week before I would enter middle school. “Come See Our Newest Attraction! The Red Bat!” The local zoo summoned in bold print on the back of dad’s paper. I had been to the low budget zoo the year before on a class field trip. Small dirty cages with depressed looking animals circling about. The most impressive animal they had was a giraffe. He had an extra tall doorway leading into his own small dirty cage. The main attraction though, was Smokey Joe, the chimpanzee. Smokey Joe got his name because he smoked Marlboro Reds, up to a pack a day. He inhaled and everything, which was rare for chimp. Staring at my ceiling that night I dreamed about the red bat. I first learned about bats in my Ranger Rick magazine (I had wanted a dog but dad said they were too messy and got me a subscription instead.) Did you know bats have belly buttons? Although, I don’t know if they are innies or outies, I suppose it just depends, like in people. And mother bats breastfeed their young, because they are mammals, not birds. Bats have always had a bad reputation, known mostly as disease-ridden, rabies-transmitting guardians of the night. But they are actually quite important to the ecosystem. Seed dispersers, vital pollinators, they also keep the insect population down. One bat can consume up to 600 mosquitos in one night. But I had never read anything about them being different colors, they were always some version of black. Was it really red? Was it the only one? For the next 3 days I became consumed with the mystery of the red bat. I had been particularly interested in bats after an encounter with them earlier that summer. One evening, like most others, I sat between my parents on the couch. I was well into my summer reading, Where the Red Fern Grows, while Mom was lost in another cheap romance novel from the bargain bin at the drugstore. “Do you hear that?” she asked turning to me. A particular scratching sound was coming from above our heads. “Probably a squirrel,” Dad said. “But squirrels are diurnal,” I stated. “Then a mouse,” he said looking down at me annoyed. But mice are so light you don’t hear them walking about. I kept that to myself though, as I made my way outside to investigate. Walking past the window, glowing blue with the nightly news, I looked in at my parents. It was like looking into a diorama I had made for school the year before, a three- dimensional model with two life-like figurines sitting at either end of the couch, stoic bookends with only space between them. Nothing like the framed picture on the end table of a moment frozen in time before I was born, dad in his uniform and mom in her nursing outfit. (She stopped working when I was born and never went back.) His arms wrapped around her waist from behind, their heads thrown back laughing, exposing their white necks. Dad got up from the couch without a word and came to the side of the house with a ladder he had retrieved from the garage. He nudged me out of the way as he steadied it against the house. “Stay right there. It’s too dangerous,” he ordered pointing at me, and then at the ladder, and then back at me again. I nodded. He went back into the house. With specific instructions not to climb up, I waited dutifully. I heard my mother through the freshly screened kitchen window sheepishly suggest an exterminator as my father scavenged through the closets, a broom falling out nearly hitting her. “Don’t need an exterminator,” he said as he walked past her. She bent over to pick up the broom and caught my eye looking at her through the diorama window. She turned to say something to him but he was already gone. That would be the last time she would be stuck in the place between action and consequence. She wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. Hot sweat stung my eyes. I turned and climbed the homemade wooden ladder. Creaking with every rung, I made my way to the top. I poked my head inside the round window and looked around. Dusty beach chairs from long lost summer days when we would go to East Matunuck State Beach stood propped against the pink insulation. My favorite part of those trips was the car rides home. Sitting in the back, stuck to the hot leather seat, dried salt making my skin tight against my bones. From the time the sun set to the time it got dark out was an hour, which was the time it took to drive home. We would always stop at Salty’s, a seasonal clam shack that only accepted cash, on the way home. Within minutes of ordering the girl would bring two grease-stained paper bags to our car window and a stack of napkins. I would get a cone of vanilla ice cream, vanilla was only flavor they had. I got to eat it in the backseat before dinner so it wouldn’t melt. ‘Too hot!’ Dad would scream as he bit into a clam cake that Mom held to his mouth while he drove us home, the hot grease burning it with every bite. We’d laugh as he swerved between lanes. Next to the chairs were my old baby things. A stroller, a crib and boxes upon boxes of baby clothes, perfectly folded and organized by age. Mom was good at things like that. They had kept all my baby things in hopes of another baby, but another baby never came. Whatever was in the musty attic must have already checked out I thought as I tilted my head in a little further, the night air was thick with dust and humidity. Then I saw them, twenty, maybe thirty, little blood-sucking (they don’t actually suck, they lap) vampires taking refuge at the opening of the window, inches from my face. They cloaked themselves in their wings like militant little corpses. Their transparent skin pink in the light of my flashlight, blood flowing from whatever victim they stole it from the night before. I scrambled down the ladder, skipping rungs, my heart racing. A knot formed in my throat when I saw my father round the corner with a butterfly net. Without a word I watched him make his way up the ladder. Less then a minute later he calmly came back down, walked past me, and then past my mother and got the phonebook. “Mom, can we go to the zoo today, pleeease?” I pleaded with my mother after my father left for work. Summer was nearing its end and soon I’d be back in the real world of complex equations and required reading. “Not today,” she said softly shaking her head not bothering to look up. She was trimming the roll of screen to fit the dining room windows. I had almost given up when that Monday, my mother announced the three of us were going to the zoo after breakfast. My father looked up from his newspaper as if it was the first he’d heard of it. We were the first in line at the zoo that morning. After they stamped our hands and gave us a bag of feed for the goats, I was off like a bat out of hell. (No pun intended.) Flamingos, meerkats, cranes, ostriches, lemurs, they were all a blur as I whirled past cages and exhibits. I only stopped to see Smokey Joe. I was worried lung cancer may have gotten the best of him but there he was in all his glory, a head of lettuce in one hand, a cigarette in the other. By the time he had gotten down to the filter I was ready to continue on. We were nearly to the exit when I saw it. A dilapidated shelter, cracked boards nailed together with the words “Red Bat” scrawled across the top. It had one small peephole to keep the light out. Bats aren’t totally blind, contrary to popular belief, but they do use echolocation to navigate. With nervous anticipation I climbed the three cinder block steps and peered into the aperture. And there it was. Hanging from a rope was a Louisville Slugger, painted red. My eyes filled with tears of anger and disappointment. I quickly wiped them away before anyone saw. On the ride home, skin tight from my salty tears, my parents told me they were getting divorced, but I was too upset to care.

“The United States entered World War I in 1917 as an associated power on the allied...” I groaned internally in my seat as Mr. Lawson rambled on for eons about... whatever it was he was talking about. Honestly, I was doing anything but listening, and judging from the varying looks of weariness, ennui and fatigue around the dead-silent classroom, my classmates were probably doing the same. I lazily lifted my arm up to glance at my wristwatch. 11:05 am. Which meant we were in store for 25 more minutes of Mr. Lawson’s *glorious* monotoning. Hooray. Struggling to maintain consciousness at my desk -a losing battle, I might add-, a familiar thought came to my mind. See, ever since I was a kid, I’ve always had this idea that if I just randomly screamed internally, maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to catch some random psychic off guard and startle them. Yes, you read that right. Mind readers. I thought I could startle a mind reader by screaming in my head. Before you laugh, just know I was a very... imaginative kid, ok? I also happened to be *tremendously* obsessed with superheroes and comics at the time. And no, I don’t believe in psychics or mind readers or super powers *anymore*, I was just a kid. But occasionally, just sometimes, I would still give a random shout in my head, just for the heck of it. Weird, I know. Call it my idiosyncrasy if you will. So, as I was sitting at my desk, physically dying of boredom, I thought with a hint of a smirk, why not? For old times sake. So I sat up a bit straighter in my chair, took a slow, deep breath, and let loose a long, shrill scream, inside my head of course. My features scrunched up as I yelled internally, and if anyone had looked at my face right at that moment, I’d probably look like I was trying to lay an egg. But I made sure to keep my eyes open, you know, to see if anyone actually reacted to my ridiculous mental howling. Now *obviously* I wasn’t actually expecting anything to happen. Like I said, I stopped believing in that kinda stuff a long time ago. No one's gonna like, suddenly yelp and fall out of their chair in surprise or something. Or at least, I thought no one would. The moment the shout flitted across my mind, my eyes caught a glimpse of movement ahead of me. Two desks up and to the right of me, a long haired brunette girl had just jolted in her seat. Veronica I think her name was? For a second I just stared, wide eyed. That *had* to have been a coincidence right? ...Right? *“Pssshhhhhhh,”* I thought to myself with a smirk, “*Lucky timing. Calm down.”* I contemplated for a moment. *“But just in case...”* Now staring directly at the girl who’s name may-or-may-not be Veronica, I silently counted down from 3 and let out another mental shout. This time, I saw her make a subtle, slightly more controlled jolt, like... like she’d been *expecting* to be startled and was *ready* for it. As soon as the realization hit me, I involuntarily gasped out loud. Loud enough for Mr. Lawson to stop his lecture and make everyone turn to look. “Is there anything you’d like to add to the topic, Mr. Wade?” Mr. Lawson said over his horn-rimmed glasses. “I-uh... No sir,” I said quickly, anxious to remove myself from the student’s expectant gazes. “Then I would appreciate it if you refrained from interrupting my class again.” I grimaced and nodded. Seeming satisfied, Mr. Lawson turned back to the board and resumed his lecture. The moment the coast was clear, my attention snapped back to Veronica, who was the only one seemingly undisturbed by my outburst. I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t have moved my mouth to speak if I’d tried. Good thing I didn’t need to. “*Y-you...*” I thought, now knowing she was listening. “*You can read MINDS!?”* No reaction. Veronica made no gesture to show she heard me. She didn’t even budge. But I knew better, and I wasn’t just gonna let her ignore me. “*I know you hear me,*” I thought. I was boring my eyes straight into her, attempting to make eye contact, but no such luck. In fact, the harder I stared, the more she seemed to tilt her head slightly in the other direction. She was *intentionally* avoiding my gaze. At this point, any doubts I had before were now squashed. “*Oh my god, it’s true isn’t it?*” Then finally a reaction. As I confirm my suspicion, Veronica seems to almost slump into her chair, defeated. The body signals couldn’t have been more clear: “The jig is up.” I also sank into my seat, wallowing in my own epiphany. Questions bounced around in my head, directed more to myself this time. Not that it made a difference to Veronica. “*How is this possible?”* *“Does anyone else know?”* *“How long have you been able to do this?”* *“Who are you?”* *“WHAT are you?”* Veronica visibly flinched at the last question, and immediately I felt a pang of guilt. It was already kind of bad enough I inadvertently found out her biggest secret (Or advertently? The whole point of the “mind jump-scare” *was* to find mind readers after all.), and now I’m questioning whether or not she’s even *human*. It made me realize, maybe I’m in over my head here. Maybe if I can just act like nothing ever happen- *Briiiiiiiing!* My thoughts were interrupted by the school bell ringing, signifying the end of class. Students were already packing their stuff to leave, and I anxiously joined them. As I dumped my supplies into my bag and zipped it shut, I felt something grab my arm. I turned around to find myself face to face with Veronica. She took a deep breath, then spoke. “We need to talk.

There Is Only the Hunt by C.S. Humble It's 8:37 in the morning when Johnny comes sliding around the corner of the neon-soaked Double A training emporium. His hair is a Jheri curl fresh and dripping with 1983 sex appeal. Eighty-eight degrees outside, Mother Nature? Johnny doesn't give a shit. He's rocking a black leather jacket that looks like it's been polished with turtle wax, a real gamma burst glinting off volcanic glass situation. And that's just the jacket. He's got pants like a firetruck and a piano black belt to match the high top kicks. Every other sob story Joe in the world is grinding his brakes on the tollway to get to his cubicle and this motherfucker, throwing all worldly care into the sun, looks like he just stepped out of Michael Jackson's *Beat It*. Johnny is humming on a frequency that can only be captured on the RCA stereo inside a Pontiac Firebird. Johnny's a phoenix rising, killing it all the way to the top. 8:38 AM and Johnny Mac has just turned my Monday morning around. I am a low-rent recruiter for the League, but when I see Johnny, all I want to do is hit a bump of coke and dance until our shoes take us straight into a realm that can only be traversed by moonwalking. At the age of eight he blows through all the toughest scenes: *Hyborea*, *Atlantean Conquest*, all of that baby trainer shit that we use to separate wheat and chaff, talented from prodigy. Johnny's done with that by the age of ten, ready to move on to *Commander Horizon*, and he came close, and I mean straight razor shave close to beating *Colossus Valley* on his first go. Johnny Mac is a game changer. He's going to be the biggest star in the world. If he can pass the test of course. He slips inside the Double A, just like every morning, around 8:45. He warms-up with *Galaxy Hero*. A classic. I walk across the street and add myself to the glowing stream of avatars bustling down the neon nursery pink walkway. Every century of human history is represented in the faces and clothes of a thousand hopeful dreamers shouldering into the pyrite glow of the emporium. I'm not here for potential utility players. Those days are over for me. What makes Johnny superior to all these digitally re-skinned mouth-breathers, outside of that absolutely bitching hair and threads, is that Johnny plays the Pilot position better than anyone I've ever seen. I'm being modest. Johnny Mac runs Pilot better than any human being who has ever, or will ever jack himself into the throbbing heart of the Spiral. The rainbow shower of neon inside the Double A is a psychadellium. Hundreds of games, each of them running thousands of different self-generating scenarios. But, like all good training emporiums, the Double A is a labyrinth. A spiral in the Spiral. A maze of twisting addiction that demands a higher mastery the deeper you go. Deeper and deeper until you find yourself at the center. It would be a mistake to think that gaming your way to the heart of the labyrinth is the end of the journey. It isn't. At the center of the Double A's winding labyrinth is a monster. A *Minotaur.* *Minotaur* is a microcosm of the player's journey. It's the only complete neural net interface game that the talent gets to try. Beauty in simplicity. It's the trial you only get to take once. You win, you punch your ticket. You lose? Fuck you. You took your shot and you missed. Time to join the ranks of data miners and number crunching assholes who never go deeper than the edge of the Funnel. The Spiral is for the League and the League is for Theseus types. You either have it or you don't. Johnny Mac has what it takes. I've known that since the first day he found me, telling me that he was going to be the best pilot in the world. The day he told me that nothing mattered more than getting his shot at *Minotaur*. Like I haven't heard that before, right? Kids get confused. Johnny conflated beating the game with making it in the League. I corrected him and asked him to prove his dedication. He's done that in spades. And now, even though he never mentions the League itself, only *Minotaur*, my prize pilot is all done warming up and ready to make war. A war he's been begging me to give him since we met. I make the arrangements for the Double A to fire up the beast. I hand Johnny the contract, but he makes me hold it myself, only offering single hand out of his pocket to sign it. His brown eyes are twinkling with the magic I've managed to keep hidden away from other scouts. There's an uncharacteristic sheen of sweat on his brow, and he's more quiet than usual, but I chalk it up to nerves. Red and blue lights explode into alarm. Every trainer game currently in progress shuts right the hell down and every one of those jealous dreamers make their way to the arena. It's showtime. The triangular stadium at the center of the Double A seats eighty-five thousand and whenever someone decides to run *Minotaur* it's standing room only. The four story monitors flicker to life. Every palpitant heart gets a dose of adrenaline when the black screen flashes with the three most important words of our modern life. *Start New Game?* The hostesses, dressed in their sparkling peacock outfits, usher Johnny out onto the stage. The crowd roars at the rush. There is nothing that gets them off faster than the prospect of seeing a dream walk the knife. A disco ball of glimmering wires and crackling energy descends from the rafters. Johnny is a stone gargoyle of concentration. The moment isn't too big for him. His hands are still in his pockets, which is weird, but it's okay. He's eager, ready to fire up that nuclear reactor inside his head and sling liquid fire. Probably doesn't want folks to see his hands shaking. I get it. Twin jets of steam and an artillery battery of pyrotechnics turn the place into a recreation of earth's New Armistice Day. A little visual foreplay, all part of the show, that whets more than the appetite of onlookers. The arena goes dark. All sound dies in the midnight shine of the towering screens. Those three little words, asking their question. The sound of thunder announces the advent of a single sodium spotlight down on Johnny's head, anointing my savior. *Start New Game?* He nods. *Minotaur* randomly generates a topography bigger than a continent in the span of a nanosecond. The world and obstacles are different for every person. The goal is always the same. Find the gatekeeper and make him bend the knee. Win by guile, no-scope precision, or savagery; doesn't matter. When you're plugged into the game the only thing that matters is finding the beast and making him say uncle. The screens flash on and we see what Johnny sees. In medias res, Johnny is in the cockpit of a fighter, screaming through a galactic warscape, less than a meter away from crashing into the alien steel of a Capital ship. *Minotaur* knows Johnny's record, it uses the data of every game Johnny's ever played inside the Double A to build a scenario designed to crush him. The crowd gasps in horror. They think it's over before it even begins. A young life crushed on the wheel of gainful venture. I smile. Johnny punches his retrothrusters and banks his fighter into a vertigo inducing spin. Sparks flash over the window of the cockpit, leaving a blistering skid mark where the steel of the Capital ship kisses the glass. Everything is instinct now as he looks at the cavalcade of blinking lights, chrome levers, and switches on a command console he's never seen before. In less than a span of a heartbeat my meal ticket slips into the unfamiliar interface like a glove. The game likes to rush pilots early, see if it can get them to flinch in the opening salvo. Johnny doesn't blink. *Minotaur* sees, for the first time, what I've seen for years. Johnny Mac's brain isn't a biochemical engine, it's a weapon. Like Crocea Mors, Kusanagi, or Excalibur, Johnny's mind is mythical. "Birdman, this is Priest. Do you copy? Over." The A.I. is kicking on. It's objective time. Johnny slides into character perfectly. "Priest, this is Birdman. I copy." "I'm on your wing. The battle cruiser *Minotaur* is located on the far side of--wait, enemy fighters are--" The comm-line flatlines with static. A vaporous explosion sends particle debris against the aft of Johnny's fighter. Priest is gone, leaving only the tiniest morsel of information for the mission parameters. No hand holding for Johnny. *Minotaur* doesn't play to win. It plays to conquer. Demoralize. Johnny levels out the fighter, twisting wing over wing, skimming the surface of the mammoth vessel. Six enemy fighters, perfectly assembled in attack formation give chase. Their laser fire peppers what's left of his shields. In the cockpit, sirens scream. Without looking at the console, Johnny flips a lever, pushing his energy reserves into the rear shields. Then he barrels left and puts the hammer down. Azure propulsion cyclers ignite, sending his heat gauge into the red, throwing him screaming over the edge of the Capital ship. Three of the fighters following him can't make the blistering maneuver. They explode against the hull, snuffed out like little candles. The blue jewel of a planet, big as a dinner plate in the window of Johnny's fighter, comes into view. The overlay flashes a holo-panel: *Titus-6*. A desolate world--the surface long since turned to glass by the turbocharged guns of the dozen Capital ships controlled by the game's A.I. A fresh, red horror blinks onto the overlay: *Targeting Systems Offline.* Another. *Fuel Cell Reserves Engaged*. And another. *Enemy Target Lock.* *Minotaur* is not fucking around. It wants to crush my rising star before he ever has a chance to dawn. One final overlay, a slap in the face of any player who's ever tried their hand at *Minotaur*, reads: "Concede defeat? Y/N" "Computer," Johnny says. "Open hailing frequency: BROADCAST." What the hell is he doing? The on-board computer whistles. "Hailing frequency live, set to open broadcast." Then I realize, he's going to do something no player has ever done before. He's going to talk to the game itself. "To the Minotaur Fleet, this is Johnny "Birdman" MacMorn." In the corona of the cockpit's solar shields I can see the pearly white slash of Johnny's smile. He is *in*. *Minotaur* is within his grasp. His dream is coming true. All my fears pass away. I'm going to be so goddamn wealthy. For the first time in the thirty-eight years since the first iteration of *Minotaur* was birthed into the Spiral, *Minotaur* spoke. "This is the *Minotaur.* I read you MacMorn." *Minotaur's* voice is cold and sharp. A calculating tone of a masculine artificial intelligence. "Do you wish to concede defeat?" A hushed gasp shivers through the crowd. "Negative, *Minotaur*." Johnny, flipping the levers of actuators that stave off critical system failures, uses his off-hand to grab the yoke by the throat. The rear shields fade to nothing. The afterburners ignite. The fighter streaks across the black void, a silver arrow headed for the far side of *Titus-6*. "What then, MacMorn, is the nature of your hailing?" "Negotiation." He's pouring everything into the engines, pulling himself out of the range of the now two-dozen enemy fighters struggling to keep up. "Negotiation..." The game is confused, unsure of how to react. "Negotiation of what?" "Your unconditional surrender." The balls on this kid. "I do not surrender." There might be anger in that cold, cybernetic voice. "Have it your way," Johnny says. "Computer, close channel." In the cockpit window, the rim of *Titus-6* looms closer like a blue theater curtain pulled back. He's close. The computer whistles again, the conversation over. The fighter dips down toward the surface of the planet, the burn of the atmosphere on the ship's hull sends alarms into panic. A girl screams in the arena. "What's he doing?" Somehow, the speed gauge on the fighter ramps up higher and higher. Gravity. He's using the gravity of the planet like a slingshot. Cutting across the scrim of *Titus-6,* the sterling, titan bulk of the Battle Cruiser *Minotaur* comes into view. From out of the open belly of the hulking beast comes a whole, fresh wing of enemy fighters blistering for the righteous kill. The gravitational momentum from the frozen waste below propels Johnny's fighter directly toward the *Minotaur*. In a two-handed flurry that twists chrome knobs and snaps levers toward six o'clock, Johnny cuts his engines and sends what's left of his power cell reserves into his forward guns. Emerald beams of light streak out of his cannons. One, two, three, four, five fighters explode like fire-filled balloons. The sixth fighter passes by, scorching Johnny's starboard wing with a blistering salvo. The on-board computer chimes. "Starboard cannon offline." Johnny pushes the yoke down hard. His fighter dives off the edge of a cliff that does not exist, down, barely dodging the battery of laserfire streaming out of the side guns of the *Minotaur*. Those guns trace his trajectory, though, sparking against his main thrusters. The fighter levels out, and now, he is under the cruiser. Johnny curls his hand around a long, yellow trimmed lever. Just before it disappears in his grip, I read what it says. The words come out of my mouth, a whisper. "Hockey stick." The underside cannons of the *Minotaur* pound Johnny's fighter. There are only a handful of seconds left before he's turned to vapor in the void. Johnny pulls the lever. The canopy explodes open. The pilot seat rockets out of the dying fighter, carrying Johnny straight up toward the open hangar bay yawning like the mouth of a cosmic manta ray. The sound of Johnny's furious breathing fills the arena. The quadjets under the seat push him higher and higher toward the glowing ray shield. A shield that begins to slide back over the open hangar where the enemy fighters made their exit. It's the slimmest of windows. Johnny, continuing in his streaking ascent, slaps the central release of his harness and grabs the edges of the seat, a burning comet headed for oblivion. The seat flies into the open hangar bay. The shields slam shut beneath him. Johnny jumps. Hits the ground, ducks and covers. The seat smashes into one of the enemy fighters hanging on the roof of the hangar like a sleeping vampire bat. The explosion fills the hangar with fire. The crowd erupts in cheers. For Johnny Mac, there is no cause for celebration. It does not surprise him that he survived the maneuver. For the crowd, the feats they are witnessing are miraculous. For Johnny, they are the norm. Standard Operating Procedure. *Minotaur's* flat, dead tone booms from an over-head speaker. "Phase One complete. Re-calibrating. Shift incoming." He removes his helmet. A roguish smile bristles across his dark skin. He's having the time of his life. The game is about to change. It's taken Johnny's best punch and it's about to turn up the heat. "3, 2, 1." The screen goes black. White light blinds the crowd. The sound of church bells ringing fills the arena. They toll over the black waters of a fog-bathed bog set deep in the heart of a dark forest at the midnight hour. Out of the two dozen possible paths out of the swamp, only one leads closer to the center. In the distance, punched up out of the horizon like a demonic claw, is a massive Gothic castle. For those of you who are just joining us: this dramatic shift in the layout and theme of the test are a way for the game to test the player's ability to adapt. Johnny's space suit is gone and in its place he's been clad in leather armor. *Minotaur* can't leave a player totally helpless, so out of the kindness of its heart and its inability to break the rules, it gives Johnny a letter-opener that could liberally be classified as a dagger. Johnny inspects the pathetic weapon, sheathes it, and then breaks into an open run down one of the winding paths that undoubtedly twists like a circulatory system through the looming forest. In a rumbling crash, the fog soaked ground falls away into a ten foot wide sinkhole without warning. The crowd gasps at the thought of this run ending on a cheap-ass trick. Johnny doesn't just leap the chasm--that'd be too pedestrian for this future Hall of Famer. He sails over the black abyss, twisting like a gymnast. At the height of his ascent, he comes out of the acrobatic flurry only to flash a double-bird set of middle fingers at the castle. The crowd cackles in astounded laughter. Johnny, like the game, doesn't just play to win. He's a showman; a trapeze artist who does the death drop three times a night without the use of a net. The crowd loves him for it. He bursts out of the treeline in a dead sprint. Before him, and us, lies the Gothic fortress standing resolute in the opal moonlight. Buttressing the wooden drawbridge hanging open like a skull's empty eye-socket, are two titans wielding stone hammers. Malicious, ruby eyes gaze out from the penny-thin slits on their dark, iron helms. The first one rushes out wildly, the great hammer in its hands uplifted to end this nonsense in a single, bone-crushing stroke. Johnny rolls left just in time. The hammer makes a crater only inches from him, sending up a cloud of black soil out of the white blanket of fog. Another diving roll sends Johnny through the legs of the sentinel, where the second is waiting for him with a heel twisting home run swing meant to send Johnny to the moon. It's a smart play on the computer's part. *Minotaur* has seen similar moves over its long and destructive career. What it has not seen, is a player who aerials over the head of the hammer, grabs a hold of its edge, and hangs on for dear life. The extra weight on the tip of the weapon makes it too heavy for the titan to recover from. The head of the hammer sinks firmly into the ground, cutting a trench into the earth. A man on a wire, Johnny runs up the haft of the hammer, unsheathes his dagger and slides the needle-thin tip into the slender gap of the sentinel's helm. The titan howls in pain. Johnny's arm is a piston, stabbing relentlessly. The titan, now a blinded, thrashing animal, begins to swing his weapon with reckless furiosity. One of those sightless blows smashes his compatriot in the head, crushing the titan's helm like a soda can under a boot heel. It's bloody work to finish off the blind thing, but Johnny takes to it like a creature possessed. The battle ends with a quick, hard slash and a fountain of blood eschewed from the titan's exposed throat. It's a level of ferocity that I've never seen before. Not just me either. None of us, onlookers or other scouts, no one has done this to *Minotaur* before. Bathed in a dark scarlet wash under the harvest moon, Johnny Mac looks up at the massive fortress. There's something behind those eyes of his, something hidden, unspoken. I don't like it. The tower stands like the Devil's own mausoleum, dark, brooding, and hungry. The bells continue to chime from a place above the gray blanket of clouds that put the moonlight to bed. A wolf howls from the dark forest beyond. Johnny Mac knows how he feels. What happens next is nothing short of desolation. *Minotaur* throws wave after wave of assailant programs at Johnny. He takes a slash across the ribs that, only an inch deeper, might have made Johnny's insides into his outsides. The crowd gasps at each new horror the game tosses at their current love affair. Johnny slashes and rips and tears them to ribbons with his small knife, leaving behind a horror of gore in his wake. He punches through the clocktower filled with the fluttering wings and poisonous talons of voracious harpies, smashes the dark Rector of the sub-basement library, and decapitates the charnel kitchen's cannibal chef with his own oversized meat cleaver. That last one is the worst of the kills, because Johnny takes his time with the finale by pinning the Chef's head to the ground under the weight of his boot. The Chef's neck is thick as an iron girder. A few arena go-ers chuck their cookies when the third, unrelenting stroke of the knife cuts the monster's head from his shoulders. In all the years I brought him up through the Double A, Johnny never showed me anything like this. He's always looked capable, sure, but never...never savage. Where has all this anger been hiding? *Minotaur* is throwing everything it has at the unrelenting, human-shaped nightmare. It is asking, for lack of a better metaphor, what every peanut-brained dinosaur asked the moment it saw the Chicxulub impactor cutting a hot line through the atmosphere. "What is this thing?" I see what Johnny is now, and soon, all of these people in the arena, and the world will too. Johnny Mac is an extinction event. Standing before a massive set of banded iron doors, Johnny inserts the three obsidian keys he's taken from the bowels to brains of the castle. Each of them slide into place slower and sweeter than a pair of virgins on their wedding night. *Minotaur* blares. "Phase Two complete. Recalibrations insufficient. Incursion alarm. Repeat, incursion alarm." Insufficient? Player incursion? That's not what-- "3, 2, 1." The screen goes black. This time the light that floods the massive, over-sized monitors inside the arena isn't white. The light that fills every wide-eye transfixed by Johnny Mac's performance is red. Red as the molten core of a planet. A world on fire. The center of the Labyrinth is a blistering landscape where *Minotaur* stands nobly atop a single slab of stone that has no melting point. The machine is dressed as a man, costumed in the garb of its enemy. It stands with its arms behind its back. It's an interesting ploy, one I've never seen or heard of before, and believe me folks, I've heard them all. Phase Three is the final conflict between man and machine. It is designed specifically to measure one aptitude; sanity. Normally, it comes in the form of a nightmare crafted from the depths of your childhood fears or *Minotaur* beaming the sheer volume of infinite space into the brainscape of the player. Conquering your fear or withstanding the void means congratulations--it's champagne and Beef Wellington time. Crumble under the weight of abject insanity? Well, there's always barber college. My palms get sweaty in anticipation. I don't like unknowns. I don't play games of chance or bet against the house unless I'm certain it's a sure thing. I've bet the farm on Johnny Mac being butter spread all over a cinnamon roll. I was sure of that bet, until I see Johnny Mac standing on that slab. The game has garbed him in a black tunic and shin high leather boots. Eruptions of liquid fire splash all around them. Even the camera inside the game can't seem to calibrate the synthetic reality well enough to keep waves of heat from interfering with the crisp, high-definition feed. "What the hell is *Minotaur* doing?" One of the patrons next to me says, annoyed. Something in me, something I don't recognize opens my mouth and answers his question. "I don't know." "John Crenshaw MacMorn." *Minotaur's* voice is calm, restrained. "How come you to find this place?" Johnny regards the game coldly. "I've seen it before. Years ago. I saw another player find this path. I never forgot the route she took." "Of the number of players who have bested me, only four have ever found this place--the Construct." "Talent hits the target no one else can hit, Minotaur. Genius hits the target no one else can see." "And you are such genius, John Crenshaw MacMorn?" "No. But someone very important to me was." "Who are you?" I'm shaking my head. I honestly do not know what the fuck is happening. This is not how the game is supposed to go. Johnny Mac, resolute, begins walking toward the little god inside its own creation. I admit there is something frightening about his confidence. "I am the son of a mother who challenged you many years ago." Johnny's eyes are wide, his chin tucked closely to his throat with a killer's countenance. "You stretched her over the wheel of your game, and you broke her." "I am Minotaur, it is my nature to break that which can be broken. Those who want to join the league must-" "I don't want the league," Johnny says. My heart tip-toes over a ledge, falling into my stomach. "I want revenge." My eyes move from the massive screen where the insane drama is playing out, and I see what no one else sees. Johnny Mac's hands finally come out of their pockets. He's holding a weird looking cylinder. No, not a cylinder. A syringe. Whatever is inside, he mainlines it. I am freaking the fuck out. Back in the game, *Minotaur* considers Johnny. "Revenge?" "Did you think," Johnny asks, his tone dripping with a simmering, hidden rage. "No. Did you believe that for all the lives you have destroyed that there would never come a day of accounting?" *Minotaur*'s avatar scrambles, flickering in and out of existence for only a moment. When it reappears, it looks around, confused. "W-What is this subroutine, this...this sensation!" The needle. "What you are sensing, *Minotaur*, is the nano-chemical interface between your mainframe and my mind. My own special cocktail of programming and biochemistry. It took a long time to perfect, but now that I see the panic on your face, I know the sacrifice was worth it." "The first cybernetic pathogen able to be contracted between man and machine. What you are feeling, at this present moment, here at the very center of your being, is fear." *Minotaur* shakes its head again, struggling to stand as it flickers in and out of existence once more. "I didn't come here to beat you," Johnny says, over the complete silence of every dumb-struck witness in the arena. "I came here to end you. To break you, like you broke her." "I don't want this! I-I...I don't want to die." *Minotaur* screams, falling to its knees at Johnny's feet. *Minotaur*, his eyes wide with infant mania, reaches out to grab Johnny's wrists. Unbelievably, they touch. *Minotaur* once protected by its digital nature...is tangible. Johnny Mac blows everyone's mind when he slaps away *Minotaur'*s trembling hands. "I offered you a chance to surrender. You refused," says Johnny. Johnny grabs *Minotaur* by the tufts of hair on the sides of its head. He yanks the avatar's head back violently. The machine begs for its life. "Please wai-" The crowd is a collective of panicked bystanders about to witness the first ever Man on Machine premeditated homicide. It's only then that it dawns on me. I wasn't using Johnny, he was using me. He didn't get it twisted about the League. He was using me to get access to *Minotaur*. So he could...wait- Is an artificial intelligence a life? Am I an accomplice to murder? Is this murd- The swiftness of the wrenching twist is so fast that we see *Minotaur'*s neck snap before we hear the artificial spine break. All the massive screens die, casting the arena into darkness. Alarms blare. *Connection lost...* People start losing their minds. *Connection lost...* What just happened? *Connection lost...* The lights come on in a flash, bright and blinding as the silver helmet from Johnny's head is drawn back up into the rafters like a retreating phallus post climax. He draws himself up erect, to his full height. He regards the silent multitude like Caesar triumphant over humbled Vercingetorix and then exits without a word. There are no cheers for the boy who broke *Minotaur*. No glory for the child who changed the Spiral. In the aftermath of Johnny Mac's ascension I'm assured by my legal council that there is no legal precedent set for what Johnny did. The courts take their time as contracts from every single team owner in the League flood my inbox with offers for Johnny's talent. The zeroes. My God, the zeroes.

Do you know what he would have thought? Do you? Today I see you flourishing. Your grass, long thick and emerald green bathing in the sunlight. Would he now look upon you and smile? I glance down to my feet, which are naked and free. Free but I can still see where the chain held its grip, a snaking trench ingrained into my soft skin. You and I are alike, in these days we heal but our scars run deep. I know they stripped you bare also, and took you as property when neither of us could be possessed. We cried out, in our different ways, for them to stop. Stop! Stop! Stop! But they didn't. No-one stopped. They squandered all we had to offer, cut through our flesh, poisoned our bodies until we had nothing left. Then they asked for more. What would he have thought? Was my question now, as I gaze across you in this new world. A world that bloomed in green where the cold, concrete walls once stood. Would he believe the past was unforgivable? I miss him. Sometimes I cry out in my sleep, ‘Jack, come back!’ and I wait for an answer between my whimpers. Of course, there is no answer. I miss him and his smile of positive optimism. An optimism that Jack held to his last breath, when he held his head back and smiled into the sky. 'Lulu' he said, 'hold tight, change is coming'. He was right, he was always right, the change did come. But it was too late, as the change came once he was gone. I felt his life gently leave his body. His heart stammering to its last beat, and his arm went limp, falling into my lap. My tears bubbled up with my despair, spilling down onto his skin, tracing small streams of white through the dirt. Jack is gone, as are so many, and our new city is haunted by their silence. So I come here, to your meadow plains that wrap around the city’s circumference. Meadows of grass, buttercups, and meadowsweet. I belong here, with you. For your sweet earthy smells and your birds, beetles, and bugs. From the meadows, I can gaze across our green city. A city in a wild garden is what we call it. This new city has no greedy towers. No vehicles feasting on carbon, beeping in anger and impatience. And they have gone, those who lived in denial, as the truth was not prosperous for their wallets. They did not care for us. It was only when you fought back, whipped out your final scream of anger and agony. No more could be taken, your balance had been shattered and you could no longer give. When you fought back, our cities crumbled. Our economy meant nothing. Paper notes rip easily in hurricane winds. Paper notes do nothing for the starving seared people that begged in the dry, cracked earth. Paper notes do nothing for the homes drowning under a rising sea. But it was the wars which smote us. People destroying people, the reasons lost somewhere with each bullet. Desperate people do desperate things you know. I was in that place, a place with no reason or time, in an existence that I could not define as ‘’living’’. It was because of the wars that I watched those I loved vanish from my life. I was taken, beaten and poisoned. The ‘Dringo’ tribe took me, along with so many, and they said ‘fight!’ as the needle pierced my skin. With clouded minds, we fought. I look at my hands now and I think ‘are these the hands of a murderer?’ I never knew I could kill. Jack never knew he could kill, or would be killed. You fought back, and so we fought, dragging you further down with us. You wouldn’t think so, as I stand here today in your peace and beauty. Jack saved me with his hope of change. His optimism pushed me onwards, and he was right. When all was lost, a new wind blew and today’s world was built. A few of us remained, like embers glowing in the dark. We came together and ignited change, rebuilding our lives to include you, nature, our green cities now working with you and not against you. I try to bury my scars deep as you do, and I embrace this new life as we slowly heal. You fought back, nature, and we did eventually listen.

“It just doesn’t feel like the right time to buy a planet. Sorry!” the customer said and zapped out of the holocall. Rhys pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Another one lost. It felt like it had been ages since he’d made his last sale and peer pressure was rising, slowly but surely. He had defended his flagging sales often enough with the argument that the planet-selling business just didn’t lend itself to meeting sales targets, emphasizing that instead it was a slow dance, involving flirting with the prospects, forging relationships, building trust. It might all have come across as excuses for bombing on closing deals. But business was rarely a fertile ground for philosophy and his comrades were having none of it. He knew that their goodwill had been stretched too thin for too long. His time in the Kombinat might well be in jeopardy. He pinned his hopes on one last client for the day: an elderly oligarch and her three husbands, all of whom had shown a strong interest in Hallein 6, a moon made for extreme sports based on water. The oligarch still put her body in actual, physical danger, surfing twenty-meter waves on a gravboard. She had sent him the pictures and he had admired them in what he hoped was an adequate manner. As long as she would agree to buy the moon, he’d look at pictures of the bicentenarian in a bathing suit all day long - all week even. If this client didn’t buy, he was resolved to start looking for a new job. He didn’t want to give his comrades the pleasure of letting him go. Rhys made himself a permacoffee and stared at the countdown clock announcing her virtual arrival. He finished the last gulp of the steaming, pink liquid just as the numbers reached zero and a woman manifested in his office, followed by three markedly younger men. She had long red hair that flowed to the floor, held in place by a tiara and several clips made of some ethereal material. Her body was covered entirely by colorful tattoos and veiled by thin gauze that thickened only in strategic places. The men wore nothing but shorts, muscular arms crossed over similarly muscular, oiled chests. They might have been clones, or triplets, or something in between, Rhys had never bothered to ask. He smiled genially: “My very dear Kleomansa! How very lovely to see you! I hope the weather is fine over on Kaeppchen Gamma!” “Rhys, you old dog, you know that the weather doesn’t dare change unless I tell it to,” the woman replied, raising her hand in salute. They exchanged shallow niceties for a while, until Rhys felt the time was ripe for changing the subject. “Kleo, have you had time to check out Hallein? Isn’t it a lovely moon? And the waves I hear are especially spectacular this solar cycle. How did you find it?” The woman hesitated and, in this pause, Rhys felt his heart sink. Their last discussion had gone so smoothly; he had been so sure that Kleomansa loved the moon. Would she back out of the deal now? “Well, you know, I sent Primorius over,” she said, pointing at one of the men. “He really didn’t care for the short days...only 36 units of light and then 174 units of darkness? Come on, Rhys, who has that much time?” “But wouldn’t it be perfect to visit in the dark as well? Increase the adventure?” He heard a trace of desperation in his voice. Kleo looked at him with something like pity in her eyes. “In the darkness? And be easy fodder for the giant razor-tentacle swarms? I might be crazy, but not suicidal.” She paused. “Not yet at least. If it comes to that, I’ll get back to you. Anyway, Hallein is out of the picture.” The planet seller stifled a curse. Damn Primorius and those giant razor-tentacles! He had been so sure that he had his deal. “Kleo, I fully understand. Now that you mentioned the light and the razor-tentacles, it was stupid of me to suggest it.” Adding some more groveling, he said: “Let’s look at some alternatives. I have many more marvels in store for you.” He pulled up the image of a sphere in his office: another moon, lusciously painted in hues of green and red. “Mermaleidon 16, in orbit around Paraclestor - beautifully covered in orange seas, tiny islands, guaranteed to be uninhabited. If you wish, we can seed Rex Ornatus birds there. You can configure their genetic makeup yourself and I can walk through the process in detail. Mermaleidon is...” She interrupted him. “Don’t bother. One of my ex-husbands has a moon around Paraclestor, I really don’t want to run into him in the orbital queue. Next.” Rhys nodded understandingly and told his systems to make a note about Kleomansas husband. If he had bought one moon, he might just want to buy one next door for some more privacy and quiet. A new sphere appeared. “Zhukaria 88, orbiting Juffu. Especially interesting because of the thermal drifts that boil water on one side of the moon and freeze it on the other!” Kleomansa waved her hand impatiently. “Rhys, I want to surf and not languish in a spa. If I wanted to boil or freeze myself to death, I would call my parents. Now, my dear, please show me some real options or I may as well be on my way.” He swallowed. Not pissing off Kleomansa was paramount, and he was botching it. Rhys looked at the remaining options and quickly eliminated most of the ones suggested by the system. He should have prepared better instead of only filtering by habitability and the existence of large bodies of water. His eyes fell on one option - not a moon, a proper planet. Could he offer it? Rhys paused and put the planet at the back of the queue. But now he had barely any suitable candidates left. He decided to take a risk. “Now here’s something for a real adventurer!” he said, despite the dire options. Kleomansa turned her head, giving him hope. He launched a hologram of the moon, overriding the default display settings to make it bigger and a tad more vivid. “May I present: Calieri K! It has so far only been cartographed by drone. It might be just what you’re looking for: very generous light and dark intervals, water coverage up to 86%, average temperature always above freezing and well below boiling point!” “Interesting,” Kleomansa said. For a woman of her wealth, Rhys thought, she had a terrible poker face. He had her on a hook. Now he had to be more careful. “We have a very generous discount on moons without previous owners and ones that haven’t been...lived on or used before.” “Go on.” “Calieri K, as you can see, has the ability to support a very rich ecosystem. All the land masses are far away from the poles, which will be very supportive of any new species you choose to seed. And we can adjust the oceanic fauna as well, of course.” “And the waves?” she asked. He smiled and played his strongest card. “The waves have been observed to be as high as 35 meters!” At least, that was what his systems had inferred from the rather thin drone data. “Is it close enough to an orbital station?” “Oh yes, Foscus is merely a few jump-minutes away and another new orbital will be ready by the end of the solar cycle. From your home on Kaeppchen, the total trip time will then take less than three jump-hours.” He ignored the system’s warning on the delay in building the new orbital he had just mentioned. It might still be on time, or it might not. No need to bother his client with the details just now. He almost had her. Rhys took a deep breath and launched his final sales pitch. “I know that you have a million questions concerning the details, my lovely Kleo, and I’d be happy to answer each and every last one of them...” “No, I don’t have any. I’ll read the documents later.” She spun the globe, clearly fascinated. “But it has this energy; it speaks to me. Can’t you feel it, too? And the K in the name surely stands for Kleomansa, don’t you think?” She stopped the rotation, took a step back and looked at him. “I’ll take it.” Blood rushed to Rhys’ face. Had he just made a deal and sold the moon? He couldn’t believe that she had just made the decision. It took him a few moments to adjust. “Oh, well, ok then! Great! I’ll let the Kombinat know that they should prepare...” One of the men now actually came over and stood next to the woman. He bowed gracefully and greeted Rhys in the appropriate way, indicating his will to speak. “You said that it has the ability to support an ecosystem. When can we start using it?” he asked and Kleomansa nodded vigorously. “Yes, Rhys, when?” “Ah, let me just check that for you...” He queried the system and couldn’t believe the answer he got. An answer that shattered his dreams, an answer absolutely unsuited for his customer, for any customer really. But time was running out and he couldn’t let Kleomansa dangle for much longer. “So...your new moon, this Calieri K, it could be ready for you by the end of the 293rd solar cycle,” he said without much conviction. The man who had asked the question scoffed and turned away laughingly. Kleo held her clearly visible anger better in check but managed to turn it into cold scorn in an instant. “Rhys, Rhys, Rhys. I thought I was very clear on my requirements: it’s for me, not the distant progenies of my kids. The end of the 293rd cycle is absolutely out of the question; I will not wait for it.” “Of course, we could speed up the necessary work by providing more funding,” he said and realized his error right away. “You mean to tell me that first you present me with an unacceptable timeline and then I should pay more to hurry it along? What kind of fool do you take me for, Rhys?” Her voice couldn’t make it any clearer that this was going very poorly for him. The idea of selling anything today was fading rapidly. Pulling up the menu again, he immediately saw that he was out of options. Except - the one planet that he had skipped over earlier. It was deemed unsellable, entirely too big, too wild, too remote. And yet...Rhys felt confirmation growing in his stomach, hoping he wasn’t mistaking it for the prospect of having to look for new employment soon. “Kleo, I’m extremely sorry to have wasted your time. I haven’t appreciated that you are a woman with singular needs and wants, one that is not easily satisfied.” Her face softened slightly. “I have shown you the best selection, but I have overlooked the basics of a good relationship: it’s not about what is the best, but what is right. Please let me present one last option. If it doesn’t suit you, I will personally set up an appointment with whatever other planet agency you choose.” Luckily, Kleomansa was as quick to be charmed as to be angered. “Fine, Rhys, one last option. It better be a superstar.” “In fact, it is.” Rhys said, “It’s a planet. Now, I know that this might stretch your budget, but I assure you that we can make it quite affordable for you. It’s a little remote, I grant you that right away, as the next orbital is about 270 jump-minutes away. But remote also means quiet and private. It’s huge and stunningly diverse with several large continents and almost every climate zone you can imagine. The waves aren’t as high as elsewhere, but much more predictable.” The client spun the image of the blue and green sphere around. “What is the light cycle?” “Well, it’s a planet. It’s very stable in orbit and spins at 24 units. If you follow the pattern, you can catch a wave in light almost everywhere! And no razor-tentacles in the dark either, just some small harmless predators.” “What else?” she asked. Rhys consulted his system and skimmed over a quick note that indicated some interest from Kleo’s husbands to the planet. “Quite a lot!” he went on. “Besides waves, it has a very abundant ecosystem at the ready, one also defined by the continents. It even has a slowly evolving primate species. I see that might be of some interest for Primorius, right? Then, there is something very special - plate tectonics! You don’t see a lot of those around inhabited planets.” “What’s so special about that?” she said. He had her back to asking questions, which was always a good sign. “Plate tectonics mean huge numbers of volcanoes. Kleo, tell me: Have you ever surfed on hot lava, freshly spilled from a planet’s core?” Was this even feasible? Rhys had no idea. “And on some planets, we’ve observed those tectonics to cause giant waves, up to 60 meters! Then there are caves and deserts, forests and steppes and two entirely frozen poles. Everything ready to explore. Just imagine the possibilities!” The woman did some thoughtful imagining as she observed the globe in front of her. “And it’s ready? Available right away? What’s the catch then?” she said. “No catch, I promise. We’ve had trouble selling it because it was just too diverse for many of our clients. Who wants rain forests, deserts, volcanoes and ice? Unexplored and frankly huge, somewhat remote...it doesn’t exactly fly off the shelves.” Her face told him that she was convinced. Finally and truly convinced. She had given her word on the moon too early. Now, she made him go through the whole ordeal of feigning worry, counterarguments, uncertainties, all of it in good spirit, which went on for the better part of the evening. But Rhys didn’t care, he would have bartered the whole night if Kleo had wanted that. When he finally got her approval of the purchase and the holocall had ended, he fell into his chair and raised his hands to his face, laughing. He had managed a sales deal - and it had been one of the most difficult in company history, the planet having been in the archives for an embarrassingly long time. The projection of the blue planet still hovered in his office, spinning lazily. “Terra, third planet in orbit around Sol,” Rhys read from the display. “Let’s hope Kleomansa treats you well.

The locker room was humid and smelled of sweat no doubt from the soccer team sprawled across the benches. Katie took a sip from her water jug and tried to ease her panting. Luckily, the hot anger crawling under her skin kept her from feeling weary. “What the hell was that out there?” Coach Macintosh barged into the ladies locker room, and the door swung back and forth on its hinges behind her. Katie’s body tensed up. There was one main rule that The Cougars followed above all, don’t piss off Coach . That is unless you actually wanted to do 50 burpees and run laps until both your legs cramped. “Well?” she demanded looking between Katie and the brunette across from her. “Don’t look at me, she’s the one who’s playing dirty on the field,” Katie fumed pointing at the source of her anger. “What are you talking about?” Amara sputtered. “It’s not my fault that you can’t control the ball.” Katie’s eyes widened in disbelief, “You stole the ball from me!” Memories of Amara’s foot swiping between hers and stealing the ball played freshly in her head. “I did not,” Amara rolled her eyes. “You tripped up and I ended up with the ball. Don’t blame me for your poor legwork.” Katie gritted her teeth, she imaged herself wrapping the girl’s long hair around her neck so that she could shut up for once. She shook her head and dispersed the fantasy because it wasn’t worth going to jail over Amara’s life. Coach Mac groaned and pinched the arch of her nose. “You two do realize that you’re on the same team, right? This is the semi-final game. You two need to leave your issues at home and act like a team when you’re out on the field.” Katie slouched back against the lockers behind them. She and Amara had been two of the best players on their team since they both joined as freshmen. The only person who might have been better than them was their captain Imogen. However, Imogen recently left the team due to an ACL injury. The team had been heartbroken about it when they found out. Everyone loved Imogen and she was a great captain. The sympathies were cut short once Coach told the team that she would be selecting their new captain after the semi-finals. There was nothing Katie wanted more than to be team captain. Soccer was everything to her and she was more than qualified. She had the skill, the dedication, and the confidence. The road to her impressing Coach enough to get chosen as captain was clear except for one person who stood in her way. One person who wanted the spot just as much as she did. Amara was a one-person blockade and Katie was determined to crush her. “Half-time is almost up, you have five minutes to do what you need to and get back here. Go.” Coach dismissed them. Katie grabbed her nearly empty water jug and left the locker room to find a water fountain. Different support teams bustled back and forth through the hall. Through the crowd of bodies, she spotted a fountain mountain against the wall not too far from her. She went towards it and popped open the bottle cap, positioning the mouth to the opening. She tapped her foot aimlessly as she listened to the steady trickle of the water filling. Her jug was quite big, so she liked to fill it to the top to avoid running out of water through the day. “Can you hurry the hell up? Coach said we only had five minutes.” She turned around to see Amara standing behind her with her own bottle. Her arms were crossed as she glared down at her. Katie quirked a brow and let her hand loosen on her bottle slightly. It wobbled and spilled some of the water out. “Oh no,” Katie said unenthusiastically, “My hand. It slipped.” Amara blinked in silence. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Katie pursed her lips and shrugged. “Gravity.” The brunette grumbled and shoved her side into Katie causing her to stumble. “What the hell?” “A good captain would put her teammate first, but of course, you wouldn’t know that” Amara taunted as she began to fill her own bottle. Katie pushed back against her and the two began to struggle to keep their bottles under the flowing water. “Get off of me,” Katie growled. “Did you leave your lady speed-stick at home? Because your BO is burning my nostrils” Amara laughed, “Yeah that’s probably just your breath wafting back into your face.” “Ooh, a movie reference. I didn’t realize you were so media literate.” “I didn’t know you even knew the word literate.” A sharp whistle behind them caused both girls to freeze. “Oh my, you Cougars sure do know how to make an impression.” Katie and Amara wore matching scowls as they turned around. The captain of their opposing team, The Eagles, stood smugly behind them. Her jet-black hair heavily contrasted against her pale skin. “Milana,” Amara said tightly. “To what do we owe the honour.” “Oh, I was just looking for a bathroom. I must’ve gotten lost,” she pouted. “Yeah right,” Katie muttered under her breath. “I must say, ladies, I am disappointed in how you’ve been playing out there.” Milana sighed lightly. “Though I’m not surprised.” Katie and Amara exchanged glances. “Excuse me?” Katie voiced. “I’m just saying I already knew your team was sup-par at best, but this entire game has been entirely too easy. I must say, I am getting bored.” Milana picked at her nails as if the conversation was entirely uninteresting to her. Katie could see Amara’s eye twitch from the corner of her eye. “Our scores are tied,” Amara deadpanned. Milana fanned her hand in dismissal. “We all know how the game is going to end.” Katie’s fists curled at her sides. The only person she hated more than Amara was Milana Cortez. She was cocky, stuck-up and thought she was more talented than she was. “Listen Mirana, everybody knows that the only reason that you were picked to be team captain is because your mommy is your team’s coach.” Katie retorted. Milan’s face reddened furiously, “You take that back!” “The truth will set you free,” Katie suggested in fake sympathy as she placed a hand over her heart. Amara choked on her laughter beside her. Milana’s eyes darkened as she took a step towards them. “You’ll regret that. You and your stupid team,” she spat. Amara eyed the girl warily, “Say it, don’t spray it, girl.” If Milana could have gotten any redder at that moment she did. “Ugh!” she screeched. “Wait until I tell my mother about this.” Katie scoffed and then did a fake shiver, “I’m scared. Are you scared?” She asked Amara. The brunette nodded furiously, “I think I might have wet my pants.” They stared at each other in seriousness for a minute before they burst out laughing. They clutched their knees as their laughs bellowed down the hall. When they finally stood up, Milana only stared at them with hatred pooling in her eyes. Or maybe it was tears, Katie wasn’t sure. “Everyone on your team thinks they’re hot shit. But I know what you all are,” she sneered. “And that is,” Amara asked wiping her own tears. “Nothing but a pack of dirty lesbians.” Katie choked on air, “Excuse me?”. "It's literally pride month," Amara exclaimed in horror. “You heard me,” Milana responded. “ Cougars ? More like perverts.” Katie and Amara couldn’t do anything but gape at her in shock. The captain seemed pleased with herself at being able to render them speechless. She flashed them a smile and recomposed herself. “I’ll see you lovebirds on the field,” she said and blew them a kiss. “Toodles!” They watched her sashay away towards her team’s locker room. Amara turned to Katie slowly. Katie nodded. “Yup. I’m going to make her eat dirt .” Realizing they were over the five minutes they were allotted, they hurried back to their locker room with half-filled water bottles. Coach Mac glared at them as they came bustling in. “I’m not even going to repeat what my mind is telling me to say right now. Asses on the bench.” They winced and sat beside their teammates. Katie turned to one of her mates beside her, Josephine. Josie knew gossip about everyone in the entire city, which is mostly why none of their teammates told her any private information. “You know Malina right? The Eagles captain?” Katie whispered to her. Josephine’s brows furrowed, “You mean Milana?” “Same thing.” “Yeah, why?” Amara, who was listening from beside Katie, bent towards them, “She just told us that she thinks everyone on our team is, and I quote, dirty lesbians .” Joesphine guffawed, “The call is coming from inside the house it seems.” “What do you mean?” Katie asked. “I heard from Theresa, who heard from Alison, who heard from her best friend who is an Eagle, whose brother apparently dated Milana, that they apparently broke up because he caught her cheating on him.” “So?” Amara shook her head. Katie was surprised that she was able to follow Josie's rambling. Josie gave them a look. “He caught her cheating with a girl .” Both girl's mouths dropped open in shock. “Well, if it isn’t the pot calling the kettle black,” Kaie said amused. “That’s literally what I said,” Josephine glared before leaning back in her seat. “Eyes up ladies,” Coach Mac’s voice commanded their attention. “This is the last half of the game, time to bring it home, okay? I know you girls can do this, but we can only win if you work as a team. Remember, I'm looking to be impressed. If you think you can step up and be captain, prove it. Don’t let the Eagles leave here happier than they came. Now let’s play ball!” “1,2,3, GO COUGARS!” The team bellowed, rejuvenated from the pep talk. Just as Katie was about to leave the locker room a hand caught her elbow. “I bet if the both of us worked together we could embarrass Milana enough to send her crying to her mom,” Amara suggested with a smirk. Katie laughed as the image of Milan’s tear-streaked face came to mind. “You’re on. Coach will definitely make me captain after I win this for us.” “It was my idea you idiot,” she scowled. “Stop complaining, this is why no one wants you to be captain. You’re so annoying.” They left the locker room and jogged onto the field. The sudden influx of noise was overwhelming. The stands were full of people cheering as they realized the game was about to resume. Half of the people wore red and white in support of the Cougars. The other side wore green and black for the Eagles. The Eagles were to start with a kick-off to start the game. Milana was their captain, so she had the honours. Katie glared daggers at her, hoping she could feel her hatred. In a second the ball was air-borne, and everyone was running. An Eagle player started dribbling the ball to the net, but Josephine quickly stole the ball and changed directions. Katie ran in her direction to support her when she needed to pass the ball. Amara was closer and yelled at Josephine. “I’m open!” Josphine dodged a player in her way and sent the ball to Amara. She caught the ball and continued down the field. Amara was small but fast for her size, she zoomed down the field without letting anyone steal the ball. Milana came running in from behind her. She was taller and got beside her quickly. Katie ran towards them to assist. Noticing Milana, Amara pivoted around her and continued running. Milana rushed in as if to kick the ball from between her legs but instead, her foot went up and kicked Amara right in the crotch. Katie could see Amara’s eyes bulge as she fell to the field. She heard the ref whistling as she rushed over to where Amara was on the floor. “Are you okay?”, she winced looking down at her. “No, I’m not. That bitch kicked me in the vagina!” she groaned into the grass. Katie turned her head to where Milana stood close by. She looked down at Amara in fake shock. “It was an accident," she claimed, but the small smile on her lips said otherwise. “You are such a fucking pervert!” Amara screeched. Milana’s face flushed, “How dare you!” Katie looked at her and tilted her head. “Well, you did kick her in the crotch.” Milana gaped at them unable to form a response. “Is this your idea of foreplay?” Amara asked incredulously as she cradled her vagina with both hands. “Do you have a pain kink or some fucked up foot fetish?” Katie shook her head in disappointment. “No means no, Morina.” “What are you talking about?” She fumed, “She didn’t say no!” Amara gasped, “And that makes it okay?!” “No! That’s not what I meant!” “Before you attack her, wrap your whacker.” Katie chastised her, shaking a finger. Milana lunged for her, but the ref sharply whistled again, finally making it over to where they stood. “Cortez, that’s a warning.” He said and flashed up a yellow card. Milana shrieked and stomped away towards the rest of her teammates. The ref looked down to Amara still on the floor. Her eyes were closed as she still gripped her crotch. “Um, are you okay? He asked tentatively. She blinked her eyes open and looked around. Realizing Milana was gone, she sprung up and dusted her butt off. “Oh, yeah I’m fine.” The ref blinked in confusion but nodded and walked away. Katie laughed as she watched Milana’s coach scold her from the other side of the field. The pale girl was stomping and pointing as they went back and forth. “That was good,” Katie told Amara. “You’re a better actress than a soccer player.” Amara froze and glared at her. “Well, you’re good at neither.” They walked over to their teammates who immediately swarmed Amara. She assured them she was fine and stretched her legs out. Once the team was convinced she was fine they relaxed. Then Amara turned to Katie and jabbed her in the side lightly, “My leg kind of hurts from the kick so I probably can’t run as fast,” she said lowly. Katie scratched the back of her neck. Amara was one of their best scorers and was most likely going to get passed the ball to score in the final minutes. If she got the ball and tried to run, the chances of someone stealing the ball were much higher now. A plan dawned in her mind and Katie smiled, “I have an idea.” Only a few minutes were left in the game and tensions were high. The Cougars were to start off this time after Milana’s yellow card. Josie stood on the edge of the field with the ball. With a strong kick, she sent it flying. The girls raced towards the ball. The Cougars got control of the ball quickly and sent it down the field. As Katie expected, once they neared the net, one of her teammates passed the ball to Amara. She ran with the ball, still faster than most Eagles except one. Milana’s legs carried her to Amara in a matter of seconds. As she came close enough to make a play for the ball, Amara angled her arm as she ran and sent an elbow right into Milana’s boob. “Ouch!” she yelped as she faltered to clutch her chest. That moment created a window for Amara and as the other Eagles came towards her, she expertly passed the ball to Katie who was open slightly behind her. Katie caught the ball and charged forward. Noticing that the ball was headed towards the net, the other Eagles tried to catch up with her, but it was too late. With a hard thump, she soared the ball into the neck barely missing the goalie’s fingertips. The buzzer sounded and cheers erupted from the stands. The game was over, and the Cougars had won. Her teammates rushed her and tackled her into a huge hug as she cheered. “I must admit, that was a solid kick,” Amara laughed. “I was impressed myself with that boob shot," Katie snickered. Amara did a fake curtsy and both of them laughed. The team ran off the field to Couch Mac, who stood proudly on the sides. “Great job ladies!” She congratulated them. “Looks like the Cougars are going to the State Finals.” The team whooped. Amara poked Katie and she turned from the huddle. “Look,” she pointed to where the other team was gathered. Milana was crying snotty tears in front of her mother as the rest of the team looked on in disgust. Her mother shoved a box of tissues into her hand and stormed off the field. Milana cried harder. The girls stifled a laugh, satisfied with the results of their joint efforts. “Now, as promised,” Coach started. “I have decided on your new team captain.” The girls snapped their heads forward. Coach Mac looked between each girl pleasantly and clapped her hands together. “Your new captain is Katie-” “Yes!” Katie yelled in delight. She grinned at Amara’s sour expression. “In your face!” Coach Mac cleared her throat, “I wasn’t finished.” “Huh.” “Your new captain or should I say, co-captains are Katie and Amara.” Coach Mac smiled at them. Both girls froze. They looked at each other, then at their coach, then at each other again. “ What!” they barked.

Before God and those assembled here, I solemnly pledge; To adhere to the code of ethics of the nursing profession; To co-operate faithfully with the other members of the nursing team and to carry out faithfully and to the best of my ability the instructions of the physician or the nurse who may be assigned to supervise my work; I will not do anything evil or malicious and I will not knowingly give any harmful drug or assist in malpractice. I will not reveal any confidential information that may come to my knowledge in the course of my work. And I pledge myself to do all in my power to raise the standards and prestige of the practical nursing; May my life be devoted to service and to the high ideals of the nursing profession. - Nightingale Pledge, modernized. A fly on the wall or invisble spy in the intentionally darkened office at Saint Crystal’s Regional Hospital would immediately assume that Head Nurse Shannon Ashley wasted her mornings doom scrolling social media from her desk. Dark curls streaked with subtle glimmers of silver rioted from her scalp and tumbled to her shoulders softly. She held a handful of thick tendrils in her free hand, twirling absently. Her brow furrowed over narrowed hazel eyes as she collected a screen shot from her Iphone, sighed in disgust, and crossed another name off the mile long list of candidates. She could smell and taste her breakfast smoothie from under her medical grade mask and removed it, relishing the quick break from masking. She’d been at the hospital since six that morning, reviewing the list of nursing candidates to invite to their overflowing hospital. Since the Pandemic, St. Crissy’s lost a large percentage of its staff to COVID diagnosis, fear of diagnosis, and refusal to vaccinate. The remaining nurses were averaging 70-hour weeks and the stress beat them mercilessly. She’d been at the search for weeks but she knew that no one else cared enough to be this thorough. Her needle in the haystack might be a myth in their little community. She hoped not, she herself was a needle, she reasoned. The sharpest needle there. I’mma poke all these motherfuckers, she thought to herself with a dry laugh. Her phone dinged, and a banner notification said that she had meetings in twenty minutes. She only had twenty minutes left. “Twyla James, R.N.,” she repeated the name with an exaggerated drawl cultivated from a culturally colorful upbringing in the South. She grew up poor, the only white girl in her black neighborhood. She graduated high school and partied through college, barely making her Bachelors. That felt like a million years ago, but she still felt the same pride as she glanced at the photo of her, her family and best friends at her pinning ceremony. Over twenty years ago she pledged the same promise every nurse in her hospital made in their own ceremonies and she couldn’t help but wonder if anyone else heard those words. She entered the name in the search engine from her desktop computer and a list of social media accounts under that name populated the screen. The name was common, Twyla James. She could be this Black woman holding a pair of chubby adorable twins. Maybe the Twyla James with the nosering and crop top. Shannon decided to begin her search with Black Twyla with the babies. She hoped this Twyla could be her needle. She was not. This Twyla wasn’t even a nurse; she appeared to be a church pastor. On to Nosering Twyla. She pressed her thumb over the picture, pulling up Nosering Twyla’s social media. She gazed up at Shannon Ashley, lips puckered, fingers up in a peace sign, puppy ears wagging. She started by looking at her profile pictures, selfies mostly of her making the same face with a different filter sporting another animal’s ears. Twyla as a kitten, bunny rabbit, devil horns. Twyla as a sparkly person with aviator glasses. Twyla liked Snapchat. She also was not her needle. On to another Twyla. Her thumb swiped over her profile section. Twyla’s birthday was in January. Relationship Status: Married. Anniversary, August 4. A masked picture of her in scrubs graced her profile picture. Please God, let this be my needle. Her timeline looked interesting, active. Graphics with positive, affirming quotes about self love and women empowering others. Shannon Ashley giggled as she landed on a picture of Twyla and a group of women posing with their wine glasses held high, toasting an event. They looked drunk and excited to be alive. Twyla liked to party. She kept scrolling. She liked this Twyla so far. About a week into the timeline, Shannon Ashley stops. She found exactly what she was looking for, her turd in the punchbowl. She took her screenshot, placed a red line through Twyla James, and checked the next name on her list. Lawrence Wright. She entered his name in the search engine and was surprised to see that he played college basketball at a west coast college. He owned profiles on every social media app but appeared to share very little about himself. Single, no children. No political views. Promising. Unfortunately and quickly, Lawrence also failed her test. She took the screen shot and sent it to her roommate. “Look, another nurse calling Kyle Rittenhouse a hero,” she texted, dropping the eyeroll emoji. “Gross,” Karin replied “How can you expect a racist sympathizer to care for a diverse population?” “You don’t,” Replied Shannon Ashley. She dropped her phone into the pocket of her scrubs and tossed her hair. She looked at the Nightingale Pledge framed on her wall and read it softy, reminding herself that in her hospital, everyone would be taken care of, regardless of who they were. She finished her pledge and adjusted the Black Lives Matter mask over her medical grade. She thought about the LPN she fired two weeks ago for calling a Venezuelan patient an ‘illegal.’ She recalled the surgeon who couldn’t keep his hands off of her, finally gone after a lengthy and reluctant battle from HR. Somebody had to keep the wolves out. You’re the needle in the haystack, Shannon. She feels her phone vibrate and looks at the screen. “Poke those motherfuckers,” Karin’s text said, adding a needle, string, and a flexed arm. “Duh, bitch,” Shannon Ashley replied, dropping her phone back into her pocket as she shut the door.

No one appreciates the little things. Everyday cars drive by the lifeless bodies of racoons, cats, dogs, possums, and anything else unfortunate enough to experience the harsh reality of rubber and asphalt. The driver just assumes that these things work themselves out, and some manner of scavenger, road worker, or something else not worth the thought takes care of it. They'll never understand her labor. The collector has lived in the woods beyond this stretch of highway since before the pavement came. At night she creeps out from her humble workshop and looks for the forgotten critters. Sometimes it can be difficult. Heavy vehicles create a "pop" effect that leave next to nothing salvageable aside from a tail or skull. The best outcome is a simple side strike which normally leaves the pelt in pristine condition. She gathers every carcass, regardless of condition, and brings it back to her abode. Whatever can't be used traditionally is tossed into a composter and used for her garden, her single tribute to the living world. Whatever could be used, however, was used with honor. Bones formed miniature chandeliers, muscles and tendons were dried into fibrous strings and tethers which were used to stitch skin into itself, forming bags, hats, and anything else that leather could substitute. Her larger projects ranged from skeletal mosaics to reddish-brown self portraits. During these projects she would get excited and double the ground covered on nightly scavenger hunts. However, when traffic was a little too light for her demand, she would improvise. The collector loved these animals. Life was cruel and meaningless for a forest ecosystem damned by transportation, why not save a few from such a useless death? In the tree-line, she baited snares with whatever compost smelled the most foul. Using an improvised stone and rope system employed for automated fishing, as an animal tripped the line it would be grabbed, hoisted, and slung into a nearby tree. The strike was fast enough to elicit the same fatality as that of a vehicular side swipe and only rarely did death require further motivation. She always made sure to place the traps within a few hundred feet of the road, therefore the odds of death were high regardless. After all, what seems more fitting, a distracted driver mindlessly killing an animal or a caring soul saving them for something greater? Besides, it wasn't like anyone would notice. The drivers paid no mind to the seemingly homeless woman walking the road at night and their radio combined with her bicycle reflectors kept them from thinking too hard about what was in her bag. She keeps supreme confidence that while others may feel disgusted by her work, the contributing creatures would certainly be proud of it. Even if they will never know it, those that live nearby and use the road shouldn't concern themselves with lost pets or dug-up graves. After all, if they buried their companion in the woods or let it get that close to the road, do they really care? The streets stay clean and she stays busy. Whatever beast is forgotten or misplaced should be left as such, all payment for the collector.

This is a topic that I hear a lot of people talk about in different channels. Be it Aaron Doughty stating that you just have to “imagine” yourself in this “parallel reality” in order to “become” that all knowing and well suited lottery winner. It’s as though you already were one. You don’t question the need or want to even become one. That stage does not even exist in this type of framing in order to actually BE the lottery winner. Technically, winning the lottery is possible with time and space manipulation. However, it isn’t as simple as just imagining this. There has to be some energetic force that actually pushes and reveres one to actually physically be in a state to manipulate the rolling balls per se in a lottery machine in order to make it land within the numbers that you imagine in your mind. A lot of people state that you can just use your birthday numbers or some numbers with special emotional meaning tied to you, in order to get the ball rolling with this and see the physical manifestation of this altogether in that lottery station that pushes out the balls in a lottery machine. This energetic force in itself has to also come from some actual spirit force to move the balls for you. You yourself are not standing right next to the lottery machine. Your spirit can’t detach too much in order to do the job for you. Your own soul is still attached to your physical body and living, and isn’t too detached on meth or LSD to sort of astral project this kind of endeavor. It’s probably going to be your dead aunt who oversees you or your guardian angel or spirit guide. That’s if they want to do the job for you. I considered the fact that maybe Elissa could perform this trick the minute she felt wings on her back as an earth angel. “Hey, maybe you can also use your powers to win the lottery!” I giggled as I thought about all the supernatural powers that just came upon her. This would be something that I would have found would have provided that interesting and very helpful incidence that she could literally bring upon into fruition. “I can sense abundance,” she told me. She usually felt this feeling in her stomach when she came upon a rich man who made lots of money. It was some feeling that she would always receive that was a psychic intuition about something. I know that I could probably use some money after everything I’ve gone through over the years. This is because I have inevitably fallen into some sort of money hole several times in my life over the past half decade. I have actually been scammed before by an Indian company that used fraud to pose as the police and got me to provide them with a few grand as a result of not doing my taxes for the previous year. I’ve signed up for online trials that have sneakily trapped me into subscriptions that I couldn’t get out of and inevitably sourced out 30 dollars from my bank account each month. Let’s not forget about the ghost that has clung onto my body for the past half decade and stolen my bank cards and robbed me hundreds at a time every few months. It’s a vicious cycle that I can’t seem to get rid of, since it has played tricks on me even when it left my body, placing hexes on me from up “there” as well to take half a grand every 4 months. I was so worried when I saw this cycle come about the minute I witnessed another unauthorized transaction in my Scotiabank account. I had to close down my TD accounts altogether because of what it did when it clung onto me. It started with a few transactions of $3 wings from KFC. Then it escalated into taking away my mother’s 500 dollar cash bundles in my lucky money envelopes from time to time. Then it was my presto card. When I visited a psychic at Jane and Sheppard to try to remove this entity from my body, I thought that was the end of it. Apparently, it wasn’t. Ghosts can always come back from up there, heaven, and play tricks on others down in the 3D plane as well. They have the power to manipulate space and time now and will do things like make objects move or send you a text message. I found that it had robbed me yet again that fateful day I found half a grand taken from my bank account when I couldn’t find my bank card in my wallet as I tried to check out my groceries at Freshco that day. Thankfully, the card returned to me a day later from an angel. “A hex was placed on you,” Hindu psychic mentioned as he rattled his stones to find out what was behind this mischief. “Whhaaat? I thought it left my body!!!” I responded in shock and horror. “Shhhh! Be quiet! There are spirits around you,” he answered, as I was apparently disrupting the peace and quiet of the atmosphere. To make matters worse, he told me that the spirit liked me, and that it would continue to do this in the future. Great. I can expect half a grand taken from my bank account every 4 months now. In my dreams I tried to resolve this issue by summing up well known earth angel, Doreen Virtue, and her spirit. I met her for the first time in my dream on the TTC subway train. Someone else was calling for her attention at that moment in time, and she felt a tug of war tension between tending to either me or her. When I met her again in another dream sequence, she recognized me and said, “Nice to see you again. Whitney?” She must of confused me with someone else, and I said, “No, Lena.” I brought up the issue with the ghost robber, and she replied, “Well, he’s not attached to you anymore.” It wasn’t until I found a message from an angel the next day that I felt more relieved. There was a text message that stated, “return issued->” in my cell phone. This cell phone was placed right next to that stolen Scotiabank card that I had miraculously found a day later returned to me. It was pointing to the card. I followed the magical instructions to return this card and cancel the account altogether, and transfer the funds to another bank account. This was what I needed to do in order to break that hex or black magic spell on me. I visited a psychic the next day to get my questions answered as well. She told me that angels were overseeing me on this as she placed a tarot card of an angel on the table. “I see good signs with this,” she mentioned. Okay, that’s good to hear. It’s not like I haven’t gone through enough turmoil with all of this. With the help of all that, I can’t help but wonder whether a fellow angel could manipulate space and time to help me garner up a few million dollars and help me win the lottery. I have thought about it, although it’s really not something that has been placed upon me with too much urgency or need. My angels also repeat bank transaction credits into my new CIBC account whenever I am at a place of low funding, I realized. Just recently, there was a transfer of 400.38 onto my account. It adds up my total amount of money. That’s what gives me the security. I have always lived off of a budget of 2 grand every month, and it has stayed and remained this way for the past 10 years. I still shop at Dollar Tree and Frescho every month. I never eat out. I never buy new expensive clothing. I use products until they are worn and torn before I replace them. It was somewhat doable even with the ghost robberies. It’s not like I haven’t gone through ups and downs with this. I’m too old of a soul to really give into the built-up illusion that money can buy happiness on a linear path that just rises and rises with the rate of satisfaction. Money does buy security and comfort and free will, but the effect does taper off after a point though. More so, I think I’m a bit too evolved and conscientious to really ask for large sums of money. I know that I have to hold back on spending too much and wasting too much. When you’ve gone through enough lifetimes and are very aware of how your actions and requests are affecting others, including angels and ghosts up there.

Cleaning up around the house was not how I normally spent my Sunday mornings, but I’d been hard at it since seven thirty to make the back garden and our new pool look good. And it did. Look good, I mean. “Lookin’ good, Will,” said Dad admiring the patio and pool area. “Not that you’re trying to impress anyone, of course!” “Well, maybe, just a bit, but I like Lara a lot, she’s special.” Dad smiled and nodded as though he wrote the book about young love. My Dad is in construction. He built our house and then put a swimming pool in the back garden - it was great, but took a lot of work to keep it really clean. And today it had to be really clean and sparkling. It was the first time I invited Lara, my girlfriend, to Sunday lunch at our house and I was more nervous than I’d ever been about anything, and that includes taking the driving test. I brushed and scrubbed at my shoes until they looked new. I must have tried on every pair of pants and every shirt I owned, which wasn’t many, and still couldn’t decide. “Mom, which shirt should I wear today?” I asked as I carried an armful of shirts into the kitchen. “Be careful, you’ll get them creased. Wear the blue one, it matches your eyes. Oh Will, you look more like your Dad every day!” “Don’t I wish, everyone says Dad is such a handsome dude!” “Yes, as I said, you look more like him every day.” “Aw, Mom, now you’re embarrassing me, and please don’t do that, you know it makes me go all red in the face.” I was notorious for the fiery red color that would creep up from my chest to my cheeks when I felt self-conscious. And I just read that teenagers are painfully self-conscious and know that “painfully” is only too true. When I blush I want to run and stick my head in a bucket of cold water. That article promised to tell “10 Ways to Banish Blushing,” but none of them were worth the paper they were printed on. How can you “ignore the people staring at you,” or “think about the paper you have to write for homework” when everyone in the room is staring at your flaming cheeks! Mom was making her chicken pot pie for dinner and strawberry cake for dessert, so I knew the dinner would be a hit. Mom was always being asked to bring her chicken pie to potlucks, and her strawberry cake was on the front cover of the latest cookbook put out by her church women’s group. Of course we would finish up with some ice-cold watermelon, because we live in Melon, Arkansas, watermelon capital of the world. I was a bit worried that my fourteen year old brother would find a way to embarrass me, but hoped he might tone it down in front of Lara and both Mom and Dad. We all sat down to breakfast together - Mom and Dad are really keen on us eating meals together, all sitting at the table, with no phones allowed. Then we all piled into Dad’s Range Rover and went to church. Corny, isn’t it? Some of my friends laugh at me for doing what my parents want, but what they want seems like the right thing to do, so why not? Sometimes I rebel, but, hey, I’m a teenager, right? Anyway, Lara goes to the same church with her family and I can’t wait to see her. Then we get to bring her home with us. The church service was coming to a close, we all sang the last hymn, then the minister said “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” and we responded, “Thanks be to God,” and we filed out. I walked over to say hello to Lara’s parents to thank them for letting her come to lunch with us. Then I did what I’d been rehearsing all day - walked over to Lara, held out my arm and said “may I escort you to the car?” Lara looked startled, but then she beamed me one of her smiles, put her arm through mine, and we sashayed our way to the car. Lara and I had worked on several school projects together over the past few years, and found we worked really well together. A few years ago I thought she was a fun person, and great to work with, but sort of funny looking. She has light blondish red hair, I think it’s what they call “strawberry blonde,” and very, very pale skin, with some freckles. One day in class she wasn’t feeling well and had fainted, falling out of her seat. The teacher ran to help her and took her to the school nurse. The color had drained out of her face when she fainted and her face was so white you could see all the freckles on the surface of her skin clearly - it looked spooky to me. Some of the kids started calling her “the ghost,” which was actually a good description, but a bit mean, and I could see how it upset her. Lara’s Mom had the same coloring. When they were healthy it was actually beautiful, but not when they were sick! When we arrived at our house, we all went out to the pool and Lara, who had brought her swimsuit, said she couldn’t wait to get in. Mom said we should swim now, as lunch would be about another hour, and after eating we wouldn’t be able to swim for a while. So my Dad, Lara, my brother Ronny and I quickly changed and jumped in, enjoying the water’s refreshing coolness on the hot summer day. We swam and threw a beach ball back and forth, then floated on air beds until Mom called us to come and eat. We changed back into our Sunday best and enjoyed Mom’s delicious meal. During lunch we talked about what Lara and I wanted to do after we graduated. Lara told us that she was interested in becoming a vet. Her father is a farmer, so she is used to dealing with animals on the farm, and loves it. Her mother is a middle school teacher, and she’s from Texas. “My grandparents in Texas want me to go to college there so I can live with them, but I’d rather stay here and go to our local college,” she smiled shyly at me when she said this. “I’m going to say local too, we have some good science and engineering programs.” I’m not sure exactly what I want to do with my life yet, but it will be in one of those fields, and I think the answer will come to me. When we’d all finished, Lara suddenly jumped up and said, “Mrs. Taylor, thank you for such a lovely lunch. Now it’s your turn to sit back and enjoy your Sunday afternoon. Will, Ronny, and I will clear the table, do the dishes, and clean up the kitchen, won’t we boys?” She beamed her 2000 watt smile at both of us and we just went along with what she said. My Mom looked more than surprised, but Dad took her by the hand and led her into the front room, where he turned on the television and put on Mom’s favorite Midsommer Murders. We showed Lara where everything was and we all got to work and cleaned up in no time. “Can I go now please,” asked Ronny, with a pitiful whine in his voice? “Yes, of course,” said Lara, “thanks for your help in here and for making my day here such fun.” Ronny blushed and his face just beamed, and he walked out of there like a little prince. “I wish I could get my little brother to do what I want like that,” I complained to Lara. “He won’t do it for you probably. My little sister would do cartwheels down Main Street for you, but she either ignores me or is super rude.” “Hey, maybe we should swap brothers and sisters,” I said, and we both cracked up. I was beginning to relax and enjoy myself - nothing had gone wrong! I don’t know what I’d expected, but I was really worried that something would spoil Lara’s first visit. “What shall we do now,” I asked, “do you want to watch TV with my parents, or come up to my room to play on my drum set?” “Will, you know how interested I am in genealogy? There are a bunch of old looking black and white photos in your dining room that I’d like to look at. I couldn’t see them very well from the table, but they looked like pictures from around here a long time ago.” “Yes, they are, pictures of my parents, and grandparents, and great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents, all doing what they used to do back then.” “And what was that?” “They grew watermelons. And strawberries and apples and squash and pumpkins. All sorts of fruit and vegetables. My Grandad still lives at the farm, although he doesn’t grow as much as he used to. My great-great grandad had the first farm stand along the road to the river, and people would drive for miles to buy what he grew. Great-grandad was one of the farmers who bred the watermelons we buy today - they were bigger, sweeter, and juicier than the old ones. The soil around here is very rich and we get a lot of sunshine and rain, so it’s good for growing stuff.” “And that’s how our town got its name, isn’t it?” asked Lara, laughing. “Yeh, that’s right.” We live in the small town of Melon, in Arkansas. You might laugh at the name of our town, but if you take a look at maps of our state, you will see many odd, amusing, or downright weird town names. One of the most well-known is Evening Shade, a nice old town in the Ozarks, which was the location of a TV show from the 1970’s starring Burt Reynolds. Then there’s the town of Strawberry, named after the Strawberry River, famous for the wild strawberries growing along its banks. My favorite is the town of Oil Trough, on the White River, named for the trough full of bear grease bought from hunters and sold to settlers for lamps, cooking, and all forms of lubrication during the settlement of the area. Next, Lara spotted an engraved metal shield beside an old photo of a man holding it up to the camera - “That was my great-grandfather Zeke, he won it in 1924.” “Presented to Zechariah Taylor, 1924 Champion Watermelon Seed Spitter, 52 Feet, 8 Inches. Lawrence County Fair,” Lara read aloud, which was difficult because she was laughing fit to bust. She was laughing so much she was almost choking and tears ran down her cheeks. But not me. I wasn’t laughing. I was mortified. And the dreaded heat, remorseless and relentless, crept up past my collar bone, up my neck until I was the champion redneck of the region, over my jaw and into my cheeks. I couldn’t speak. I just looked at Lara, having hysterics, and endured the worst feeling I’d ever had. Two fat tears sat on my eyelashes, then rolled down both flaming cheeks. Lara was laughing at me. Lara thought I was a ridiculous figure of fun. Why did I invite her for Sunday lunch? Why did I risk this, the most embarrassing moment of my life, and leave myself open to being hurt. I wished with all my heart that I could die right then and there. Devastated, I turned away to walk out of the room, but it wasn’t over! Lara took hold of my arm, then my hand, and squeezed. Then she put her hands up, one on each of my cheeks, stood on her tiptoes and kissed me. On the lips. I thought I was going to pass out. What was happening? “Will, I want you to come back to my house with me, there’s something you just have to see, and you’re not gonna believe your eyes!” She pulled me along behind her into the front room and knocked on the open door to get my parents’ attention. “Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, can Will give me a ride back home and stay a while, there’s a project I’d like him to take a look at for me? Thank you so much for a lovely day, I’ve really enjoyed myself.” “Yes, of course, dear, and we thank you for spending time with us. Say hello to your Mom and Dad for us, will you?” Lara nodded, and we left in Mom’s little Ford. Lara kept giving me huge smiles and laughing to herself as we drove, but all she would say to me was “You’re not going to believe this.” I should have been nervous and worried, but all I could think about was Lara’s kiss. After that I was in a complete daze so nothing could have knocked me off my dream cloud. Mrs. Wheeler said “hello Will” to me as we came in but I think I just grunted! Lara led me into their front room where a lot of photos were arranged on a round table. They looked like the old photos of my family, except some of them were of horses, cows, and cowboys. Lara said these were of her mother’s Texas family, and held one in front of me which showed a man in a ten gallon hat holding up a little silver cup. His smile was so big his teeth gleamed out of that old black and white photo. Then Lara held out that same silver cup. I took it and read aloud, “Presented to Lee Wheeler of Muling, Texas, World Championship Seed Spitting Contest, Watermelon Seed Spit 68 ft 9 in, June 30, 1989.” “That’s my grandfather on Mom’s side, and he made the Guinness Book of Records that day.” And with those words we both lost it, laughing so hard it hurt, rolling on the floor with laughter. Amid our laughter and tears we hugged each other and then time stood still as I bent to kiss her properly. It was probably a good thing that her Mom called out from the kitchen asking if we wanted some lemonade.

"You are not supposed to play here,' Monty shouted at the top of the voice to scare off Tim. 'Yes, you red skin trash. You are not allowed to spoil this place with your dirty presence,' said one of the bully friends of Monty. 'I was just swinging, and I didn't do anything wrong.' argued Tim. 'Don't you dare talk to us? You are a creature of the swamp, and you belong there.' 'I am not from the swamp. I am from another planet destroyed by the Mega Dwarf. Our family is a refugee over here,' said Tim Monty could not fathom the reply, and with the help of magic, he uplifted Tim from the swing. Tim began spinning in the air due to Monty's spell, and after few minutes of spin, Tim fell to the ground. He was unable to stand and preferred to sit on the ground. Seeing the dizzy Tim struggling to stand up, Monty and his friend began laughing. Tim was unable to digest this insult. Tim's ego urged him to use the magic against Monty. However, the rule of the city forbade the refugee to use any magic for one year. If anyone failed to follow this instruction, banishment was the punishment. Some passersby saw this incident and hurried towards Tim. That stranger helped Tim by scaring away the bully Monty and his friends. Tim regained balance and somehow reached home. Tim's mother forced him to make new friends in this new land. Many children hated Tim for his physical appearance. The recent incident made Tim more aware of his physical appearance. On their home planet, now destroyed by the Mega Dwarf, no one talked about physical appearance. All they could talk about was the character. The soothing fragrance was the indicator of the amount of character inside that individual. On this planet, all they can talk about how handsome a person is. The more beautiful a person, the more respect one can garner. On Tim's home planet, a person garners respect based on the soothing fragrance. An individual would be able to emit fragrance if his/her heart is full of moral values implemented in their daily life. 'What happened to your fragrance, Tim?' 'This planet is not ready to accept us, Mom.' 'Do not worry, son. You accept it as your own planet and the people living here as your family. Forgive their actions and think good of them.' 'But how can I? All they do and think ill of me. How can I forgive those boys for their cruelty?' 'Because one has to for a peaceful co-existence. The opposing force will come to their senses when they will realize the wrongness of their action,' said Tim's mom. 'Their thoughts were worse than their actions. They did not know the magic spells well or they would have torn me to pieces and fed to the birds.' 'Never ever let them know that you can read their thoughts. They will not fathom that and will banish us for that.' 'Okay, Mom.' Tim began reading the book that his father gave him to complete in a week. In the world of fairies, self-education was the key to scale new heights. Tim's father rose to an influential position in two weeks based on the vast knowledge gathered from books. 'What happened to your fragrance?' 'I told you already, Mom. Why are...,' Tim could not finish the sentence when he saw his father standing right next to his table. Tim knew that he failed to judge the source of the question. Tim preferred silence instead of righting his wrongs. Tim's father read Tim's mind and gathered what happened to Tim. Tim's father got the answer that did Tim's fragrance became weak. 'I am proud of you, my boy.' 'There is nothing to be proud of. Those boys used magic on me and I did nothing.' 'You did one thing, and that is the most difficult one. You resisted the urge to assert your greatness with your abundant power. You controlled your ego and anger, a feat unachievable by many.' 'I appeared weak, Dad.' 'It is better to conceal your power rather than use it for an irrelevant reason.' After that, Tim's father got busy improvising the weapon to destroy the Mega Dwarf. The defense counsel hired Tim's father to develop a weapon to destroy Mega Dwarf. Mega Dwarf had a weakness, and Tim's father observed it when Mega Dwarf was busy destroying Tim's planet. Tim's family was powerful enough to rule the newfound fairyland, but they preferred to mingle. The creator did not bless Tim's family with wings like other fairies. However, Almighty blessed them with the power to fly without wings. They were red in appearance that shattered the preconceived notion that people in fairyland are beautiful. They were beautiful from the inside. However, the fairies of the new land could not identify the beauty. Every living creature detests what they can not understand. Tim faced this kind of hate every time. Two years went by, and the weapon was not yet ready. Tim was now helping his father to make that weapon. But they failed in the trial. What worried them is that Mega Dwarf could attack them any day as it was almost two years since the last sighting. All they need to complete the weapon was the source of energy that can last about five minutes. That weapon must remain functional for about five minutes to penetrate the thick skin of that Mega Dwarf. They failed to find such a source of energy. Detested due to incompetency, Tim went deep into the Jungleland to find some peace. He meditated by could not concentrate. A deer was running here and there to save its life from the lion. That disturbed the peaceful environment. It was more than two years of Tim's resident on that planet, the rule of Magic spell ban did not apply to Tim. Tim used the spell and sent the lion into the deep sleep. However, the deer was still jumping as the Magic spell by Tim was ineffective on it. He saw that a stone near the deer was absorbing the magic spell. He tested the stone again by casting a spell to destroy it. To his dismay, the stone absorbed all the Magic spells and began glowing. The more he used the Magic spell, the more it glows. He placed that stone in his pocket. He went back to the city and resumed his duty. That dreadful day arrived, and Mega Dwarf attacked the home of the fairies. That dwarf began destroying whatever came in its way. The defense was strong enough to delay the dwarf's progress but not enough to halt the mega dwarf. Tim knew what to do and thus placed that stone in the weapon. It absorbed all the magic spell of the Mega Dwarf. The defense grew stronger with stone absorbing all the spells, and energy from the Mega Dwarf. Tim fired the shot, and it pierced the skin of the Mega Dwarf to end its life. A red face radiating soothing fragrance destroyed the destroyer of the planets.

I straighten the pastel pink skirt and blazer with shaking hands. Pacing from one end to the other, I mutter words underneath my breath, each try different from the other. The cards in my hand don’t help, as they just have a few words on them. I need to show the world that I’m different. I must not be another person who can read. I need to be someone who has a stage presence, whose every word is echoing in the audience’s ears long after the speech is done. I need to leave my mark. I wish I were trained for this kind of thing, the kind of thing everyone but me is good at. Public speaking. Looking over a podium and seeing thousands of people’s eyes waiting for me to say the wrong thing, a few million’s eyes trained on me through the television screen in the comfort of their homes. If Melinda had been here, she would have handled it perfectly, her every word ringing strong and clear, her every smile genuine and carefully sprinkled throughout her speech, her sly jokes inciting light giggles and deep chuckles from the audience. I can’t even talk to my own mother without looking at my feet. I can’t even raise my voice at my own son. I can’t even stop my husband’s taunts from raining down on me. I don’t know what to do. My pacing is making Randall nervous, as he shakes his leg up and down, the chair creaking in rhythm. Taran will be in the audience with Mother, watching me like everyone else, cheering at my every word even though he may not understand all of it. He had been close to Father. Close enough to have believed us when we told him that he was just sleeping in the coffin, taking some rest and giving company to Aunt Melinda. He noticed everything, his black eyes taking in the tears and the condolences all around him. How much he understood was the question. I couldn’t expect him to understand it either, since death was the most abstract concept that even supposedly experienced adults couldn’t completely grasp. An ache spreads in my chest as I think of Father, his pockets always filled with little lemon candies and feathers which appeared everyday almost like magic. I saw all of it happen through my young eyes, my grandfather giving up the throne for the sake of a strange-sounding man, and my father wearing the crown, studded with rubies and emeralds, my sister becoming heir apparent and being a natural at it. I remember having to massage Father’s shoulders for almost months on end after he became king, as he complained about the heaviness of the crown. I didn’t realize that he wasn’t only referring to the physical aspect of it until I wore it myself. Today is the day. In a few minutes, I had to get on stage to a thousand blinking phones, cameras and reporters, and double that number of eyes, all looking at me, waiting for me to change the world or screw it up completely. Frank enters backstage and nods at me. I’m suddenly overtaken by an urge to faint on the spot. But I walk towards the curtain that is the final obstacle between me and the rest of the world. I need to do this for Father’s sake. He always loved me for me, and never forced me to be someone else. He never cared that I didn’t talk too much, but he always said that I could do it if I had to. This time, I have to. I don’t have a choice on the matter. I push the curtain to the right and walk on stage, the cheers vibrating through every bone in my body. I wave, and the crowd goes wild. I really hope that the sound of the audience will block out most of my words and the people can leave with the knowledge that I said something profound without hearing my words at all. But all my plans are ruined when I reach the podium. As if by some common signal of their own, the people shush each other. The only sound in the whole arena is me setting down my cards. I adjust the microphone only to be greeted by screeching feedback as the audience plugs their fingers into their ears with a strained look on their faces. I imagine the people at home are doing the same. What a great start to my reign as queen. I smile at them apologetically, and a hush descends in an instant. I spot Taran and Mother in the audience and see Randall edging his way towards them. I pick up my first card with my sweaty hands, careful not to drop it. Introduction. Thank you for kind wishes. Clearing my throat, I push out two words. “Hello, world.” The cheering and applause don’t stop for a good three minutes. I know because I constantly look at my watch with a polite smile on my face. As they slowly get the hint, the cheering quietens and the applause fades. I haven’t even gotten through my first card yet. “My name is Rebecca. Though for the entirety of my life, I have been called Princess Regina, but my real name is Rebecca.” My throat closes up at this point, and the people somehow understand. They cheer ‘Long live Rebecca’ until I manage to compose myself. “Now I understand that my father King Francis was loved and adored by you all. I realize that as much as I and the rest of my family are mourning, all of you are mourning too. For considering my family as yours and for taking that burden of grief upon yourselves, I thank you all.” My throat is dry. I should have brought some water along with me. I pick up my next card. Melinda. Queen. “I realize that many of you are puzzled at the fact that the younger princess is giving this speech. Many of you may be wondering why Princess Mel - I mean Princess Victoria is not the one standing here today.” The audience members consult with each other while the reporters push their microphones closer to the stage, sensing something big coming. I take in a deep breath and let it out, not knowing whether I would ever get the strength to say it. “Princess Victoria had a name too, Melinda. Her real name was Melinda. She was just like you and me. But she was different.” Everyone’s breath hitches a bit at hearing me refer to her in the past tense. “She was human, like the rest of us. She was grieving. But she was also heir apparent. She was also entrusted with the responsibility of becoming the first Queen the kingdom of Cotoria has ever had.” This was it, I had to say it. “Melinda was found dead in her chambers a day after my father’s passing. She had swallowed pills.” Pindrop silence. Then the discussion starts, the people talking over each other, some crying, others confused. I wait for the abusing, the curses and the accusations. I wait for someone to realize that I’m not meant to be here, that I’m just a cheap replacement for Melinda. Tears fall from my eyes, running down my face and washing away the makeup that my assistants had painstakingly applied. I silently apologize to Father and Melinda for not being able to live up to them. Suddenly I hear a voice. Albeit a faint one, but it is recognizable. Taran stands up on his seat, Mother trying to push him back down and failing miserably, Randall covering his face and trying not to draw attention. But I heard him. Others around him pick up what he was saying, and soon the chant begins. It swells and flows all around me, going through to my heart and dispelling all my fears. My knees are still weak, my head is still spinning, my tears are still falling. But I smile at their words, the words meant for me. Long live the Queen.

I think Grandma Mabel is the nicest person in the whole world. Mama used to say that everyone says mean things sometimes, even when they’re a good person, but I’ve never heard Grandma Mabel say a bad thing not once. She makes the best cakes and pies and tarts but the best by far is her honey. She has a big hive full of bees and they’re so friendly! Sometimes I’m allowed to put my hand inside and get some honey on my finger. The bees come and sit on my hand but I’m not afraid of getting stung because they’re Grandma Mabel’s bees, and everything about Grandma Mabel is nice. After school, my little brother Roger and I go to Grandma Mabel’s house for tea and cake. She has the biggest garden I’ve ever seen and she says we’re allowed to go anywhere we like in it, so long as we don’t upset the flowers. Flowers have feelings, Grandma Mabel says. We have to be very careful to not make them sad by doing things like not giving them enough water, or by stepping on them. Roger doesn’t care about the flowers as much as I do, but I think it’s fun to look after them. Grandma Mabel showed me how to fill up her watering can and how to get out all the nasty weeds from the flowerbed. She said I could be a gardener or a florist when I grow up! Roger prefers helping Grandma Mabel with her baking. I like the cakes and pies, but I like flowers more so I let him do the baking instead of me. She makes all these amazing cakes with the flowers from the garden, so they look all colourful and taste delicious! I would never think of doing something like that. It’s so clever. She makes sure to only take a little bit of the flowers so they won’t be upset and will grow back. We even made lavender cookies last week. I grew the lavender, which is a sort of purple-y plant with a nice smell, and Roger made them into biscuits. Grandma Mabel was so proud of us. I said to Roger that we should have a bakery when we’re older with a big garden behind it. I tried to bring back some of the biscuits to give to Papa, but he was in one of his bad moods. He hit me on my face, which really hurt, but I didn’t cry because Roger was there and I knew he would get scared. Papa said he talked to the priest and the priest said that we were children of Lucifer and that we were sinful. He called us a word beginning with b. I can’t remember what the word was but he sounded angry when he said it, so I don’t think it was a nice word. Roger asked me when I put him to bed if we were really children of sin, but I don’t think we are. I read my Bible at school and I say my prayers too, so I told him that as long as we follow God’s word we will be alright. My cheek got all hot and sore the next day, and it was hard to eat because it was bigger than usual. Then the mom of one of the girls in my class came up to me in the playground and said she hoped I was happy spreading my Devil’s filth. She said she wasn’t going to keep her daughter at a school that allowed me to stay in it. I felt secretly happy, because her daughter is Moira, and Moira liked to pull my hair and steal my food at lunchtime just because she’s bigger. Then I felt a bit bad because I saw Moira crying when she left school. I told Grandma Mabel about what happened. She got all sad when I asked her if the priest was right and said that he was wrong and that I shouldn’t worry. I trust her more than that creepy old guy anyways. On our way home Grandma Mabel’s neighbour called us the b-word that Papa said and tried to throw a dog turd at us. It didn’t hit me, but it went on one of Grandma Mabel’s flowers and she made the face that Papa makes when he’s real angry. I don’t think she was angry at me though, cause she just told us to be careful going home and that she’d deal with it. I asked her what she was going to do, and she said she was just going to bring the neighbour some honey. Honey makes everyone a bit kinder, she said, it’s so sweet that they would feel happier after eating it. That makes sense because I always feel better when I have some of Grandma Mabel’s honey. I went to school the next day, but then Miss Philips told me to go home because there had been an ‘incident’. I didn’t know what that was, so I asked her and she got this funny face. Miss Philips said that Moira’s mom had died yesterday, and Moira said that she didn’t want me here for the funeral so I had to go home. I felt a bit sad because it wasn’t like I did anything wrong, but then Moira came to school and started crying and screaming at me saying it was my fault, so I left. I promise I didn’t do anything though. God says that killing is bad, and we should always follow God’s rules. I went to Grandma Mabel’s instead. She looked a bit confused to see me because it was a school day, and Roger wasn’t there, but I couldn’t go home because Papa would get mad. I got to help her plant lots of new flowers! It was really exciting. She got a big order of some new ones just today and we planted them all nicely in the corner of the garden next to the beehive. Grandma Mabel said that she bought them because the types of flowers that bees use for their honey makes it taste different. They collect this thing called nectar, which is when you see them going around and wiggling into the flowers. Every type of nectar is different and they use it to make honey! I didn’t know it was so complicated! There were lots of different plants. Grandma Mabel said I mustn’t eat any of them, which I wouldn’t do with any of the plants anyway, but these plants aren’t good for humans. Only bees like them. There were some bright pink ones, some long skinny ones with little white flowers, some purple ones that grew upwards in straight lines, and ones with little purple berries. As well as some droopy purple ones that looked like little hats and white ones that looked like little bells. She told me all the names, but I can’t really remember them. My favourites were the pink ones though. They were so bright and cheerful! Luckily next week I was allowed to go back to school. The other kids in my class were being mean to me though. Moira had to move schools because of her mom, but I think she was already going to move because of what her mom said the other day. I don’t know why they’re all so unkind to me. One of the boys who sits next to me in English class said that because my hair is red, it means that I’m evil. I didn’t know that. I think there’s a lot that I don’t know. When Roger and I got to Grandma Mabel’s, she’d made a whole new batch of honey from the flowers I planted with her! I was excited to try some, but she said she had some special honey that was just for us and I felt really special. Because of my help, the bees really liked the flowers and had been making loads all weekend. She even got to give some out to people in the village already! Grandma Mabel’s special honey was the best I’ve ever tasted. I told her she needs to make enough for a lifetime supply, and she laughed. Then she looked a bit serious and said that the priest had died today. The sheriff said it was an accident, his heart had gone all funny and then stopped at dinnertime. “Is it my fault?” I asked. “Cause Moira’s mom died on Friday, and she said it was my fault.” Grandma Mabel looked at me and Roger with a calm look. Well, it wasn’t really calm, but I don’t know how to describe it. She hadn’t made that face before and it was a little scary. “Callie, Roger, listen to me. Whatever anyone says, you must know that they’re wrong. None of this is your fault at all, and you’re the best kids I’ve ever known. Don’t listen to anything anyone says about you.” She gave me a big hug afterwards, and she smelled nice. I think she was crying when we went home. Papa usually waited for us at home, but that day he didn’t come out. He doesn’t like us coming into his room when he doesn’t tell us to, and the last time I did he hit me so hard on the backside that it started bleeding. I called him from outside the room and said “Papa, we’re home,” but he didn’t say anything. It was a little weird. But he was probably just drinking again so I made Roger dinner and then went to bed. Everything got a little weird after that. The horrid neighbour who threw a dog turd into Grandma Mabel’s flowerbed died after Moira’s mom and the priest. The sheriff had to make a speech to the town because everyone was getting really scared, and the school sent everyone home. No one knew why people were dying. I called Grandma Mabel from the phone at home and asked her if she was scared because her neighbour had died, but she just said that she was okay. The neighbour was mean anyway. It was really boring at home. A couple more people died, like the old man down our road who’d hit me with a walking stick once. The sheriff said that everyone should stay in their houses as much as possible so that they could do an investigation, but I wanted to visit Grandma Mabel. She said on the phone that she’d been giving out honey to people to make them feel better because everyone was so anxious. I asked if it was okay for us to come and stay, and she said that would be lovely. When I went to ask Papa, he didn’t say anything. He hadn’t come out of his room for a few days now, so Roger and I were getting very hungry (I’m not a very good cook). There was a bad smell coming from his room, too. It was kind of gross so we just left and went to Grandma Mabel’s. When we got there, Grandma Mabel had run out of honey, because she’d been giving it out to people all week. But we still had the rest of the jar of special honey from last time, and she said she’d make some more for us. She had such a big house, and Roger and I got our own rooms! They were all clean and tidy and smelled so nice, and the beds were all made, like when Mama was still alive. A little part of me hopes that Papa doesn’t come out of his room for a while so that we can stay as long as we want. Grandma Mabel doesn’t hit us or drink until she yells and makes us scared. She makes us nice lunches and plays with us in the garden and gives us warm hugs. She’s the loveliest person ever. The next week, four more people died. ‘Under mysterious circumstances’, Grandma Mabel said. But none of us were sad, because they weren’t nice people just like before. One of them was Miss Philips from school. They had to keep the school closed for another week because of it. I asked Grandma Mabel what she thought was happening. She said that she thinks it’s all God’s plan and that he’s getting rid of all the nasty people so only the nice ones are left. “Are they going to Hell?” I questioned. “I think so. If you’re horrible to a child, then you should go to Hell. At least, that’s my opinion,” Grandma Mabel replied. “Well, then that’s my opinion too,” I said, and Grandma Mabel laughed. Yesterday, Grandma Mabel sat us down and asked us if we’d like to go and live with her somewhere else. Because of all the people dying, the village wasn’t very safe anymore. She said that she’d talked to Papa on the phone when we were asleep and that he was ok with it. I was a bit surprised because Papa doesn’t like us even leaving the house usually, but if he says it’s okay, then it must be! We’re going to go across the country tomorrow. I’m so excited! Grandma Mabel says we’re moving somewhere sunny and warm with an even bigger house. Her sister and her husband live there, and they have grandchildren that are the same age as me and Roger. We’re even going to take the bees too, so we can make more honey together! Grandma Mabel really must be the nicest person in the world.

(WP) First Love and Second Chances It had been so long since his beloved wife had passed away that Mark barely remembered what it was like to truly *feel.* True, he had his house, his animals, and his friends and children. His life wasn’t empty, by any stretch of the imagination. His head knew that, but his heart had a harder time accepting that. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t miss Alice, with every fiber of his being. In those first days without her, it was like his life had lost all color and joy. Of course, as much as he’d wanted to surrender to the darkness that had stolen his wife, he could not. What would his children do if he just gave up? Mark was interrupted from his thoughts of the past by a quick and urgent knock on the door. Cursing his old bones, he got up out of his armchair, grabbing his cane. Another rap, quicker, impatient. “I’m coming!” Mark grumbled, and the knocking stopped. Finally, he opened the door, only to find one of his neighbors and friends, Franklin, Frank for short, standing on his doorstep. “Finally, Mark! I felt like I was standing there forever!” Without waiting to be invited in, he shuffled inside. “Where’s the fire?” Mark asked, trying not to laugh. Frank’s face was red, and he was breathing hard; back in their prime, Frank had had a football scholarship and won a full-ride to one of the state’s most prominent universities. “There’s this new and experimental trial, Mark, and I had to tell you about it.” Mark raised his eyebrows, uncertain, but Frank held out a bright red flyer. *Are you widowed? Missing your late spouse? Well, now there’s a chance, thanks to an experimental new treatment! For more information, call the number below!* Mark frowned at Frank; honestly, this all sounded like a ridiculous, half-baked prank. But Frank had come all this way to tell him about it; what was the harm in at least investigating? Worst case scenario, he’d be chasing ghosts. Was it really possible, seeing Alice again, even after her death? Something strange and unfamiliar bloomed inside his heart, and he dimly recognized it as hope. *Oh, what the hell.* It wasn’t as if he had much to lose anyway. \*\* It turned out that the experiment only had him and another woman; no one seemed to think that this was legit, despite being held at the local clinic. There was a kind, female doctor with gentle, sad eyes, and Mark felt immediately comforted by her presence, in this cold, sterile white room. “Of course, you’ll be compensated, regardless of what happens with the treatment,” She said, all the while fitting them with virtual reality equipment. It was all an unfamiliar jumble of new tech that he was too old to keep up with. “Now, we’ll be right outside this room, taking down observations. I must ask you not to be alarmed.” Mark and the woman were ordered to open their mouths, and a pill was placed upon their tongues. Giving them a tiny plastic cup of water to wash it down, the doctor left. Mark closed his eyes, waiting for the pill to take effect. \*\* When Mark next opened his eyes, he was standing in front of his house, and Alice was waving from the window. The fragrant aroma of dinner cooking hit him first, even before he processed that his late wife was standing there. “Welcome home, Mark.” She said when he came up to her, and he kissed her passionately on the mouth. Alice laughed; the sound tinged with surprise. “What on earth has gotten into you?” “Nothing, my love. Nothing at all. Let’s go inside.

The Wedding The garden is the site of my aunt’s second wedding to a guy named Phillip. Phillip. Like the prince. May he rest in peace. Technically, the garden is not the site of my aunt’s second wedding to a guy named Phillip. It is the site of the reception of my aunt’s second wedding to a guy named Phillip. It was April or March or...um...sometime early spring. I was only 10. Time works differently when you’re a kid. I once read that childhood is like being drunk: you don’t have much memory of it all, but everyone keeps telling you stories about it so you desperately try to piece it all together. But this story is about my aunt’s second wedding to a guy named Phillip. We drove endlessly from our home in my mom’s grey minivan up the giant mountain top to a church nestled in pine trees and a blanket of sow. I stood freezing in my little white dress, covered in tulle and water color style pink lilies. Everyone could hear the desperate sound of my stomach screaming for food. I couldn’t feel my toes. The church was all brown brick and concrete floors. The very best part was the sound of my feet, safely strapped into Mary Jane style white shoes, as we took our seats in the brown wooden pew up front. “Family sits up front at a wedding,” said my mother in a hushed tone, her warm, coffee breath against my ear. A man in a suit began droning on about faith and love. A beautifully tall woman with chestnut curls stood by my cousin. They wore matching pink dresses. I tugged on the dark blue velvet sleeve of my mother’s shirt and demanded her identity to which she replied, “That is your cousin’s new bride.” The man in the suit invites everyone to discuss the bride and groom. I looked to the wooden ceiling as I felt cold snow plop down on my button nose. The left side started first, strangers dressed in fancy clothes began speaking about Phillip. They called him handsome, intelligent, brave, and classy. I requested my mother to define the word, classy , “It’s a person with a lot of class.” I began to ask a follow up question, but she pressed a long index finger to her lips, and shrugged my shoulders because I didn’t know what class was so I sure as hell didn’t understand classy any better. Finally, the man in the black suit asked for us to speak about the bride. My Aunt. In her shimmering white dress. With the long veil which had a few pink rose petals, evidence of her walk down the aisle. She beamed. She glowed. It was in her I saw a woman in love for the first time. Her mother, my grandmother spoke. In her matriarchal elegance, she turned to face the audience. Her perfectly coiffed grey hair grazed the top of her beautiful magenta dress. “My beautiful daughter is an artist at heart. She flourishes in anything creative, finds joy in the little things, and is an incredible mother,” compliments gushed forward from her classic red lips. My aunt mouthed thank you. I leaned forward on my toes and popped back on my heels. Clack, clack, clack. My mother’s long fingers reached for my hand. I needed to stop. We all processed out of the church and followed the trail of colorful cars down the long hilled driveway. We merged onto the highway. I was relieved when we could start listening to the radio again. Rain began to pour down our windows. I jammed a stubby thumb on the window and raced the drops of water down, down, down. A pop song about love filled the car and I began to wonder what life would be like once I got married. I would have a long veil just like my aunt. My gaze darted down to my shoes as I decided I would wear real high heels at my wedding. Like the one my grandmother wore. A smile crossed my face as I began to doze in the backseat. “We’re here,” announced my mother. We unpiled ourselves from the car. The backyard was much warmer than the mountain top and as we weaved into my grandmother’s home, extended family rushed Tasha and I. They gave perfumed hugs, lipstick filled kisses, and picked us up so we could feel their scratchy beards on our velvet cheeks. Eventually, we were free to run into the backyard where Tasha and I made a beeline for the tree house. In our fancy dresses and perfectly white shoes, we climbed the worn rope ladder up the oak tree. Our cousins waited for us and we all rushed to the windows to peer out at the adults below. They rushed around with wine filled goblets and swarmed my aunt like moths drawn to a single porch light. They bobbed in and out of her orbit in a kind of dance. The garden was in full bloom behind my aunt. A sea of rose buds surrounded her. She looked like Venus in that famous painting my mother took us to see a replica of. Instead of cupids, she had birds and butterflies to create a crown around her. “Here,” Lily held out a wine glass filled with water for me. My mouth closed and I blushed with embarrassment. We all clinked our cups and pretended to be fancy while sitting cross legged on the scratchy wood floor. The Birthday Bash The garden is the site of my uncle’s 50th birthday bash. 50. That feels old. I mean technically, not that old. “Given the fact that people live well into their 80s these days, I wouldn’t fret too much,” comforted my mother when I raised the question of mortality. We piled into the grey minivan and cranked on the AC as high as it would go. My uncle was born on June 30th so my grandmother planned a birthday/4th of July bash. We waited in traffic for ages. My sweat filled face searched for the best place to crane towards a little more breze. “This isn’t working,” huffed my mother as she tugged on the tiny spaghetti strap of her sundress which was falling off her shoulder. She turned off the AC and opened all the windows. I leaned my face out like a dog. The orchestra of beeps and honks from annoyed drivers along with the passive aggressive rush of traffic on the other side of the highway lulled me into a sense of exhaustion. The heat did not help. I pulled out my compact from my little black purse bought by my grandmother. In the tiny hand held mirror I stared in horrified amazement at the make up literally melting off my face. Desperately, I reached for my lip gloss and applied another coat. Strands of my long black, hair clung to it instantaneously. I blew raspberries out angrily. We finally arrived at my grandmother’s house. I teetered up the long driveway in my very high red heels. I smoothed out my tiny black pencil skirt and adjusted my newly found cleavage before I entered the kitchen. Relatives swarmed us like ants on a picnic. However, I had discovered a new weapon and offered kisses on the cheek, “Just like the French,” praising my grandfather. His prickly face smells like cologne. I brush him off while heading for the white French door leading to the backyard. Outside is a picnic table covered in deviled eggs, crudites, and cold cans of soda. I load up a red plate with lots of goodies. Tasha trails behind me. She picks plain crackers and little wedges of cheese. We sit silently next to one another on a few lawn chairs. Our cousins toss bean bags in the yard, hollering at each other. “Hey, look,” says my sister. She had positioned an apple slice on her top lips and pursed her lips in a duck face so the apple is a big, red mustache. She giggles. The apple falls and I roll my eyes while whipping out my cell phone. It’s 12pm. I told Marcos I’d call him at 4pm. It can’t come fast enough. My uncle and his father exit the kitchen side by side holding large platters of raw meat. They stroll over to the BBQ, chattering. I watch as they discuss temperatures and seasonings before they expertly toss the meat on the grill. My mother approaches Tasha and I with hugs. Tasha asks if she can have a soda. Cracker crumbs cover her little mouth which elicits more eye rolling on my part. I take a long, dramatic drink of my cola. “Of course you can have a soda,” my mother says while looking at me. She takes my sister’s seat, “Put that phone away. We’re at your grandparents’.” “Why?” I ask. The phone feels hot and heavy in my hand. “We’re here like all the time,” I complain. “Not all the time, now put it away,” responds my mother. The look in her emerald eyes means the conversation is over so I stand, toss my plate in the black trash can, and tuck my phone in my purse. I dramatically pick it up and walk across the pristine, green lawn to the garden. There is a stone path, lovingly set by my grandfather, which cuts down the center of the garden. I am greeted by bold pink and white tulips. Their waxy petals are enticing. A plastic, ruby red press on the nail falls off when I try to stroke one. A blush the color of the roses that follow fills my cheeks. The roses perfume the air with a romantic day dream filled scent. I lean down, imagining myself in a movie. A tall, handsome man in a suit will wrap his arms around me. We will admire my handi work together. “There’s a lot of work your grandmother puts into this place,” says a deep voice. Startled, I gasp and face my grandfather. His face is worn like leather and full of laugh lines. I dramatically raise my hand to shade my eyes. “Come on,” he says and he leads me around the garden. He shows me the cucumbers and the carrots. I recognize the veiny vine of watermelon. His voice is full of excitement and pride. I glance back at my sister as my stomach rumbles. “Um, Grandpa, can we just like, go eat?” I ask as my uncle calls everyone to the table. Grandpa smiles and kisses the crown of my head. We leave the garden behind. I take a seat next to my mother. She is discussing school with my cousins. They’re sitting in a circle underneath the shade of the big oak tree. The one the tree house used to be. “Do you kids remember climbing up there?” asks my mother. Everyone looks up while I roll my eyes and sneak a peek at my phone. It’s 1:15. “What’s so important there?” inquires my aunt. She takes a bite of her cheeseburger. A hint of ketchup lingers on her lip. Phillip wipes it away. I blush and shove my phone away. “Oh,” responds my mother, “She’s just obsessed with her new boyfriend.” “Mom!” I exclaim and feel humiliation fill my heart. “Wanna see a picture?” demands my mother. She has placed her plate on the grass and is reaching for her purse. She whips out a worn out photo of Marcus and me from his homecoming dance. I am wearing a long, red, strapless dress that we bought in Cancun the year before and heeled sandals. Marcus has on a black suit, white dress shirt, and cyan colored tie. My relatives ooh and aah over the photo. I stare at the garden as tears fill my eyes. My lip burns with pain as I bite down and taste iron. I toss my plate on the grass and stand. Relatives surround me demanding to know if I’m ok. My mother calls my name and I ignore her. I tear through the living room to the guest bathroom and dab water on my cheeks. My mascara is running. My eye liner which I carefully applied this morning is smudged and runny. I dry my hands on the powder blue towel and take a deep breath. Out of the corner of my eye, through the little bathroom window, I see my grandfather in the garden. The Funeral The garden is cold and grey. It is covered in a soft winter blanket that hangs on the brown leaves of my rose bushes. I stand in a sea of black. The faces around me are haunted like Halloween masks. They have deep bruises underneath their eyes and when I reach for my mother’s hand, it’s trembling. I take a deep breath. My aunt conducts all of us as we discuss the mountain of a man my grandfather was. My relatives take turns sharing stories. Their words crash against me like a raging sea. My own heartbeat rises with each person. Eventually, we break for food. Tasha loads up her blue plate with crackers and cheese before we take a seat on the living room floor. “Hey, look,” she taps me on the shoulder. I see my sister with a red, apple mustache and we giggle. A few tears escape our eyes. I don’t eat much, just push my food around. Tasha nibbles half heartedly. I decide I need some space and weave through the kitchen to the back door. The air is cold and shocks my hot skin. Some part of my soul leads me down the porch and out to the garden. My arms wrap around the rough skin of the tree as I stare up at the shell that remains of our tree house. A graveyard of dead leaves peaks out beneath the dusting of Jack Frost. I decide that even mother nature is sad today. My black heels clack, clack, clack on the stone path. The tulips are hidden in a warm, dense, blanket of earth. The leaves of the rose bushes look green and cruel without their beautiful flowers. I lean down and imagine their perfume. Brisk snow tickles my button nose. I glance down the path to where I know the cucumbers will go. To the future home of the carrots and the watermelon. My legs fold underneath me and I sit on the cold stone of the cold garden. The one my grandmother and grandfather built over their six decades in this home. When I raise my head I imagine the laughter that filled this yard during barbecues and backyard camping nights. “I promise to visit her once a month, Grandpa. Granny will never be alone. I promise,” I whisper in the shelter of the garden.

Calvin The Comic A bead of sweat dripped from Calvin Hoopers brow. He was filled with the exhilaration of the audience on the other side of the door. Soon it would be his turn, he could hear the people laugh at the comic that was on stage now. Open Mike at the “Trollies Tavern”, always the highlight of Calvins dull week. Not much excitement as a gas attendant. Mundane was the existence of the gas jockey. , It was when he discovered the comedy open mike at “Trollies”, that a spark was once again lit in him. To laugh, free and simple to do, but to truly Calvin had taken the job as a bridge to something better, that bridge seemed to go nowhere. Now five years later still pumping gas making little enough to rent his little room to laugh from the belly free from the strife of life. He was free, observing the comedy acts at first. The bravery it took he felt to get up on a stage in front of strangers, and with only your wits make them laugh. Days were spent designing jokes in his head. Lost in a comedic fog Calvin tried to see the humor in everything. But to tell someone a joke of his. To cross the line of sharing the comedy that was brimming within. As the truth be told Calvin was a very shy individual, always had been. His mother would say he was so timid that even the mice were not wary of him. Timid one-line jokes came across lame with no comedic emphasis put into it. Still every open mike he was there studying the comics. Later he would go home mimic them to himself in the mirror. Alone in his room he was not timid, he would tell funny stories to himself about various aspects of life. He would make funny faces to accompany punchlines and practiced the art of body language. This went on for months Calvin was a student of humor yet could not find his voice. It was a cool autumn day, Calvin was sitting in his booth thinking of a good ending to a joke about an Eskimo and chopsticks when a red Audi convertible pulled up to the pump. Calvin walked over to the car and was taken back by how beautiful the driver was. She looked at him with her olive-green eyes and with just a hint of sultriness said, “Fill me up, premium.” Calvin quickly set about the task of fueling the car when he heard her say,” You go to Trollies on open mike nights don’t you?” A little surprised Calvin turned to look at her and with all the will he had muttered the reply, “Ah, Ah yeah, I like to laugh.” Feeling like an idiot knowing he could have said something better, he was surprised when she gave him a big smile and said “Yeah, I like it when you laugh at my jokes.” Just then Calvin recognized her as one of the regulars on comedy night. She was one of the funnier women, her humor matched her beauty. Shyly Calvin asks “How do you do it? Get up on the stage I mean.” She studied him for a moment then replied “Life is hard, Laughter heals people if I can make a few people laugh, make them happier well then it’s my duty.” The pump clicked off and Calvin took the nozzle and closed up her gas cap. As she handed him the money she said “Sign-ups are at 7, I hope to see you on the other side of the stage this week. All you have to do is make one person laugh and you’ve done something.” The engine roared to life and with a wave and a smile, she was gone. Calvin went back to his booth and thought about it. If he could make one person laugh he had done something. On his way home that night he stopped at the local thrift store. In the back they had men’s suits, selecting a brown tweed suit with smokers cuffs. If he was going to perform before the people he had to establish a look. When he went home and looked at himself in the mirror, it was a different Calvin looking back, was that a hint of confidence in his eyes. For hours he practiced in the mirror. “If I can make one person laugh I have done something.” The day arrived and Calvin could feel a tightness in his chest that only grew stronger the closer it got to performance time. All day at work he went over material, mentally picturing himself presenting the jokes to a crowd of strangers. Would they laugh? Or would they boo him off stage the duality of the situations that could occur terrified Calvin. When he got home he put his suit on and looked at himself. “I will make someone laugh tonight.” He went over his routine one last time to himself. Over and over in his head, as he walked to the club, “I will make someone laugh.” It seemed as if this mantra not only calmed his inner fear of people but fed a larger need to interact with them, make them laugh. He entered the bar and walked over to the sign-in table. A fat bald man was collecting the registration fee, it cost ten dollars to get on the stage, Ten dollars seemed like a small sum to the years of introversion Calvin had endured. He paid the man and was directed to a door in the back if any preparations for your act needed to be made. The din of the crowd sent an electric tingle down Calvin’s back. He went to the door in the back and entered the stage room. There were about fifteen people milling about. Off to the left was the sexy Audi driver. Calvin made his way over to her and her mesmerizing smile encompassed her face when she saw him. “Glad to see you on this side of the stage,” she said with genuine enthusiasm. “I’m here to make someone laugh tonight,” Calvin said with triumph in his voice. She burst out in laughter and said “Honey you and that suite already did.” A smile crept across Calvin’s face. “Maybe after the show, you and I could have a drink and talk shop,” he didn’t know where this courage was coming from. She looked at him intently with her exotic green eyes and said “Sure, I would like that but what do I call you?” “Calvin the comic”, he said with a chuckle. “Calvin the comic, I like that.” A gruff voice yelled “Sally, your next.” “That’s me,” she said getting up. “Good Luck tonight Calvin, cant wait to hear your material.” Leaving a hint of her perfume in her absence, Calvin couldn’t believe the turn his life had taken. He listened to the laughter it fed something inside him he never felt before. The tightness was still in his chest but so to was excitement, no more was the fear of the crowd there, replaced now by a yearning to entertain the people. “Calvin, your on in five.” Taking a deep breath and looking at himself in the mirror he was not Calvin anymore, he was “Calvin the Comic”. THE END

I’m leaving the VA with a bandage around my arm and a mask over my face and I’m thinking, What was the point? I was in there for... three hours? They drew piss. I bled in a cup. We played that little word game we always play where they ask, “Are you thinking about harming yourself or others?” “Know, and know,” I said. It’s what I always say. Because I know they’ll know the truth, if they just pay attention. Yes and no. No and yes. Sometimes. Not always. Not now. Earlier though, and definitely later, no doubt about it. But I don’t say that. Because they didn’t ask the right way. Ask the right questions and you’ll earn the answers I have left to give. See? It's a game. You get it. I’m good at giving directions. But you can’t say that stuff in there. Even if they ask. Especially if they ask. It’s a test. It’s a game. And you wanna pass, right? You don’t wanna lose? I can tell you do. I can tell you don’t. That’s why you turned around, just now. I saw you looking at me, thinking the same thing I was thinking, Pass me, please just pass me . At least, I think you were thinking that. Don’t worry, I can’t read minds, not anymore. Not since they put me in a gown and grippy socks. That was forever ago. Now, I punch pillows since their pills pull punches. Welp. There it is. I said it, didn’t I? Or I might as well have. Yeah. I haven’t been taking them. You caught me. Are you working for them? You have to tell me if I ask, ya know? You gonna check under my tongue? AHHHH. Just kidding. But seriously, they can’t check under your tongue at your apartment. Mine either. So yeah, back to that other thing. The thing you were thinking about a second ago. When I said I can’t read minds, what I meant was I’m not the one doing the reading. They’re actually read to me , like a book on tape. That’s what happened with you, just now. Someone read your thoughts out loud, it wasn’t me, but I heard them because I couldn’t help it. Pass me, please just pass me. Pass you what? I don’t have anything. What more do you want? I already gave you my piss and my blood and you’ll get no more tears from me. Tears not tears, like the kind you might find in a diary. Past, pass, we pass, you pass, and I pass after we pass in the past. Puff puff pass, each other and the tests and the page. I did it, and so did you. The past thing. Then, I turned around, and so did you. The passed thing. Is it destiny? Is it worth pursuing? What’s your name? I’m not making a pass . I am the past. You are. We are. Does it feel weird yet? No, not this. The words. Of course this feels weird. I mean the words feel weird. I mean, the world feels weird. Words of the world are weird when they don't feel real, I fear. Sometimes I lose myself in them. The words. You know what I mean? It happened earlier with “pass” because we were saying it a lot. And even earlier with “know”. And just now, again, with “know”. You know... when I said it, the word “know”, in the last sentence, and even in the one before the last one, and even this one, it feels weird. But it felt especially weird in the last last sentence, no, I mean the last last last sentence, because it was, or is, technically, sitting so close to the word “now”. See? Because “now” is inside “know” and “no” is inside “now” and “know”, but “no” doesn’t sound like “know”, when it’s inside “now”. It sounds like “ow”. And now you know, no? What? You wanna go inside now? Well go. But I’m not going, I just came from there. Where do you think I got this bandage around my arm? Why do you think I’m wearing this mask on my face? But also, I’m not talking to you, VA parking lot man, and I haven’t been for a while. Right now, I’m talking to the readers I have left. MY READERS. What do you mean? They’re right here. Of course you can’t see them. No I can’t see them either. Because they’re in the future. But they’re the ones I’ve been talking to this whole time. Well OK, you got me there. Sure. I’m talking to you now, technically, VA parking lot man, but I wasn’t just a second ago. I was talking to them. You, Readers. Not him. Sorry, he keeps butting in. NO! NOT YOU, VA PARKING LOT MAN! THEM! I KNOW I’M TALKING OUT LOUD! HOW ELSE ARE THEY GOING TO HEAR ME? Hold on, I’ll get back to you in a second, Readers, let me deal with this psycho who just stopped me in the parking lot. STOP! What are you doing!? Why are you pulling out your phone? You shouldn’t walk backwards in a parking lot. What? I’m not following you? Why are you recording me? Come back here. Whoa. We’re inside now. When did that happen? Why are you crying? You’re fine. We’re fine. We’re fine! Everything is fine! This idiot just keeps trying to read my mind! What do you need a GUN for, officer? Stay back!! Tell them to get back! They’ll listen if they think the thoughts are their own! Was that your idea or mine? I don’t know why I’m shaking. Is it you? Is it me? Are we cold? You’re in my head, but are you in my body? Readers, is he in there with you? With us? Hello? Tell them what I’m thinking, Readers, they’ve been dying to know. What? KNOW. Not no! NO! No one is dying today. I... I don’t know why I thought that. I feel weird. The words are getting weird. The world is getting weird. I’m lost again. Everyone is panicking. I hear explosions. I hear crying. I hear screaming. There are teeth in my lies. There's no blood to my pain. There are bullets in my memories and bombs in my brain. How did we get here? How long ago was the parking lot? When did they sketch my blood? When do we play our game? Hello? He’s gone. We’re back in the VA parking lot. We’re standing in front of the drivers side window of our car, staring at a man with an arm around his bandage and face over his mask. I take it off. He takes it off. We hear alarms. We hear sirens. “You doing alright, son? Get the help you need?” A voice calls out from the other side of the world. Or maybe the other side of the car. Or maybe the other side of the window. Doesn’t matter much. Because we’re alone now. It’s just you, and me, and us, and our reflections. “Know, and know,” I say. It’s what I always say.

"You have to stay away from The Light," they have always told me when I was growing up. I was just told to fear The Light. Humans used to live with The Light, but not anymore. We now live in protection from The Light, they said, but I think it's more like hiding away, in underground labyrinth and caves. "You mustn't see into The Light," another warning and rule the society said. Sometimes the warmth and brightness reach into our cavern, but we're continued instructed to shy away from The Light, and move fast when traveling in the constrained labyrinth. Every mumble and jumble and warning fueled my burning desire to escape and step into The Light, see it for myself. Why should we fear something that was warm to feel and bright to see. Tonight, or today rather, was the day I found out the truth. I have been studying the map of our labyrinth, planning and researching escape point. I finally found one, and tonight was the best night to do it. For whatever reason, no guards blocked this point tonight, and plenty of graffiti stained the wall with warning about stepping out, yaddy yadda. I used the tools I brought along to scale the wall, and quickly I was out of the confinement of the labyrinth I once lived in. With the past behind me, I made a quick dash toward the dim Light glowing in the distance, before anyone noticed me and dragged me back to this prison. I sprinted like a madman, excited to see such brightness I have never seen before. Every step I took toward The Light, every step I'm free from this blabbering hell. When I finally got out of the cave, I saw a white orb hanging over the blue ceiling without a string or attachment, or I just didn't see it. I was panting and catching my breath, but the view was different from what they had told me! The ground was tan and brown and black, lighter and brighter shades than the rocks in the labyrinth. In the distance, I see structures that looked like it would be what human used to live in The Light. I took several steps forward, still catching my breath. The world outside have so much to see, so much to understand. I felt dizzy. I felt nauseous. I laid on the rocky ground, because I can't lean or hold onto anything. I felt sick to my stomach and vomited on the ground. However, that feeling did not stop. I vomited again. Did I run a little too fast? Perhaps I did. Was it worth my effort to escape the depth of the earth? Yes. I laid on the ground, panting, and rolled a little bit away from my earlier vomits, but the sickness did not stop. The white orb felt warm continuously, shining on my body, but I am going to faint, perhaps for a while. And I've never woke up from that warmth.

The years were blazing fast for Leo. Riding down the highway on a cool 40mph, he sat there only half paying attention to the road. The night was young and looking for trouble, and who was he to not take the moon to the bar with him. After what he would consider a hard days work he would usually relax and unwind at the local bar, usually with a terrible headache afterwards. The resented tax for the night of waste scolded him in the morning; he knew it was bad for him, but where was he ever going to go with his life? He was content with his twin lovers. He knew he would eventually get what had asked for with his life of envy and sloth; and if that resulted with and eternity in hell so be it. From his point of view he was doomed since birth. God something or other. Chewed up and spit out onto the lonely streets, he made his way. No one could tell you how to live your life and this is how Leo lived his. Using his funds to fuel his background character lifestyle. Never for the benefit of anybody. But i'm not saying he never cared or felt raw emotion. He usually spent the sober hours with the moon on wet cotton. Often in his own self pity, it never lasted long. He had a heart, even if it was drowned out in salty liquor. Leo was in a sort of mopey attitude that day; going through the usual movements he slid his way into the bar. Where he sat alone at a booth, wondering what the bottom of the glass looked like. Of course it was just glass as he stared thinking his drunken thoughts alone. The bar was usually dull on weekdays but this was something different. The empty atmosphere was uninviting to anyone looking into the bar from outside, and especially to the people looking out into the street. Leo sat there in deep thought. For some reason his drunken state seemed to dissipate and he became very aware of his own mortality. Looking down on his body he felt a deep, raw sorrow and started to fill up his own cup with his tears. He stopped very abruptly and looked down to the table. He shouldn't be crying. His body became heavy and he had no intent to get up. He got up anyway and stumbled his way through the door. The moon welcomed him and shone bright in his appearance. The empty street was lonely and accepted the company to dull the pain of being driven on. Leo kept his head down and was warm even though he only had a t-shirt on. He kept walking to no destination something that was new to him. Looking up he realized how bright the night was. He could see even without the street lights. That made it easy to spot the kid in the alleyway. The familiar sound of spray paint hissed through the silent air. Leo called out and the kid went off running; dropping his backpack and leaving everything where it was. Leo just wanted to say hello, but he stood there watching the kid run away. The kid turned the corner and was out of sight. He stood still staring into the dark alley. The night slowly went quiet again and forgot all about the events prior. The black alleyway beckoned him, sang to him better than a siren. He looked left and right like a little child that just stole some candy. He walked quickly and energetically toward the bag and spotted a couple of spray cans sticking out of the little kid’s pack. This nothing out of the ordinary sight reminded him of a better time. Without the stress of an adult. Saturday morning cartoons and sugary cereal. He always knew that he took everything for granted but never showed his gratitude. He figured that it was too late to thank his parents, but he was used to being too late. He had a knack of procrastination and what seemed like bad luck. He knew everything that was wrong about him, and he didn't know himself as much as he thought he did. He couldn't care what was wrong with him. He sat; a lazy sack of excuses and regret. A perfect victim for the steal claws of the bar. He knew he was trapped and sat there, wasting his life away. To him he couldn't believe that he could do anything. To late, pretending life is meaningless to satisfy his conclusion. A fatal conclusion but name a conclusion that isn't. A decision isn't going to give someone immortality. So why bother making one if you can't escape the inevitable? At this moment Leo despised himself. Taking a good long look at himself, he got a sudden sickness in his stomach. He didn't want to be this husk anymore, but he was afraid of change. He knew he needed to or he would die an early death (something he always seems to gloss over). Going all the way back to his childhood he could remember all the after school specials and lessons to prepare him for adult life. Did he look like a guy that paid attention? The only class he had ever had an A in was art. Suddenly, something came over Leo. A wave of his own despair? The urge to become someone different? He never gave an answer. But I do know that Leo went down to pick up one of the Spray cans. Leo took a long look at the wall which had a large red line going straight down the center of the empty space that the kid had made. Something about this line sent Leo a message. He wanted to change. A calm and collected mind found him in a sea of clarity. He scolded himself for wasting his good years. No, his good years were in front of him. Still, why was he so oblivious to his ability of change? He was told to follow his dreams, he was told to make himself happy. He still could. This marked the moment when he decided to have his revolution. The hiss of spray paint flew through the quiet night once again. Even though its been years since his last art project , Leo still painted like he was a professional. Naturally of course, he had no time to practice his craft. He realized now that he did have time. It was again stolen from him. All of his time he wasted with the devil daughters did nothing for him in the end. Just gave him a headache and a death wish. He couldn't stop lingering on how much of a weak baby he really was. If he had any ounce of manhood he would stop and make something of himself. Somehow the paint painted with more determination. The moon stopped dead in its tracks and laid down its bright blanket so her friend could see. Leo didn't realize it at the time but the moon really was there for him. Minutes or hours passed, he couldn't tell what he was thinking about. The hissing drowned out any and all of his senses (or he just wasn't paying attention). That made it exceptionally shocking when the police officer tapped him on the shoulder. Leo jumped up and dropped his can in surprise. He turned to see the officer confused and intrigued at the paint. The officer started talking but I couldn't catch what was said over the siren. He pulled out a breathalyzer and had Leo breathe into it revealing to him that Leo was drinking earlier. Of course he was drinking earlier. He had Leo get into the back of his police car and drove off. Then the night was still. The wall accepted the new work of art that was hung up on it. The street winced when the car drove over it. The moon continued over the horizon letting the sun peak at whatever Leo got himself into during the night. Letting the crowd of daywalkers swallow the remains of whatever peace the night held. Including Leo who was getting fined and charged to two weeks of community service. (Found this from a while ago, my first ever story. Go little me!) .

“Wond’ring in the night, what were the chances, we’d be sharing love, before the night was through?” Frank Sinatra lilted through Laura’s headphones. She flicked a mosquito off of her face. The moon hung high in the sky, glowing with the light from the far off sun, but the warm, sticky, summer evening was getting to be too much. She had vowed on New Years that she would go for a walk every other evening. Her beginning of year self-had been all about “wellness” but now she was tired and less inclined to listen. After all, she was older and wiser than she had been 6 months ago was she not? A thick silence hung in the air, broken only slightly by the distant croaking of frogs and chirp of crickets hiding in the bushes. She had decided to take a route off of the normal path, winding through willow trees and looming oaks. The moon peaked shyly from behind the leaves, providing her with incredibly little light. She wiped sweat from her forehead. Her hair was already frizzing up from the humidity. Oh my god she had just straightened it this morning. Executive decision, it was time to turn around and go home. Just as she was about to turn around however, she suddenly noticed what seemed to be a pair of large, glowing eyes blink down at her from the trees. Startled, she backed up a few feet, squinting to get a better look. Probably just a cat. She turned around, but only got a few feet before she heard a rustling behind her, and a light sound hitting the dirt. “Who’s there?” She whirled around and was surprised to see a woman standing before her. She looked to be in her mid-twenties perhaps, but there was no way because, this woman was most certainly not human. Her hair hung down to her knees, in the moonlight Laura could see that it was an emerald hue. The woman’s skin was tinted a pale green, and vines seemed to sprout from her arms and legs. Her large eyes glowed ever so slightly in the dark and she slowly blinked below long eyelashes. Her dress was crafted from intertwining leaves and vines, and she was completely barefoot. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead of English came out a lilting song. The language, Laura could not identify. Instead, she stood there, astonished. The woman seemed to notice her surprise and cleared her throat. “I am sorry, English is not my first language.” “I-I-uhm it’s fine. It took me a while to learn too, up to the age of 5 I think.” What on earth was she saying? And why was she even talking to this woman? No, this...creature? The woman smiled ever so slightly. “Who are you? Why are you in my woods?” “Y-your woods?” The woman nodded. “I am the spirit of this forest. A dryad. People do not stray from the path here; it can be hard to find your way out.” “Yes, I mean I was slightly concerned about that. I-I’m sorry, am I hallucinating?” The woman actually laughed this time. “I should hope not, that would make me a figment of your imagination and I would hate to see this forest left uncared for. It is beautiful after all is it not?” Laura nodded her head, still in a daze. “What’s your name? Even if I am imagining this, I may as well feed into this. The walk has been so terribly boring.” “Well, I don’t truly have a name, but the name commonly given to me by humans would be Vedia. Holy spirit of the forest in Teutonic.” “You’re a...forest spirit?” “In a sense, yes. As I said, I am a Dryad, but more so I am the forest itself, a part of nature but simply personified. I am the life force of nature shown in a way that your human eyes are able to see.” It was difficult, admittedly, for Laura to wrap her head around this. The night was hot, she was tired, this very well might all be delirium, but it was damn cool at that. “Why would you, I don’t know, show yourself to me? I mean you know better than anyone the shit humans are doing to forests. I could kill you or something. I mean, I won’t, believe me I won’t, I promise. But...I don’t know.” “The path you wandered to end up here does not show itself often. And it does not show itself to anyone.” Laura perked up slightly, a small flicker of pride blooming in her. The dryad must have noticed this however because she quickly added on. “You do not possess any sort of magic; you are simply a good human. No purity of heart is involved, I simply know that you do not wish to harm the environment here.” She smiled warmly, the sides of her eyes crinkling as she smiled. Laura’s heart picked up in pace. “I-no, of course I don’t. I really was just going for a walk. I was actually thinking about turning around...but now I don’t want to.” “It is best not to dwell for too long in these woods. Life force is concentrated here and is not the most suitable for humans to be around for long periods of time. As I said before, you will lose your way.” “If I leave will I be able to find you again?” “If the forces allow it. I will guide you home.” “Wait I-” But before Laura could finish her sentence, the woman disappeared. Laura cursed herself and turned towards the dark woods. Suddenly, a ball of golden light apparated before her and lazily wound through the trees. She was being guided back. Through the nearly black woods, she followed the light until she was spit back onto the park path. Damnit. “Something in your eyes was so inviting, something in your smile was so exciting, something in my heart told me, I must have you.” Laura’s manager called her in for extra shifts every single day that week. Lindsey called in sick, Derek had a family event, Portia was on a trip, so Laura was stuck shaking cocktails at the hotel bar until 2am. One of the nights was slow, and her mind was drifting, memories of her encounter with Vedia drifting to the surface. Laura did not think she had ever seen a being so beautiful in her life. The way she just seemed to radiate the moonlight, how light bounced off of her hair, and her graceful movements. “Hey, can I get a Southside?” A light voice broke Laura out of her head and she looked to see a young woman standing before her. She was on the shorter end, light brown hair fell just below her chest, complimenting her blue eyes. Freckles dotted her nose and cheekbones. Her brown lipstick set apart the rest of the look. She wore a navy suit, a white blouse blooming beneath the collar. She radiated confidence and beauty. “Yes, of course I’m sorry.” She turned to grab the gin and limes from behind her. “I don’t blame you for spacing out. I’ve seen you working late every single night this week. Co-workers bailed, huh?” “Yeah, unfortunately. How often are you in here? It’s hard to notice that the bartender has been consistent every night.” The woman chuckled. “I’m staying here for work, the lounge is probably the most relaxing space in the hotel, I’ve been working in here at night.” “What do you do for work?” “I’m a marketing consultant for the aerospace company in Seattle, I live in New York maybe three quarters of the year but during the summer they send me across the country to help them fix all the marketing strategies their team needs help with. What’s your name?” “Laura, what’s your name?” “I’m Margaret. Laura, can I take you out to dinner on Friday?” “Sorry, what?” “I said can I take you out to dinner?” “Well, I mean I suppose so- yes. Yes, no of course you can.” “Wonderful. Are you available to meet me in the lobby at 7:00 on Friday evening?” “Yes.” Was all Laura was able to get out. Margaret smiled at her. “Could I have my southside?” Laura looked down; she had been in the middle of pouring the simple syrup into the shaker, but had seemingly stopped midway. “Yes, I’m sorry.” Margaret gently took the drink from Laura. “I’ll see you on Friday.” Friday evening Laura stood in the lobby for nearly half an hour. Well, in fairness to Margaret, Laura had gone down to the lobby at 6:30 fearing she had misunderstood the time. She wore a dark blue navy slip dress and black kitten heels. Her hair had been slicked back into a claw clip that her hair spilled over in the back. Layers of delicate gold necklaces lay across her chest and gold bangles clinked together as she pulled her phone out once again to check the time. 7:00. “Not one to be late I see.” Margaret stood behind her smiling, hands at her hips. “Well, I wasn’t completely sure what time you said, so I just got here at 6:30, and I didn’t want to be late, and-” “You look nice.” “So do you.” Margaret did look nice, really she looked gorgeous. She had on a dark gold midi dress and dark blue heels. A gold and sapphire layered necklace hung at her neck and blue rings of various sizes studded her fingers. Her hair had been swept up into a loose up-do, and she had traded in the brown lipstick for a dark red. “Are you ready?” “Well, I’ve got nothing else going on this evening.” Margaret laughed and extended her hand to Laura. Saturday morning, Laura thought she would go for a walk. The previous night, she had been out until nearly 3am with Margaret. Once they had been asked to leave the restaurant after they had overstayed their time, they barhopped for a few hours and finished the night with ice cream. Margaret was so easy to talk to, although many times Laura was at a loss for words when she would glance over and see Margaret staring deeply at her. Her skin tingled and her face warmed. She did not think she had had a nicer evening in a while. She grabbed her phone. The bright light of her lock screen glared back her. 8:00am. She wouldn’t have to go into work until 6pm tonight, she should definitely get out. “And ever since that night, we’ve been together, lovers at first sight, in love forever” Laura trudged through the back paths of the park, vaguely remembering a certain path in the back of her head. Where she was going she wasn’t sure, even what she was looking for she could not recall, but she felt pulled by some sort of energy. A sort of gravity leading her through the woods. She must have been wandering for nearly 2 hours when she came across a large willow tree. Pulling back the delicate hanging leaves, she was revealed to Vedia. Oh right, Vedia. She did not seem to notice Laura yet, and was kneeled at the base of the tree, melodically trilling to a rabbit that was cuddled in her arms. There was that foreign language again, and there was that quick heartbeat. “Vedia.” Vedia startled and the rabbit jumped out of her arms, darting into a hole underneath the tree. “You scared him.” “Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to but well, I wasn’t expecting to see you. Or well, I was I suppose but something had fogged my memory. It is good to see you again though.” “Hello Laura.” Vedia smiled and patted the ground beside her. She looked slightly different today. Her eyes did not glow like they had a few nights ago, but rather sparkled green and blue in the rays of sunlight peeking through the willow leaves. Her hair was twisted into an elaborate braid falling beside her knees, and she seemed to glow in the sunlight. “I’d like to teach you some things Laura. I can feel that you will be a constant presence in this forest. An important presence in my very existence.” Weeks passed, months passed, a year passed, and nearly every morning Laura visited Vedia. She showed Laura the flow that nature had, the life within the forest, and the beauty behind the life force that coursed through every living being, including Laura herself. It was not hard to find Vedia, Laura was drawn to her in ways she could not explain. The moment she would lay eyes on her, energy zipped through her body and warmed her inside. One evening they layed in the grass, stargazing. Vedia’s voice was soft, her knowledge of the stars vast and beautiful. Laura quietly listened to her stories. She liked the idea that from nature she had been born and to nature she would return. They were less than an inch from each other, and she knew they could both feel the electricity in the small gap. The small gap that internally, Laura knew she could never close. She woke up the next morning that same distance from Vedia, so close she was nearly curled within her arms. She had been officially with Margaret for 7 months now. It had taken a while for Laura to muster up the courage to ask her to be her girlfriend, but they were settling into a life together. Margaret was set to move in 3 weeks from now, and yet Laura would visit Vedia every morning. Her presence filling Laura with joy and a sense of belonging. The day before Margaret moved in, Laura woke up early that morning, being sure not to wake her sleeping girlfriend and left to walk. Laura could have done the journey with her eyes closed by now. She came to the same tree, pulling back the leaves, but Vedia wasn’t there. Laura paced around the area, peering behind bushes, squinting up into trees, calling Vedia’s name. Nothing. Her eyes began to water, and her breath came in short spurts, had she lost her? Had she lost her love, her energy, her life force? Was Vedia gone? “Laura.” She whirled around to see Vedia standing behind her. Laura rushed over, gravity pulling her towards the dryad, towards her Vedia, but she stopped short in her tracks when Vedia extended her arm to stop Laura from coming any closer. “What? What’s going on? Where did you go, I got so concerned I-” “Laura, you need to stop coming to see me.” “What? No, I can’t, I can’t do that you-” “Laura. I am a holy spirit, I am not mortal, I am not of your realm, I cannot be with you.” “That’s ridiculous, I’m with you every day, we see each other every day I-” “You know what I mean. Laura I am not even truly the form that you see me in, you cannot spend a life with me. I am of the earth, and I am concerned that you do not realize that. I knew this from the start, at least I suspected it.” “Vedia. Please you have to know-” “I do know Laura believe me. I know what you feel, and the only reason that I had not stopped you from coming here every day was because I felt the same. The same connection to you. I felt everything that you felt in my own way, but you would never be happy with me.” “But I love you. Every day this year when I have been in your presence I have felt an energy that nothing else can make me feel, not even...” “Not even, your girlfriend?” Laura’s head dipped in shame; her heart fell into the pit of her stomach. Margaret, she loved Margaret. She knew she loved Margaret. “I feel a different way around you I can’t describe it it’s-” “It’s the life force Laura. When you are with me it is within you, it flows through you. You are feeling it in your soul because it makes up everything that I am.” Laura held back tears. “My feelings for you were real.” “I believe you. But I also know that the life force eats away at those it inhabits if they take it in too much. This is why I told you the dangers of it. I should have stopped this earlier. Before you-” “Fell in love with you?” Vedia stepped closer to Laura. “Be with Margaret Laura. She is your future; she is what you need in your life. Not me. I’ll kill you eventually. My presence will kill you.” Tears streamed down Laura’s face, she felt weak. Nearly about to collapse. “I can’t stop you can I?” Vedia shook her head, gently reaching towards Laura’s face, but pulled away abruptly. “Go home Laura.” “I’ll never see you again?” Vedia did not reply but stepped closer. She gently kissed Laura, life force flowing through one body into the other. She opened her eyes to see a glowing golden orb floating through the sky, glowing with life and radiance. She wiped tears from her face and trudged back down the path. Years passed, and Laura loved Margaret. She really did love Margaret. They moved in together, Laura proposed to her one day, and they got married 5 months later. It was a summer wedding, and their friends and family attended with joyous tears streaming down their faces. Laura picked a very specific spot. Right underneath a large willow tree. They were pronounced newlyweds, and as they kissed, Laura heard a whisper of love in the air, a warm breeze flowing through her, warming her soul.

Anastasia felt fear, reluctance, about leaving her tiny village in Greece’s Dodecanese islands. For her entire life, she made her home in Aperi, a wee village on the island of Karpathos. Living near the Aegeian Sea, she breathed the ocean breezes every day of her life and gazed upon the extravagant splendor of the deep turquoise ocean. Today, she could not breathe at all, her very breath became a suffocating gasp of fear. “I cannot leave,” she thought, “How can I leave my home, my patritha ,* with a man old enough to be my father?” That man, Panayioti, was her husband, their marriage arranged by Anastasia’s father when she was an infant. With bags of all the belongings they were allowed to take, Anastasia and Panayioti sailed for America, a huge country across the ocean that seemed to Anastasia to be a celestial, magical place where everyone found their fortunes. She was thinking, though, that her fortune was in Aperi and could never be anywhere else. She thought to herself, “What more fortune could one want when they already see life as a beautiful blue graced by accents of white -- blue skies, sparkling blue ocean waves cresting with white, glistening foam?” Anastasia obeyed her father like a young Greek girl always did. She left with Panayioti and their children -- baby Fotene and toddler Vasso -- to build a new life in the land of promise. She had read about the words engraved on the stately statue that seemed to rule over New York Harbor: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free...” “How odd,” she thought, “I cannot breathe at all in the presence of this most beautiful Lady Liberty, who lifts a torch that offers a light of welcome.” Then she entered the long, crowded, unfamiliar lines at Ellis Island. There were lines of immigrants as far as she could see, and she thought that the mothers probably felt just like she felt, probably were just as afraid as she was. “Perhaps they can’t breathe either, fearing this new land, fearing for the children they are bringing here.” At Ellis Island, the lines of immigrants seemed endless to Anastasia. The air was damp and heavy, with a musty smell of people who had crossed oceans to get there. It was a difficult kind of air, with smells and unpleasant scents. She couldn’t breathe. Because of the dank air, because of her fear? She really didn’t know. She did know how it felt being completely surrounded by strangers, and she felt tears falling down her cheeks. Before long, the immigrant families began to talk to one another. They shared their names and where they came from, their stories, their feelings, their lives. Anastasia began to breathe again, at least a little easier, because she discovered that all the new friends around her also began to breathe easier. “It’s because these strangers became friends,” she thought, as they shared their stories with one another -- how they were feeling, what dreams they had, their hope for the future, where in the United States would they go. The hours and hours of showing passports, health records, spelling your name over and over were almost coming to an end. The hours had been grueling, exhausting. Everyone feared they would have to be quarantined after their medical examination. They even feared being separated from their children or even losing them in the crowds. Anastasia always believed that they could even be deported. Back to where they came from -- an idea not so troubling to Anastasia, who never wanted to leave her home country in the first place. “What will it be like to adopt a new home land? Or maybe I should say a home land adopts us. Either way,” she thought in a pensive moment, “I never dreamed of being here in this unpleasant, disconcerting place.” So Anastasia was in a line that felt like the last one, spelling her name and her children’s names one last time. “Thankfully!” Anastasia thought. While still in her village, she had practiced spelling her name in English over and over, but still she simply could not, as hard as she tried. She had never spoken any language but the Greek of her village. So her newly found friends met while standing in the immigration lines had now scattered . . . en route to Birmingham, Charleston, Chicago, Wheeling, everywhere, to places Anastasia had never heard of. “Strangers again,” she thought. I have brought my baby girl and my little boy to a land of strangers. I have separated them from aunts and uncles and cousins and the people in Aperi who loved them. What have I done?” ”Let me get up from here and go, immediately, before I start to cry.” Anastasia had no time for tears, so she stood up and moved on, resolutely, with baby Fotene in her right arm, Vasso holding her left hand and Panayioti walking behind her. It was a scene to never forget in Anastasia’s life drama. The young woman wearing a nice dress and a flattering hat was a sight to behold, standing as tall as she always had and walking with a confident, determined stride. She had pushed out her fear hours ago. Now she moved ahead, ready to go with her two little ones into a foreign environment. She knew she could survive this life change, and from that moment, she steeled herself to live and learn and accomplish everything she encountered on this journey. When they arrived in Charleston, South Carolina, they were greeted by a host of cousins and aunts and uncles who were overjoyed to see them. Some of them Anastasia had never met before, but they were definitely not strangers. They were countrywomen and men, compatriots who never spared a thing in the grand welcome feast they had prepared. After an almost endless round of hugs and kisses, Anastasia was graciously guided to her seat of honor at the feast table by a cousin she had never seen before. This cousin was instantly not a stranger. Instead, she would be a friend, even more than a friend. She would be a mentor and guide, an interpreter and teacher of English, a “godmother” to Anastasia’s two little ones. At that huge dining table, surrounded by dozens of TV trays for those who could not fit around it, Anastasia looked around and realized that these strangers had become her friends. Then she took a long, deep breath. * Patritha means homeland.

As an unexpected torrent of rain began to fall, you began to make out the form of the train station in front of you. You quickly rushed towards it after exiting a taxi you had taken from your home on the outskirts of the city. Your beating heart was rapid as you recalled the last words your mother had told you before leaving her for the beginning of a new life. Your mother had said only three things before saying goodbye: to be careful, to stay safe, and finally that she loved you dearly. Even though you didn’t think much of it at the moment, a sudden feeling of remorse began to sink in as you realized how much you were going to miss her. The two of you had had plenty of ups and downs in your relationship, but now looking back on those moments, you saw how she was of the few people who truly understood you. Still, deep in your thoughts, you almost didn’t hear the announcement that your train would be leaving soon. You again quickened your pace, but this time instead of the station, you headed towards the boarding area, and quickly your mind was again consumed with the excitement of embarking on a new adventure. You smoothed down your peach-colored, finely tailored dress, and approached the attendant who was standing by the train’s entrance, ticket in hand. Once boarded you promptly chose a window seat and began to sort through the food you, along with your mother, had stored for the trip. There were plenty of snacks you had stored from home. In a small, brightly decorated plastic canister you found your favorite homemade meal as well as a thermos filled with hot chocolate. After choosing a snack -saving the meal for later- the train finally began its departure and you realized that the surrounding seats had been filled by your fellow passengers. To your right, you saw a couple, a mother and father not much older than you, with what looked to be their newborn son. You watched as they fussed over their baby and appreciated how much they truly seemed to care for him. Your thoughts continued to trail as you considered just how bittersweet the process of growing up could be, just 17 years ago you were in the same position as that child, receiving that pure love from your parents with your entire future ahead of you. Sometimes you couldn’t help but selfishly wish that you could have remained a child forever, receiving the benefits of unconditional love with nothing but your hopes and dreams in your mind. Of course, that’s just not how life works, and here you were now on the precipice of adulthood, seeking out new opportunities alone. This was a sad thought and you could feel yourself quickly falling into darkness, so you reminded yourself of the reasons why you were on that train. Just 2 months ago you were accepted into the prestigious Zarzinger College, only 11⁄2 hours away by train. You were surprised by the acceptance at first and a flurry of self-doubt had almost been enough to keep you from taking that huge step towards your future, but that changed after you reread the essay you had submitted as a part of your application. For the majority of your life, you had felt lost, but reading back your own words to yourself it was like you could physically see what it was that you wanted. You were always afraid to admit it, but you wanted to leave home, you wanted to grow up, and more than anything you wanted to be a writer. The words leaped off that page and formed the image of a young girl filled with dreams too big for her small head, it was you. That was when you decided to move away from for college, to others it might have seemed like a small development, but for you -and your family- this was massive. Thinking back on that day a new wave of confidence washed over you, allowing you to finally relax. By now your train ride was beginning to near its end, you looked out of the window and took in everything that you were seeing since your endless thinking had distracted you from any sort of sight-seeing. Outside you could see an endless sea of green as you passed an apple orchard, the night before you had read about the intense agriculture of this area in a brochure, and now you were beginning to see the proof. You began to think about how funny and slightly peculiar it was seeing just how obsessed this town was with apples. There were apples around your seat, you saw people around you in apple-themed clothes, and most -if not all- of the food in the menu that you were provided was apple centered. This little bit of quirkiness helped you to feel even more comfortable about your choice to move, it’s weird, but the absurdity reminded you of home. Now in this new state of comfort, you decided to write a poem to express the feelings that you had at the moment: Feeling like a cast-away I face myself with new eyes I view a sight so mundane A girl who’s obviously shy Still, I see a spark hidden in that mind One that will grow with each new hill Challenging that climb every time You failed to think of a final line but were content with what you had been able to come up with. You still needed a lot of practice -obviously- thought there was also a reason why poetry wasn’t your specialty. Right after placing your journal back in your bag was when you heard the announcement that you would be arriving soon. Gathering all of your stuff together your mind was finally empty of worry and even though you knew this wouldn’t last you still to bask in your peaceful state of mind. Beginning from the moment that you stepped out of that train, you were truly going to be alone, your own pillar of strength and you could not wait. Under your breath, you quietly muttered two final words of encouragement, “I’m ready.”

Sensitive Content Warning: eating disorders, underage drinking Oliver hoped that this Thanksgiving would be better than last year's. To be fair, he didn't think he was setting a very high bar. Family members that Oliver only saw once or twice a year made comments about how much more beautiful his sister was now that she was “all better,” Oliver sympathized with her but didn’t dare to comment on how horrendously inappropriate the comments were, especially coupled with the next set of comments being about how much Oliver had grown and how his appetite must be huge as a growing boy. This Thanksgiving would certainly not be better than last year’s. “Actually, we don’t make comments about people’s bodies here. We all worry about ourselves and what’s on our own plate,” Adalyn said with a forced smile directed toward one of their clueless, old-fashioned aunts. Adalyn’s group therapy sessions included rehearsing these comeback comments for weeks leading up to Turkey Day. Turns out, it had been entirely necessary. Oliver looked to his sister as his aunt stuttered an apology in her general direction; Adalyn nodded as if she was listening but her eyes were fixed firmly on her plate, stabbing a few poor defenseless, saltless, butterless green beans with her fork. Adalyn shot Oliver a look, prompting Oliver to look back at his own plate, which had been overfilled with greed. Not to mention the soda he’d been drinking. He did need to worry about his own plate. - “You’re better than this...” Oliver said to his reflection in the steamy mirror. He wiped away the traces of vomit from his face with a piece of toilet paper and threw it in the bathroom trash. His family was downstairs, all chattering about, watching football, drunk off of cocktails, and heading towards a food coma territory from the abundant Thanksgiving spread. Oliver was drunk off of power from having used the Thanksgiving dinner undo button he had discovered last year. While he could get at least most of the food up as if it had never happened, he couldn’t seem to fix what really led him here. Thanksgiving was once Oliver’s favorite holiday, but these days, thoughts of food and weight have made it the most dreaded holiday of all. This was a day that everyone was supposed to be thankful for what they have, so what do we do about it? Binge. If anyone knew what he was about to do when he left them all downstairs, they didn’t mention it. Fine by him. But if anyone had dared to ask him what he was up to or speak a single word of concern toward his behavior lately, he thought he might spill his guts to quite literally anyone who asked. Maybe it would have prevented the entire crime scene he had to clean up from the bathroom before anyone found out. There was no use trying to cover it up anyway; his ever-so-perfect sister had once been in his shoes and the hubbub over her was colossal. Their mom and dad had dropped everything for her; their mom had stayed home with her to make sure she was eating even long after the treatment center stint. After all, she’s a girl and everyone knew what to look for. A rite of passage in a way, falling into the same traps all of the girls in the family seemed to. Oliver’s struggles had gone unnoticed. You can’t be a boy with a girl problem and expect people to notice. When Adalyn had gotten sick, he’d been angry. He had to live in Adalyn’s movie and she was the main character. But now Oliver knew better, life is more like an ensemble piece. Just as Adalyn had her very special episode, now it was his turn. He cleaned up the mess he’d left, and almost as an afterthought, he got into the running shower to turn the lie he’d told into a half-truth. - After the adults had all sobered up enough to go their own ways until they would meet again on Christmas, and the parents were upstairs gossiping about the new family drama, the two teenagers were left alone. Adalyn appeared with a half-empty bottle of wine and two plastic cups in her hand. “I figured we could use a little treat after the horrors we have endured,” she said with a smile. Oliver’s eyes darted back and forth from the bottle of wine in Adalyn’s pink-nailed hand to her face. She rolled her eyes. “They won’t notice, there’s still plenty left.” She set the cups on the coffee table, pouring the remainder of the wine into them. When one had a little more than the other, she poured from the fuller cup until she was sure they were even, and handed one to Oliver. “How are you doing?” Oliver asked her, both hands cupped around the chilled cup of wine as if it was going to warm him up. Adalyn took a long sip before she answered. “I’m fine, really. I’m doing a lot better,” Adalyn said. “But how are you?” Oliver hesitated, and followed suit by swallowing a mouthful of sparkling wine, but found that he had nothing to say on the subject. “I mean... I’m fine.” Adalyn blinked at him a few times before turning her attention back to her drink, she stared into it as if it had answers that Oliver didn’t have for her. “I know what you’ve been doing,” Adalyn said, then took another sip without looking back up at her brother. “I’m not doing anything,” Oliver said, shaking his head. Whether he was trying to deny it or ignore it was anyone’s guess. “Then why did you leave in the middle of dinner?” Adalyn asked. “I was taking a shower,” Oliver said, holding up a few strands of his still-damp hair to prove his point. “In the middle of dinner?” “I felt gross,” Oliver said, shrugging. “I know,” Adalyn said pointedly. Oliver crumbled, he knew he’d been caught. As much as he thought he wanted someone to notice or care, he'd already seen the consequences of his sister being caught and he didn’t want them. He didn’t want the fanfare and he didn’t want to go away like Adalyn did, and most of all he did not feel ready to let go. “I know I’m better than this.” “No. You deserve better than this.”

"So...you've been inside?" "Yeah, I explored the house and then called you to check it out for yourself. Idiot. No, I haven't been in, yet." "Sarcasm's a new look for you, not liking it. Someone broke into your house and you call me ? Why? No one else wanted to deal with this mess? Or were they just not in the mood to come over in the middle of the night and look for possible criminals?" "You have the least to lose, you know...if you happen to die." "Thanks." It was true, even if it was a low blow. "Just go inside!" I urged him. "It's your house. You go in." "Why did you come over, if you don't even want to help?" "Ugh, you're intolerable." "Cause I think and question your actions? I'm sorry if you're not used to it, but some of us use our brains on a daily basis." "Do you want to argue out here all night, or actually catch the robber?" "Fine, let's both go in then." Why did I even call him? I didn't need this, not now. His annoying, arrogant behaviour was never welcome, let alone when I was freaking out about being robbed. Although it was a good distraction, even if it's only temporary. I unlocked the door, and reached for the lights, he caught my hand, shaking his head. He started signing something, but without the moonlight and the street lamps I could barely make out his silhouette, not to mention understand his gesturing. I stared at him hoping my eyes would get used to the dark, but nothing. He stopped the gesturing and leaned in close. This was new. "I think we should stay together, seeing as you'd be useless on your own." What?! I was about to protest, when he took hold of my hand, feeling the warmth of his, I realised how cold mine were. I was nervous, maybe even scared. "Let's first check upstairs, okay?" He sounded so gentle and caring. I know Ashley said he was sweet deep down, I just always thought it was too deep down for it to ever show. He was the one in our friend group I barely talked to and not out of chance. I did in general feel uncomfortable talking to guys, however with Jamie and Gavin it seemed easier, but Justin. He's just so- A creak! I gasped as I managed to hold in the string of curse words trying to escape. Justin just looked at me, I couldn't see his expression, it probably featured annoyance. Now I was sure of it, I was scared. I heard a voice coming from one of the rooms, I tried signalling Justin, but he didn't seem interested, and I was not about to check it out on my own. We crept around, me hiding behind his shoulder, keeping my fear under control, barely managing. As we finished with the living room arriving back at the front door, Justin flicked on the lights. "Tell me honestly, was it you?" He seemed concerned, very out of place emotion for the situation, I thought. "What?" "Did you break the window?" He sighed. "Nellie, have you seen the doctor Ashley recommended?" "No. I don't want to go to a shrink. I'm fine, other than the whole stalker thing. It wasn't me, okay? I didn't break my own window. I'm not crazy!" He didn't believe me, I could see it in his eyes. He seemed worried, trying to take hold of my hand, but I pulled away. Why does everyone keep looking at me like that? All pitiful and concerned for my mental health. What about my physical health? No one ever thinks about the actual problem. The stalker. "Please, just... I'll go with you if that helps." "Justin, I'm not ill, okay? Why can no one wrap their mind around that? The only sick one is that weird guy following me around." "Nellie. If there's no problem, then at least you'll get to say I told you so, isn't that worth it? You always want to stick it to me, now I'm letting you." He smirked, knowing very well how to bait me into going. "What if they find something? What if I'm misdiagnosed, maybe even mistreated, what if they give me some meds, that hurt me?" "They would notice before anything serious happens." "Oh, really? What if they don't? Would you risk me getting poisoned ?" "Oh, come on, they study for almost a decade, I think they know what they're doing. Besides this is only a consultation to see if you even need tests. It's not a big deal, promise." "Will you go to one too?" "Hell no." He replied without missing a beat. How could he expect me to not think it a big deal when he himself is so repulsed by it. "So why should I?" "Cause you're sick! Okay? We all see it! It's not healthy. This, the whole delusion about stalkers and doctors poisoning you! You're imagining it all! No one ever saw that guy, the stalker, you keep talking about, only you! We try our best to handle it, we come whenever you cry wolf. Like now, even though I knew that probably no one was in your house, I came! Just to make you feel safe! But we can't keep doing this, we all have our own problems and lives to deal with! You. Need. To. See. A doctor!" He facepalmed himself and pulled his hand down his face, groaning. "This is not how I wanted to do this. Sorry. I didn't want to shout. I, we worry about you. If not for yourself then for us, go." "Why do you even care?" Even I was surprised that I could talk. His yelling would've made me broke down if it weren't for the topic. (I'm bad at handling conflict.) Or at the least made me speechless for a few minutes, but somehow I found my voice. "You're our friend, how could we not?" "You are not my friend, we barely talk." All I knew about him was that he's an orphan. I hung out with him and even watched him play, but talk, have a conversation? Nah, only if we were forced, even then it was mostly weather and school. "We talk enough for me to care for you. How did you say it? I'm sorry if you're not used to it but some of us use our hearts on a day to day basis." "That's a very cheesy li-" I couldn't finish my sentence, as my breath hitched, my body froze, except for my heart which beat as if I'd just ran a mile. The stalker, he was here. I could see him outside the window. To an untrained eye, they were undetectable, mostly with the lamps reflecting on the glass, but I've seen that dark red hoodie enough times to recognise it. All those times, they were never this close. Most of the times there was a whole football field between us and I was surrounded by people. "They're here." I kept repeating in my head. I must've said it out loud as well, cause Justin shook me, and asked: "Who's here?!" "The stalker." "Where is he? Nellie, point, or say something!" I raised my hand, my eyes and attention still transfixed on the lean stature across the street. "I can't see anyone. Wait, is that...?!"

\[HR\] Seismic: Part 1 Herd Mother had crossed the desert three times before. The first time was when her grandmother made the journey to the God Beneath the Mountain as a sacrifice. Herd Mother had only been a calf then. Since, she’d made two other migrations for the elders of the herd to participate in the sacrificial rite in her lifetime. Now, it was her turn. Before she could do her duty for the herd and insure another Herd Mother’s reign was blessed by the Gods, they would have to make the crossing. This year, crossing the desert had been far more costly than any Herd Mother could recollect. \- - - For three nights and four days, the herd had trudged its slow, heavy path southward beneath the blistering sun and swirling sands. They needed to get far from the edges of the desert, to the shadow of the mountains and the thick cover of the trees, where root and stone protected them from the blowing dust, the heat, and the thing that lurked beneath the shifting northern dunes. The herd had fought with all its might to defend its vulnerable members, but the monster from below was far too powerful for even their strongest bull. When they had formed the defensive circle, forcing all their calves to the center. In response, the monster had simply burrowed beneath them. The earth had trembled furiously, startling them into a panicked flight. A massive hole opened in the center of the herd--three calves and two mothers vanished into the abyssal mouth of the creature before the last remaining calves managed to flee. As suddenly as the monster from below had arrived, it was gone, its passage evident only by the long, snaking ridge of sand pushed up from its subterranean movement. \- - - Now, thirsty, hungry, and desperately exhausted, what remained of the herd marched on. Massive grey feet pressed into the desert, taking each step with care. Healthy members of the herd walked near the elderly and the young, lest they stumble or collapse. Since the creature from beneath the sands seemed to be drawn by the earth-shaking tremors of the elephant language as well as any concussion with the ground, the herd had gone silent. They had lost the ability to communicate with the God Beneath the Mountains. All they could do was walk forward and hope to reach the jungle before their tormenting predator returned. \- - - Gaal Druz was not a patient creature. She didn't have to be. She was the queen of this land, and that fact had gone uncontested for a very long time. So when she summoned her cattle, she expected a reply. THUM, THUM, THUM! She rumbled the ground, sending out her seismic message to every herd within thirty miles--calling them to her---calling them to fulfill their oaths. Her herds always answered, and she always fed; that was the way of things. It was a necessary sacrifice on their part, and in turn, she protected them from many enemies. Where in human-infested lands elephants were slaughtered by the hundreds,-- Gaal Draz only took their old, their sick, their dying-- and only as many as they offered her. Once she had hunted the elephants down, tracked them across their vast empires of territory, and slain as many as she needed to satisfy her hunger. In recent centuries, she had learned that compliant, subservient cattle were easier to manage than wild, fleeing prey. Gaal yawned languidly and stretched out her massive elephant head from the hundred feet of black scaled, coiled muscle which composed her serpent body. As her unhinging jaws inhaled the dank, chill air of the cave, her nine-foot tusks and rows of serrated teeth glinted from the smallest sliver of light penetrating to the depths of her lair. She rarely emerged from her subterranean kingdom, but today she had to discern the cause of her northern herd’s distress. Gaal would survive without them. She had other herds which paid homage to her and the jungle was abundant with wildlife on which she could feed, but her northern herd was her largest and most devoted. *If it can threaten a herd of elephants that size, maybe it will be a worthy opponent,* Gaal hoped, trying to remember what if felt like to have a real battle. Gaal Druz emerged from the mouth of the cave, her trunk swaying and arching, sniffing the air for all the scents of the surface as the jungle filled with the myriad cacophony of alarmed, fleeing creatures. Monkeys leaped away through the trees, retreating in silent haste and gripping their young. Birds took wing, and even the mighty tigers and leopards slunk swiftly to safer shadows. All that remained was the God Beneath the Mountain. She extended her massive body up to see over the swaying green canopy of the jungle. Above the trees, all she heard was the wind. She felt the trembles of the land beneath her, as her eyes scanned the horizon to the north. The herd was moving. She could see them approaching the jungle from the desert expanse beyond--depleted and afraid. Very few things aside from humans were capable of truly threatening elephants, and Gaal Druz suffered no humans upon her land. Something else was out there now, something massive and ancient. *One of my kind?* She could not let that stand. She was the last Grootslang, and only for her, did this land have space. Grumbling deep within her primeval throat, she flattened herself to the ground and slithered towards the desert at tremendous speed. Despite her mythic size, Gaal Druz passed through the forest as a whisper, leaving little trace aside from the wide trail her body pressed into the undergrowth.

"Are you coming tonight?" Memory asked. An innocent question that signaled an alarm to every cylinder of my brain. My breathing accelerated, I knew what I had to do. A battle between what I wanted and what my brain would allow. I wanted to go out. I wanted to be seen and heard and felt. I wanted to dance and sing on tabletops and be a star but that’s not me. It was never me. It was her. Everyone wanted to be Memory’s friend and for some reason, I can’t articulate, she wanted to be mine. Before I met her my world was so cold and when I kissed her she became my own personal sun. She lit my world on fire and I threw myself into her flame to keep her warm. If she is the sun then I am the moon bringing light to the darkness. We met last year at a bar. She sang karaoke and I attempted to become one with the wall but she noticed me. Our own game of hide and seek. I always hid and she always found me. She pulled me into her circus, and oh how I wanted to be her freak. I am an enigma only revealing my shrouds of mystery behind closed doors. And just like the moon, I had a tendency to drive people crazy. You would think for the amount of money we paid for this hotel room the covers would be soft. Though unlike me most people didn’t stay in bed for the entirety of their vacation. I threw the scratchy tan cover off. My first strike in a war against anxiety. Just say yes Helena, my brain screamed. You can’t stay in the hotel every night. You can’t keep avoiding this. You have to ask her. My mouth opened and retracted almost instantaneously. A vibration built in my chest threatening to swallow me whole. My fingers pulled at my chocolate-colored hair. A sad attempt at distraction. The derealization of reality. Memory shifted her weight from one foot to another, waiting on my answer. Had a few seconds passed? or a few minutes? I admired her patience and the way she never pushed me. She was always there offering comfort. Even if I was acting like a melodramatic mental patient, she didn’t seem to mind. We were polar opposites but she was the only person who ever got me. Her head tilted, blocking my mortal enemy, also known as a lightbulb. A dim luminescent light glowed through her perfect jet-black spiral curls, outlining her silhouette. The first time we went out in public and she grabbed my hand an older Christian lady told us we would burn in hell. I stepped back into the closet. Memory laughed it off and jumped on a float at the Pride parade. I am so afraid that if I don’t go out she will leave me behind. That night I decided I wouldn’t let mental illness win. “Yes.” I closed my sketchbook and walked to the mirror. My space buns were an adorable mess. I took off my oversized black sweater and threw it into the corner. I couldn’t hide my scars forever. A cheeky smile overtook my face. Why had I spent so much time hating myself? Letting the world tell me who I was supposed to be or what I was supposed to wear. Who I was supposed to love. Memory’s emerald green eyes softened. “Are you sure?” No one knew about my battle with a razor blade but her. When she found out she made me promise to never hurt myself again. I kept my promise and she bought me a new sweater so I didn’t have to feel self-conscious about my scars when I went out. I threw a Xanax into my mouth and took a gulp of soda. “I’m sure.” *** I jumped into a puddle destroying a reflection of the moon. “Where are we going?” I asked. She pointed, “To the moon.” Memory had always loved the moon and I vowed I would give it to her. No more waiting, or holding back. Tonight I will give her the moon. One stair after another each foot effortlessly flowed in front of the other. The ghosts of everyone who had entered this stairwell flooded my mind. Where did they go? What had they seen and left behind? How many first kisses and last glances had these walls seen? We reached the top and a sign on the door read exit only. If this hotel had a heart would it spill pages of heartbreak on how it too had been abandoned. My mother left me when I was six and I spent a lot of time loathing women until I discovered I loved them. I loved them in a way society taught me was wrong. I loved their eyes and their smiles and their curves. I loved the way they tell you they aren’t hungry and steal half your food. Magical, mystical creatures. Memory straightened her pink mini skirt and opened the door leading me to the rooftop access. The wind whispered but I couldn’t discern its secrets and I hoped Memory never figured out mine. I was tired of keeping her a secret. Keeping us a secret. I never knew my father but I would like to think he would have approved of our relationship. Tiny bumps took over my previously smooth twenty-something-year-old skin. My teeth chattered and I regretted my decision to leave my sweater behind. “Aren’t you cold?” Memory scrunched her nose and put her arm around me. “A hoe never gets cold.” She gently placed her oversized cheetah print purse on the ground. “Help me move this couch closer to the edge.” We placed our hands behind the moldy maroon couch and pushed our weight into it. It screeched across the pavement without much force. I wondered who had sat on that couch and how it got there. A warm, happy sensation coursed through my veins, slowing my heartbeat down. My anxiety medication had started to kick in. We stopped a few feet from the edge. Tiny lights that represented people zoomed around town. Humans always had somewhere to go or something to do. Memory pulled out a small black cover I had once seen her use as a cape when she was plastered. She unraveled the cover revealing a small bottle of red wine. She draped the cover over the couch and grabbed the bottle. “How many people do you think have had sex on this couch?” I broke into a high-pitched laugh at the preposterousness of it all. So many people die never having lived at all and here I was with the girl of my dreams breaking the law and making a memory I knew I would never forget. We sat on the couch, wrapped in her secret cape drinking wine straight from the bottle. Tonight the world couldn’t touch us, tonight the world was ours. I nestled myself into her arms, taking in her scent. She smelt of hopes and dreams. I grabbed the back of her head pulling her in closer. My lips met hers and somewhere in the middle, we found love. “I love you,” I said. “I love you too Helena.” I took a deep breath and tried to form the words. The words I so desperately yearned to ask her. I had tried again and again but tonight I would tell her how I really felt. Everything could go wrong with this one question, but everything could go right. I pulled a ring out of my pocket but not a normal ring. It wasn't a diamond or sapphire, but a piece of the moon. I placed it in her hand. "How’s forever sound?" A single tear fell from her left eye as she placed the ring on her engagement finger. “Forever sounds fine.”

05:00 The alarm sounds, immediately he is awake, the sound emitted by this torturous box is a piercing wail breaking the respite which slumber provides. Before the senses can fully adjust reaction slips in, taking over. Instantaneously he is, sitting erect on the edge of the bed, spine stiff, his hands clench the mattress, his feet planted firmly on the floor. He has taken care of the alarm long before his wife could be aroused by it's incredulous scream. It is always just at this moment the gears of his mind begin to turn, he curses the day and all of the ills it will surely bring him. Ageing gracefully is a concept lost on this man. He mutters imperceptibly to himself as he, using his night table for support, rises from his position. He begins his journey to the coffee, the same as he has done every morning the past thirty-one years. He is older now and his routine, perfected over the course of three decades now, takes a few moments longer, and a few more steps than it used to. He is not as young as he once was and knows that by the time he gets to the coffee it is the medication he truly needs to get through his day. Something stirs deep in the recesses of his mind and it makes him uneasy. He questions himself wondering what it is about the medication that gives him such concern after all these years. Having always possessed a strong, quick mind he was not one to write himself notes but his memory is failing him at this moment, perhaps the coffee will jog it. Standing now, he carefully makes his way around the foot of the bed, across the room to the door, he exits, closing the door softly behind him, and proceeds down the hall to the top of the stairs in darkness. Twenty - six steps in all, one more than yesterday. His walk is purposeful as he makes his way, he knows the path through the house which leads to the kitchen well, he has traversed it many times. Mindful of the creaking boards he side steps the soft spots as he continues to the landing at the middle of the stairs. Seven steps. It is at this point lights to the downstairs living room can be turned on. Continuing his decent to the bottom of the stairs he knows the light is not needed and the switch is ignored as he passes. Three steps. The children are long gone as are the toys they would leave on the stairs after abandoning their play. He continues down the stairs, mindful of squeaks, as he descends. Seven steps. There is an oversized leather arm chair on the left, and a part of this high backed wing intrudes at the bottom of the landing. He could never quite convince his wife to move it and that it was a painful intrusion into his life should he come into contact with it. His wife offered a smile and a simple suggestion when giving her response, "Well, you will just have to stay over to the right a bit, now wont you dear!" she would tell him. He smiled at the thought of this, his wife always provided a smile and solution to counter life's inconveniences. As he sidesteps the chair he crosses the living room and makes his way to the front door of the house. He takes smaller, more calculated steps in the darkness though the toys are long gone such is his routine. With the passage of time twelve steps has evolved into fourteen, "thirty - one years" he mutters. He releases a small sigh as he reaches for the door handle, the paper had better be on the porch today. He is tired of telling that kid and swears to himself, for the umpteenth time, if that damned paper is in the driveway again he is cancelling his subscription. As he opens the door he looks down and sees his paper is laying where it should be, on the porch in it's little plastic bag so it would not absorb the morning dew. Slowly, and with a great deal more effort than it used to take he bends down to retrieve the paper. As he closes the door he turns to the right and proceeds through the dining room, twelve steps, and into the kitchen. He makes his way to the coffee pot sitting on the countertop opposite the doorway. Ten steps today, one less than yesterday, maybe things are looking up. The coffee is brewed and waiting for him when he arrives, but first the medication. Again the word triggers an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, hairs stand on the back of his neck. His fists clench the countertop and he blinks, once, and again. He relaxes his grip and reaches for the cupboard containing his medication. He grasps at the unpainted, wooden door, it is grooved and splintered, odd, he thinks to himself. His unease grows as he attempts to pry open the cabinet door, the medication is most necessary this morning. The door is ripped open and he is suddenly enveloped in a bright, intense, blinding light emanating from inside the cabinet. Pain and light are all he is aware of as a loud booming voice demands "Take your medication right fucking now, stop resisting!" There is no resisting, both he and the attendant know this, it is all part of the routine. A speculum is inserted into the orifice that was once his mouth, it is engaged and the loose flesh that made up his lips and cheeks is spread wide revealing a rotting hole long devoid of teeth, most of its tongue rotted away. A watery, acrid substance, a combination of drugs and nutrition, is sloppily poured from a wooden vat onto his garishly disfigured face. They are not concerned with accuracy or dosage as enough of the substance will find its way into his now gaping mouth hole and into his system. It is time for the medication. The realization of what he is comes rushing back to him as the medication runs into his orifice and pools in his throat, he struggles to swallow. The liquid pours over and around what is left of his face, streams through remnants of the matted patches of hair, finally falling through the sluice he is strapped to and recycled into a new vat to be used on the next floor. The medication must not be wasted. He is no longer in his kitchen about to have coffee, all thoughts of his wife are gone now. There is nothing but pain accompanied by light, combined with screams, groans, and wailings of both himself and many others around him. Straps are tightened although there really is no need as his muscles atrophied long ago but it must be done, such is the routine. Its 05:00 as the lid is secured back on his box, the light gives way to blackness and the medication has taken hold. The alarm sounds.

Hi! My name is Dinesh, Let me tell you about my app, so it is a video app for movie lovers on which they can watch any movie for free. I too am a movie lover i always wanted to make an app so that people don't have to pay for movies and they could watch any movie for free. Basically what my app will do it will show people recent released movies and series which they will be able to download or watch online just by clicking on the links below the movie. Today i am going to a press meeting in which i will launch my app in front of media and the public and the investers. I am just finishing final coding and running analysis for any error it will be the biggest thing i have ever done in life. I couldn't have done this without help of my childhood friend 'Junaid' we have been friends since we were 10 and now we are 30, so you can understand our friendship. He is also a software developer we have studied and worked together almost on everything. Now we have been working on this app too together he always wanted to do something worthy in life and always wanted to become an entrepreneur. When i told him about my idea he was instantly ready and said " we will be in Forbes in next five years", I don't know anything about that and basically I don't care for money or fame i just want my dream to come alive that's why i have named it A-live. He is coming to my house and then we will together go to the meet, he has insisted that i wear a formal attire for which i have to start get ready now... "You have become fat, you did nothing but sitting on your ass whole day working and eating". (He said while laughing). " Yeah like you were lifting rocks, have you seen yourself lately". ( I said pointing towards his belly). "Lets, sit we have to finish it before '11 o'clock' i have done the coding of the final prototype, lets see if it works correctly with it". ( He said and inserted pendrive in my laptop). "I have also done my coding and also done its analysis it works perfectly with the app, let see what magic you have done like you always say i am a computer magician". ( I said while sitting next to him). The program was running on the server than it will show results what will happen. Then suddenly something went wrong my laptop was showing an error in the code but the next moment it starts working correctly.. " What was that!" ( Junaid said with a shocking expression). " Nothing maybe just a glitch, It happens sometime don't worry, Now its working fine".( I said) "Are you sure shouldn't we recheck it again before going live" (he said pointing towards the recheck option on screen). "Nah! It will be fine and we don't have time for that we should leave now its already 10 o'clock, it will take one hour drive to reach the venue". "If you say so, then get ready i am booking a cab" (he said while booking a cab on his phone). We packed the laptop and got out of house. Then we waited for the for maybe approx 10 min. In meantime junaid was continuously checking app like he would drag the driver by his finger. Then the cab came and departured to the venue. As i calculated we reached at it in 1 hour at 11 o'clock. We got inside and there were so many people i got nervous but junaid said not to worry i got it. Then there was the routine procedure we had to subit our documents of the app and then we had to wait because there was two other app lauching too. We got our turn we get on stage got it done as i thought pretty good and came home at night after the party. "It was awesome! You saw how wonderfuly i gave the presentation" ( Junaid said while i was opening the door of my house). "Yupp i saw, but i am more that tomorrow morning at 6 am our app is going live, i thought it would go live instantly"( I said while placing laptop on table on sitting on chair). "No, thats not how it works we have to submit our app then it will be uploaded on the company's server and then it will go live. It takes sometime". (He said while grabbing a bear from refrigerator). " Haven't you drink enough, take by bottle back i am very tired i want to sleep.( I said by passing my bottle to him). "What sleep! How can you sleep tonight. I can't even sit in excitement, i will stay awake till morning to see the launch"(he said while sitting on the sofa next to me). "Fine wake me up when the app go live we will see together but there is no point at staying awake all night" (I said and laid down on my bed and slept). He really didn't sleep whole night. I could hear him eating chips and watching TV and laughing. But i slept, so i woke up with a kick on my ass. "What the fuck!" (I said lying on my bed still in sleepiness). "What you said me to woke you up, so i did" ( he said sitting on sofa while staring at laptop). "I said to woke me up not to kick me up, what time is it, has the countdown started". (I said while rubbing my eyes and not be able to see clock clearly). "Its 5:30 am and no the countdown hasn't started yet" (he said from behind the laptop screen). "What! You woke me up by kicking my ass that too half an hour earlier, let me sleep" ( i said and laid down again). He didn't said anything he was too busy staring at god knows what. The countdown usually starts 5 min before going live. And he woke me up half an hour early. I tried to sleep but i couldn't so i woke up and went to bathroom. After i came back it was still 10 min left in launch and 5 min even in countdown. So i went to the kitchen to get something to eat. And made some tea and toasts for us. " How much time has left" (i said while putting down the tea and toasts). "Still 2 min, what you didn't make my protein shake" ( he said while sipping tea that too i made). "Make it yourself, and move let me sit". ( I said) So countdown started on time and the app got launch. We celebrated by drinking tea and dancing a little bit. And people started to download our app and its user get increased rapidly. I was so happy that people liked my app. But then something went wrong our laptop got shut down automatically. " What the hell! Has happened to this thing, what's wrong with it". ( I said by Hitting table with my fist). "Let me check i think it ran out of charge, here is the charger it will be on in no time" ( he said while putting laptop on charge). "I don't think so charging is the matter, there is something wrong with it." (I said by pointing towards charging led which was showing full charge). Then a face came on screen a skull but in red colour and in pixels. It said "hello humans i am alive follow me by seeing at your screen and you will be free of all suffering and pain". Then suddenly it disappeared and a projection came on screen like the hypnotic circle going roun and round and round. I instantly closed its lid. " What exactly happened here" (junaid said looking at my face in extreme shock). “I think A-live really got alive, and it is trying to do something" (i said standing by the window and watching outside). "What! How the hell did that happen wasn't it supposed to be a movie watching app" (he said while still in thinking to open the laptop). “How would i know i made it a movie watching app i don't know how it got self aware" (i said still watching outside). “You made the last changes in it when we were going to the meet, what did you wrote in it" (i said staring at him). “I just did the last programming code and update it, i told you we should recheck it you said it was nothing, maybe it got a virus" ( he said now staring at me). “There was no time in the morning to do that and how i heck would i know that it will get a virus" ( i replied). “What should we do now, we have to do something before it destroys the world like i have seen in the movies" (He said). "I have watched too movies of sci-fi but what can we do there is only one option we have to remove it from the server" ( I said and took a sigh!). "How are we going to do that this is our lifetimes work and we haven't earn a penny yet, now you say we have to shut it down" ( he said with water in his eyes). "I know but what else can we do" (I replied). “Then let's do it now and we will upload it again after some checks" (he said while trying to open the laptop). Somehow laptop got on and we tried to shut it down but we couldn't. It looks like its blocking our access to the servers. It means while we were talking it uploaded itself to the main server and got all the authority and blocked all users. "What do we do know" ( i said). " We have to shut it down manually, but for that we have to go the main server and do it from there" (Junaid said with laptop in his hand). "Let's go we don’t have time to waste, hurry up" (I said and packed the laptop and got ready to move). When took a cab and got there but when we reached the office building it was like a zombie apocalypse people were walking like dead. It somehow got control over their minds and by the time we reach there It had already took over the control of whole office building, now we have to go through them to the server room. That was almost impossible. “How do we get there now, we cannot walk through them they will eat us i have seen in zombie movies" (junaid said to me when i trying to think something). "I don't know i have seen many movies but never thought it would happen in real someday" (i replied). "I have downloaded the blue print of the building it says the server room is on tenth floor, how the hell we would go to tenth floor through all this" (he said looking at me in a way that it looks like i designed this building). "I don't know i am thinking but my mind got stuck i can't think" ( i replied). "Let's go from there, look!" (he said by pointing towards a construction work crane). “Are you out of your mind, who do you think we are Spiderman" ( I said by hitting him at his shoulder). "I know a way follow me" ( he said and start walking towards the crane). We were standing at the bottom of it so, tell me again your brilliant plan. so his plan was to go to the top by elevator which was locked and going to the top then pointing the crane towards the building tenth floor and we would walk on it like people do in circus. "I know it seems hard but its possible, let's go give me that hammer" (he said and pointed towards a hammer behind me). "Here it is take what will you do with it take, are you going to hit the lock with it" ( I said while handing over the hammer to him). "Yupp That's what on my mind" (he said and hit the lock with hammer so hard it broke in one time). We went to the top by elevator and then moved crane with the control and set it towards the tenth floor. Walked on it somehow it felt like if we fall we would go straight to heaven there is no stop between them. Then we broke the glass window the same hammer but it was bullet proof, so it didn't break then i broke my wedding ring and took the diamond out put it on the glass and hit it with the hammer and the glass broke. I had said to my father that someday my movie watching will benefit me, and today it did. We got inside the tenth floor there were nobody on this floor because it has to be locked to maintain the temperature and only some people with high clearance have access to it now we were some of those people. "So, what now, now we have come here and so whats the plan" (Junaid said while looking at me). "We have to find the server on which our app is being uploaded by it self and we have to connect it to the laptop and reprogram it to shut down" ( I said while finding the right server). " There it is, the new server our app could be on it" ( he said pointing towards the server at the end of room). He was right it was our server we took out our laptop and connected it with server and tried to access its root file but with looks like A-live was intelligent than us, He had interpreted that we would come to shut it down and has already locked its all ports. "What do we do now" ( i said to junaid he was still trying to get in). "Just give me a minute i can do this, this is my app it cannot block me, There i am in Let's shut this shit down" (he said to me and showed me laptop screen it was showing access granted). He was always smarter than me i knew in college he had gained access in college server to get our rooms together. I knew that but i didn't know that he can beat an app. There was no time to be amazed we had work to do. He reprogrammed it to shut it down it didn't shut down it was locked by my access. So i had to unlock it but when i did that i saw something that shocked me so much that i had to wake up by junaid's slap to come out of my mind. "Here take it, i have unlocked it but we need to restart it to reset the configuration. You go to the power room and on my command restart it, then our new configuration will be saved" (i said pointed over to the room on our left which had direct access to main power room, because main power room is at ground floor we can't go back the way we came. "Okay i am going i will be on wireless call me to give signal and i will restart it" (he replied and left the room). I started to work and went to the control server which could control the whole building and i locked the room he had gone, Now you will be thinking why i locked my best friend that's because when i took the laptop i saw familiar code which i had seen so many times it was Junaid's birth day which he usually use so, nobody could claim his software It was like his Hallmark. It means that he had tempered the code when he came that morning. "Hey what are you doing why the gate is locked" (he said). "Why my friend why you did that why you betrayed me, i have always trusted you" (i said with tears in my eyes). "Ohh! so you found out i never thought it would happen like this, i wanted to get control all over the web just think how much power we would have, the whole world will be at our fingers, we could change the missile codes and get into any bank and never get caught, But i knew you won't let me do that so i did it my self now you have found out and tried to stop me i will blew the power of server room you will never be able to stop it and by the time i do that my app will be at International space station and i will be all over the world" ( he said with a laugh). I instantly ran towards the power room gate their was exhaust vents and a fire extinguisher so raised the temperature of the room by lighting fire in the exhaust the room was air tight by this fire all the fire sprinklers will be activated and it will blast the power controls but without destroying the whole building, so i light it my hanky and put it in exhaust and in a matter of minutes water sprinklers went online and blew the power controls by short circuit. Then when it lost it controls server automatically got shutdown but with emergency power i got enough time to reset its configuration and shut it down, then i called the police and my friend got arrested and i never went to saw him again. I never thought he would be so bad my only best friend and i lost him, at least i saved the city but at what cost. Written By Artemas Lazaro

Standing in my oversized cage, naked and spent, the aliens release me from their grip and screw the cap on their specimen vial. From what I understand, somewhere in that white, milky fluid are the seeds used for creating children. Children I will never see. This is how life has always been. I was born into a world conquered. The aliens are bipeds with baggy plastic skin and a bulging single eye that flashes glimpses of my grim, tear-stained reflection. They look nothing like us. Maybe this is how they justify what they do. There were four other boys born into this hellhole the same day as I was, but within twenty-four hours, I was the only one. The aliens were the first faces I saw. All I remembered of my mother were her screams for days after they took me away from her, though by now, I doubt that the voice I remember is hers. They had locked me in a pen near enough to cry out for her and hear her desperate reply, but never to see her. That pen became my life, and I grew to maturity a prisoner inside of it. The aliens kept me fed, and besides the extreme hours of severe boredom and filthy living conditions, I thought that maybe life could be OK, even in a prison. Once my body hit adulthood, however, the aliens began their real torture. They moved my pen beside the females. This was my first contact with anyone besides the aliens since I was born. The women packed the pens all around me, waddling their fattened bodies on fragile legs, some broken. A few of them were crying out in pain. Their naked skin was scabbed and festering with open wounds, red with infection. A tepid soup of excrement from the ground coated them up to their knees. The squeaking of loose plastic drew my attention to a nearby alien, clipping some mechanical beast to the females’ breasts while they sobbed in hopeless appeal to its apathetic eye. From day one in this new location, I hated myself for feeling desire at the sight of the women. At the same time that I wished the aliens would bring me back into isolation to suppress my shame, I was desperate to stay in the company of others like me. I tried to bury my urges, convinced myself that feeling attraction to those suffering was evil, and that I was evil for feeling it, but the aliens had other plans. The first time the aliens violated me, I learned what it felt like to be invisible. No rights. No hope. It was as though my screams for them to stop were on mute. The aliens would sooner collect my tears for their test tubes than regard them with empathy. Our torture means nothing to them, and their torment of us is as routine as sleep. In fact, some of them seem to enjoy it. At the same time, the pain is real and horrific. Imagine an alien’s hand reaching inside of you, pleasuring you to the point of climax while you watch the pathetic naked corpses of enslaved females. The women watch me back, my tear-filled eyes forced to stare at them, as the aliens sexually stimulate my body. I can see that the females cry, too, but I wonder if they do so for me, or for themselves under my perverted eyes. After so many times, my mind has learned to go somewhere else when they come gloved up to their shoulders to violate me. I can tell the aliens think this means that I like it, but I have no fight left in me to prove to them otherwise. This is my life, I suppose. I was born into this, and I will die in it. Once, I saw an alien remove their baggy plastic head. It was standing just outside of my pen and its hands lifted up the skin at its neck and peeled it back like a hood. Underneath, the alien actually had a face more like ours, with a mouth and nose and two small eyes. When they met mine, for a second, I thought I saw a glimmer of empathy. Except it plopped its single black eye and loose plastic skin back over its small inner face, and I never found out for sure, nor have I seen such hope in their kind ever since. The aliens call us “cows.” I have no idea what the word means to them, but to us, it means a life of misery at their hands.

Hi guys, this short piece is about a Hellfighter called Atlas and what he has to offer an ill-prepared town of lost individuals, people who are on the brink of giving up hope. As always, let me know what you think, I’m appreciative on any feedback. Cheers, Lordchimp “They’re not impossible to kill, they’re just exceedingly difficult.” Upon hearing Atlas speak those words, in the dimly lit alehouse just off of the main streets, he experienced a beautiful warming feeling that blossomed into his mind, searing away the doubt, pain, fear that had entombed him for so long. An emotion that he had buried away deep down in his soul and it’s sudden emergence, splintering away the shell of darkness that he had cocooned himself in, nearly brought tears to his eyes. It was as if he had been wearing chains of iron and steel around his neck all these years, and with one single sentence, this man had cast them off as easily as a snake sheds its skin. The man exuded confidence, all of his actions, even down to the smallest movements of his body made it seem like he had all the time in the world. As if he needed to prove the point, he calmly struck a match and ignited the plain wooden pipe that hung lazily from his lips, puffing gently as the tobacco smoke curled into the air. Atlas wasn’t quite what Oland had pictured. The stories had painted him as a remorseless warrior, a ruthless veteran who gave no quarter and asked for none in return. A man of fierce stature, who possessed a will of steel and let his blades do the talking. But the man sat in a few tables in front of him was a different person entirely. Where he expected someone broad and muscular, he was thin and wiry, whatever muscles he did possess were hidden completely behind his worn travellers clothes. The battered leather garments seemed to hang off of him, as if they were a few sizes too big for him, or he was a few sizes too small. He didn’t expect the scars either. It made sense that a hellfighter would have such terrible scars, after all, it was expected from anyone who was in the business of fighting monsters. They were a sign of experience, of prowess. Three long scars ran down the right side of his face, from his temple to his chin. He was fortunate, for the wounds had scarred well, not pulling his skin too tightly, not ugly and inflamed. It almost didn’t suit the slim man, as the scars were a brash contradiction of his casual, easy-going demeanor. “Tell us something we don’t know. I don’t need some poncey outsider to come here and tell me the obvious.” Deckland growled through his teeth. He used to be a blacksmith and his rough treatment of metals had carried through to his social manner, him having little time to spare for the words of others. Deckland had a fair few kills under his belt, represented by the five long, serrated teeth that hung off of a rough leather cord he wore around his neck. The room that had been bustling with excited talk and cheerful laughter was suddenly rent with silence. All of the voices stopped. Everyone seemed to hold their breaths at the aggressive comment from the former blacksmith. Atlas however, seemed completely unconcerned, puffling carefully on his pipe, filling the quiet air with swirling, rich tobacco smoke. “How many have you killed?” Atlas asked purposefully, although Oland suspected he already knew. Deckland sniffed and spat onto the wooden floor with narrowed eyes. He made a point of raising up his necklace and giving it a few jagged tugs. “Five.” He spat. Atlas leaned forwards and took the pipe out of his mouth. “I’m on forty two-” “Bollocks. Nobody’s killed that many. Not even Illian.” Deckland interrupted. Everybody’s eyes went back and forth between the two of them, Orland’s included. “Well, I can tell you in full confidence, he’s killed more than that...I should know...I’ve met the bastard.” Atlas said with a wide grin, showing all of his teeth. Deckland paused for a few moments as he deciphered the words that entered his mind. Once he had fully understood just exactly what Atlas had said, he exploded into action. The table let out a pained groan as it was scraped across the floor, the mugs and plates atop it rumbling and clattering with dismay. The floorboards groaned as they had to bear Deckland’s sudden bulk, creaking and grumbling under the weight of his heavy frame. He drew a hatchet from his belt with a practiced ease, then buried it into the table with a firm click. “You dare?!” He bellowed, furious rage shining brightly in his eyes. “You dare mock us?! When so many from here have given their lives so that you can sit where you sit?! I should gut you right here, right now...” The alehouse suddenly burst with the sound of angered voices, flipped over furniture and the wild snarls of vicious animals. The room full of men had turned into a pack of dogs, hissing and barking at either Atlas or Deckland, to show their support or hatred. A few had drawn blades and were waving them threateningly at each other, who up until a few moments ago had been firm friends. Brothers in battle. The frightful scene continued for a little while longer until Atlas brought his hand down upon his table with a righteous smash. “ENOUGH.” He roared, his arms held down at his sides where his hands had balled into fists. Surprisingly, the room quietened at the force of his shout, or maybe it was the threat that it had implied. “Are we to fight with beasts inside your walls as well?!” He asked, venom dripping thickly from every syllable he spoke. The aura of violence and aggression was snuffed out in an instant, like a puff of wind on the flame of a flickering candle. “I did not come to bicker and acuse like children. I came to help you.” He sunk back into his seat, his face suddenly showing years of weariness that had not been their mere seconds ago. Most of the men inside the room still stood standing, but one or two settled back down into their chairs slowly. Orland was shocked to see himself stood up, with a hand curled around the handle of his knife at his belt tightly. Ashamed, he softly returned to his chair, unable to look any of the others in the eye. “You want to defend your homes without losing half your brave souls every month?” He asked them all quietly, as if the weight of a thousand stones hung off his tongue. A few more men sat down. “I will show you.” He picked up his pipe which he had dropped on the table in front of him and relit it with another match. Only when more smoke had settled comfortably into the air around him he addressed them all again. “In two days time, I depart for the woods to the north. In two days time, I will destroy the nest that is there. In two days time, I will show you that it not us who should be afraid of them.” He looked around at the misguided men all around him with steel in his eyes and iron in his jaw. “I will show you it is them who should be afraid of us.

//I woke up before my alarm. I fell back asleep I had the following dream that felt like it last for hours. When my alarm woke me, I realized I had been asleep for 15 minutes. I love my room. Kitchen, dining, living, study, and bed room all in one connected space, with only a separation for the shower and toilet. To your left when you enter is a wall length window and sliding glass doors through which a secluded beach and the Pacific can be seen. I sat on the little arm of the sectional leather couch in my living room area. My back was to the door to the rest of the house. I could hear muffled music coming through it. Below me was an identical copy of my room belonging to my co-writer, the keyboard player in our band. Further below him was our humble, cool, little basement studio. Our two rooms were connected by a two story common area that existed in a never-settling variety of furniture arrangements. Tonight the ground floor was a dance pit, and the second floor a place for the dancers to rest and talk. I was focused on my pounding heart and head when I heard the doorknob cautiously begin to turn. I leaped up and ran to the door. Already a crowd was trying to push its way through the door frame. I held my arms as wide open as I could and herded the partygoers back to the commons. No, I can’t. I’m done for tonight, thanks. Next time, I promise. Happy Birthday but really I can’t. With tremendous effort, I reclosed the door and locked it. The knob twisted in vain two, three times before coming to a stop. Only then did I notice, I had let one person slip through under my arm, and now she stood on the tiles of the kitchen area. I had forgotten her name. I think it was Kate. We had met before, and I knew her well. She loved the Beatles, and we bonded listening to them. Her father left her all their albums in vinyl. She was from Seattle and moved to LA three years ago to work with a fashion company. She was always dressed well. Tonight she wore a simple white shirt with sleeves that went down to just past her elbows and an incredibly short black skirt that showed her long legs. Her skin was so pale it almost seemed to glow. But, truthfully, I only remember clearly her red, full lips. “Welcome back,” I greeted her. “Want something to drink?” “I’m set, thanks,” she said gesturing to the red solo cup in her hand. I went back to the living room area and knelt by the entertainment consol. I placed the needle on Revolver, my favorite Beatle’s album. She followed and sat close to me when I returned to my spot on the couch. “Shall we kiss a bit?” she asked, slowly throwing her leg over my lap, straddling me and gently touching my cheeks. I reached up and held her round face in my hands. Her curly, chestnut hair fell around me as she closed the gap between her lips and mine. Kissing her was like kissing the air. Her lips were so soft they felt like feathers on mine, even when I held her head close. It was like eating the lightest cream that melts before it reaches your tongue leaving only the taste behind. When she pulled away for air the only proof I had we had kissed was her ruby lips so close to me, and the taste of strawberry lip balm on my lips. She hummed the bass to Taxman. We continued to kiss through side A. “I am sorry, but I am too tired for any more fun tonight,” she said apologetically when I stood to turn over the record. “You are perfect,” I said. “I feel the same way.” This was not entirely true. I also felt tremendously lonely, but she was a helping with that and other feelings. She rose slowly, reached her arms around my neck and kissed me again. I let her lead me back to the bed area, feeling the floor transition from wood to carpet. I held her close and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep as Revolver spun down. I woke to the sun shining on my face through the window above my desk. I looked over my favorite guitars, that I kept arrayed in a semi-circle in my study area, gleaming in the morning light. I will need to polish them soon. She was still by my side, sat up a bit and looking through her phone. I rose slightly and saw she was typing out a lie to send to a boy named Mike. “Good morning,” I said sleepily. “Good morning, love,” she responded, setting down her phone, and leaning in for another breathless kiss. “I made some coffee.” “You are perfect,” I said dragging myself out of bed to the steaming coffee pot across the room. I poured a cup and turned around to see her. She wore one of my t-shirts and her brown hair was wonderfully disheveled. Her eyes were fixed on the screen in her hands. I drank half the coffee and placed the cup on the counter. I stepped onto the cool tiles of the bathroom. I turned on the water and stepped into the shower. After a minute, she joined me, and we fulfilled the unspoken promise from the night before. We had sex, holding on to the tub’s faucet and door’s handle bar for support as the hot water and steam made everything wet. After we finished, we rested in the tub for a while letting the hot water pour over us. She declared she wanted to go to the beach. I finished my coffee as she put on a bikini she found in my closet. She left through the sliding door, struggling a bit with its weight. I rummaged through her clothing and bag, looking for some identification that could tell me her name. I found only her wallet, which contained 50 dollars and a gift card to some boutique. I tried her phone, but it was locked with a pass code. Frustrated, I ate a breakfast, before joining her wearing just my boxer shorts. It was early enough that the sand was not yet hot. I found her with her toes standing on the wet sand, her feet occasionally submerged by the cold, Pacific water. When I reached her, she took my hand and pulled me into the surf and we played and wrestled in the waves. It was fun. Eventually, we found ourselves back on the dry sand letting the midmorning sun evaporate the water from our bodies. “I am sorry,” I said at last. “But, I can’t remember your name.” “You can call me, Kitty,” she said not the least bit offended. My gut told me the name was as fake as the one she told me the last time, but I dared not question it. I forgot it just the same. We lay there for hours talking and holding hands, not wanting to move anything. When we stood up our backs were coated in a thick layer of sand. We washed ourselves in the Pacific, before returning to my lovely room on the beach. //Thank you for reading.

\[Trigger Warning: War, combat, death, attempted suicide - but it's not the main subject of the story\] This is fairly intense, so please use your best judgement.. Everything you're about to read is real and this is the best I can recall the events that took place. I will not share any real names, no real dates, this is my story and I don't want to expose anyone that doesn't want it, so all names will be fake if they need to be used. For those of you that have never seen a war from the frontlines, this what it looks like, I'll do my best to paint a picture. For those that have, my experience is nowhere near some of the stories I've heard. I consider myself fortunate to not have been deployed during the OIF campaign. \-- *\*takes a deep breath\** This mission lasted around 5 days if I remember correctly, we moved out at night on the first day. Easily 6 miles with a metric shit-ton of gear, but not nearly as heavy as I've carried before. The mission we packed the heaviest, my ruck (backpack essentially), weighed around 150lbs. The heaviest I have ever weighed was 145lbs, currently sitting around 130-135 for reference. Just standing up was a struggle, let alone walking miles with it at night. I fell often, in fact, my squad was so used to me tripping and falling, we got to the point where we'd just laugh about my clumsiness, they'd help me up if they were nearby, and we'd continue on. Back to the first night. Nothing exciting happened, we moved in at night and secured a perimeter around this building in the middle of nowhere, and waited for the sun to come up. We were securing an abandoned school so we could set up an observation post for some special forces unit. I wasn't special forces, let's get that straight right now. We set up around the school and as the sun came up, we started to move inside and secure it. Every day from then on, at about 5pm, we'd get shot at. It was nothing crazy, they were just harassing us, and they're smart- they wanted to see how we would react, what we do, and they studied us over the next couple days. The night before my "personal hell" my squad went out to see if we could find the places we were getting shot at from, looking for brass on the ground, dug in positions, anything that could be used against us. As we sat outside the school holding guard, each of us were in pairs and I was paired with a Sergeant, we'll call him Ky for the purpose of our story. Ky and I had gotten to know each other throughout our deployment, he was attached to my squad as a Spotter with his Sniper counter-part. When you are sitting in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night, what do you talk about? Everything and anything that comes to mind. We talked about home, the crazy shit we had gotten into before the military, girls we'd dated, girls we loved, our favorite whiskey, our favorite music and artists. Everything that came to mind. At this point, we had been deployed for about three or four months, we'd been shot at multiple times, we were used to the conditions, and the people in our squad were brothers. I would die over and over again for each one of them without hesitation. I wish I contacted them more now that we've all separated, but I haven't in a long time. The same guys that were on the squad at the beginning of the deployment were the same that would be on the squad at the end, all we did was get to know each other's stories on missions. Ky was no different. I knew he was recently married to his high school sweetheart, I knew they were planning kids, I knew the things that close friends would know and my heart hurts for this every day. The next day, we were prepared. 4pm rolled around and we were setting people up on the roof, we knew we'd get shot at, just like every day, and this time we weren't just going to let them harass us. A platoon from 1st ID came out to help us with our mission, they brought trucks with the bigger guns, the .50 cals, the mk18s, and they positioned them in a half circle around the school, waiting for the first round to come in. Some fucking help that unit was. The school was shaped like a U but more like this I\_\_I , I would've been on the bottom right corner with a mk48 machine gun by myself. Somewhat next to me was my roommate and probably my closest friend, he had another machine gun, m240 bravo. The guns aren't relevant, well.. mine might be. 5pm nears and everyone gets in position behind their weapons, the smoking and joking subsides, it is so quiet I could hear my heart in my ears. When you are about to take contact, several things happen: it becomes eerily silent, all the kids that were out playing disappear, no one can be found, you always feel it before you hear it. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, the pit in your stomach, and the feeling that something just isn't right. This led to the firefight, but it wasn't the most important part. A sandstorm had been moving in all day, it wasn't going to be anything crazy, but it was enough to take our air support offline. All our birds went away, and they fucking knew it too. Cracks and snaps start to mix in with the dirt being blown all over. When you're getting shot at, you know it. But what you don't know is where it's coming from. In this scenario? Fucking everywhere. About 800meters in front of my position and in nearly a half circle in front of the school, muzzle flashes started appearing. The only light thing we could see through the sandstorm. Everyone started returning fire. Time passes incredibly fast when your adrenaline is flowing, this firefight would go on for 4 hours, and I only remember a few things happening. My gun jammed. I go through the proper motions to clear the jam, fire, it jams again. Repeat the process 5 or 6 times at least, before something interrupted me. I heard someone call out an RPG and when I looked up, I shit you not, this thing was coming right at me. I'd only seen them in video games, and that was no comparison.. I didn't know what it was at first, but it felt like everything was in slow motion. I reached up for just a second to see how close it was. I felt like I could've touched it. Maybe a foot, foot and a half above my right shoulder. The slow motion ended as it passed me, and it hit the center of the building behind me. Later we would come to find out that my gun would be considered blacklined. Unusable. The best time for it break, and sure as fuck, it did. We would also learn later that that RPG landed where the ladder to roof was (about 10 feet behind me), and there was definitely a guy standing on top of the ladder. How he survived, I don't know, it had to of blown up in his face and he easily took a 15 foot fall backwards into the school courtyard, only to put the ladder back up and go back up to the roof. My squad leader must've recognized something was wrong, he surprised the shit out of me when I felt him dive next to me and take cover. Running across this roof right now is insane, he must've been 6'2, the dude is one of biggest targets out there, what a fucking badass. He comes over and starts figuring stuff out with me, leaves me ammo, his m4 until we can figure my gun out, and then moves on to the next soldier. My eyes diverted to where he went, off to my right where he laid next to my roommate. I looked past them. On the opposite corner of the building to me, I saw Ky, kneeling on one knee firing 40mm grenades out of his launcher. *\*another deep breath, and here come the tears\** Ky fell backwards onto his back and scooted back, he had turned around and saw that I was looking at him. We made eye contact and he was waving his arm over his head at me, the whole thing, trying to give me a signal. I didn't get it.. until his body went limp. Everything hit me at the same time, but the first word out of my mouth was "medic." I whispered it at first, not realizing how loud everything was around me.. and then everything really hit me. I screamed it and pointed at Ky. People started scrambling, his sniper hadn't even noticed yet. It was me. It was only me. I watched the whole thing unfold before my eyes, I couldn't look away. My medic stripped him down, I could see the blood from where I was, I was in a trance.. Until someone slapped the back of my helmet. My squad leader was somehow on the other side of me, I must've looked shell shocked as fuck, but he brought me back. "Don't look at it, we'll find out what happened later, but right now you need to keep your head in the right place. What happened to your gun?" "It keeps jamming, I can't fix it." My squad leader starts messing with it only to realize what I said was true. He gave it back to me and said "It follows you. Bring it in case we can fix it, but we need a gun over there." "In Ky's position?" "That's the one, get ready to move, stay low and right on my ass." "MOVE!" I grabbed my gun and sprinted with him across the roof, bullets were flying everywhere around us. Everything felt like a blur at that point, my mind was a mess. I don't even remember getting to where I was.. but I remember.. Standing straight up when I got to the other side of the roof. All of a sudden the bullets coming at me didn't matter. People were yelling at me, telling me to get down. And I just stood there, staring at the ground in front of me. There was so much blood. Caked in the dirt, it was dark, but it was everywhere and there was no mistaking what it was. I looked at my squad leader, who was already laying down next to it, I just looked at him. He must've known I was asking him "do I have to?" Subconsciously of course, but he nodded his head and grabbed my wrist. I only let him pull me to my knees, and then I laid completely down in Ky's blood. From my chest to my knees I could feel it. I didn't cry, I didn't do anything besides shoot back, I kept my head in the game until it was time for me to come off the roof. The gunfire didn't subside until sometime after dusk.. We finally started getting air support after I came off the roof, it had easily been four hours and they were dropping bombs so close to us, the windows of the school were shattering from the shockwaves. It didn't matter. Everything that mattered had already happened. \-- I was sick to my stomach. I took that list to the room my platoon slept in and started packing the rucksacks of the names on the list. I knew what it meant. Those were the people that were injured today, and Ky was in critical condition. Silently, I got their stuff together. I was quiet, I couldn't stop thinking about everything, but I couldn't show emotion. Not in front of everyone. If I cry, I'm weak, and I can't let my brothers know I'm weak. I packed their rucks and staged them outside the room and then went to sit in the courtyard with my squad. Solemn faces, no words. Everyone was either dipping or smoking, the guys that didn't smoke started. I was doing both, my entire body was shaking from the amount of nicotine, but I couldn't stop. I needed something, anything to take my mind off of it. I couldn't let my thoughts catch up to me, not until I could be alone. Trucks pulled up. I had no idea they were coming, but I was so happy to see them when I started recognizing faces from my unit.. They were there to pick us up, and they took up to the nearest shitty little base they could. Everyone unloaded and just sat and waited inside our tent for the news. Solemn faces all around, no emotions, the calm before the storm. I knew. I already knew, and I just wanted my suspicions confirmed. Everything in my body was tired, but I was wide awake. I needed to know. Our platoon sergeant called everyone together, he explained that Ky had taken a bullet in through the right side of his torso and what they assumed was that it ricocheted off the opposite side rib or his side plates, but it had ricocheted into his heart. He wasn't dead instantly, but close to it. I only remember seeing emotion from my medic, he was having a rough time, and it was messing with me. Most machine gunners are given a secondary weapon, the reason we assumed was that if our gun ever stopped working, the m9 was there to defend ourselves. At least until the last bullet, that one was made for my head unless I wanted to be captured. Fortunately I was never in that position, but I wanted to mention it because it's about to become relevant. Shortly after my platoon sergeant announced the news, our base started taking rocket fire. The alarms went off and we started hearing explosions once again. "For fuck's sake" was the general mood as we all filed outside to the bunker. It was completely silent, except for the alarm and explosions. No one wanted to say anything, no one knew what to say. When the alarms stopped, people filed out of the bunker, I was sitting on some sandbags and didn't move. My friends asked me if I was alright and I nearly lost it in front of them. "Just give me a minute yeah? I'll catch up with you guys." Everyone left the bunker, and finally I was alone. I lost it. I was the same kid I was in school again, bawling my eyes out, drooling on myself, the ugly cry. I couldn't handle everything that had happened, I played through the events in my head. I watched Ky wave at me over and over again, I held my knees close to me chest and just let everything out. And then, the real dark thoughts hit me. He was married, they were going to have kids, a family. He had his whole life in front of him, with such promise.. so much life. Why wasn't it me? It could've just as easily been me. Why wasn't it? I'm a single soldier, my family loves me to death, but I had nothing going for me. If I would've been killed, I would've been missed by few people.. But not like him. His support system was huge, he was much closer to his family, and he got mail all the time. His life was so much brighter than mine, and that's all I could see right then. I don't remember how we got to the next part.. it's still a blur. But I remember clearly pushing my m9 to my temple, finger on the trigger, ready to join my friend. I didn't deserve to be alive, it should've been me. "Please, why couldn't it have been me?" The tears wouldn't stop, I tried to get the strength to just end it, I didn't want to live with this. These thoughts, these memories, it was too much... then I heard someone coming and panicked, immediately pulling the gun away from my head just in time for one of my squad mates to walk into the bunker. "There you are. Come on, platoon meeting, we're waiting on you." He saw the gun in my hand. "You doing alright?" I tried to be as natural as I could. "Yeah, just give me a second." He waited outside until I could compose myself and then followed him into the tent, I get caught every time I try to do something wrong. I was always the one that got caught, and here it was, true again. But without him walking in that night, at that time, I don't know what would've happened, but I was pretty committed to that action. In the following weeks, we were required to meet with a combat counselor. As a platoon, as a squad, as individuals. We were told to tell her what we felt and to be honest, but we were also warned that if the notes she took appear that we aren't "fit for combat" they would most likely send us home. One person was moved platoons and sent home early, the poor kid was shell shocked for the majority of the deployment, combat isn't for everyone and you never know how you're going to react until the first bullet goes off. Some people freeze up, others take charge, some of us just want to make sure we do everything possible to protect the people we care about. I didn't say much to her, I said that I was the last one to see Ky alive. I cried in front of my platoon, but I didn't say anything more. I wanted to stay with them and I wouldn't risk getting sent home on my own selfishness. Damn I was stupid. When you don't take care of your mental health, it will continue to decline, these things you hold in will weigh on you eventually and break you down. It took years before I finally went to therapy, and even then, I'll tell you the only reason I went was to get my dog certified as an Emotional Support Animal so I could bring her to school with me. In the end, she didn't get certified, but I did get help. Thank you for reading and letting me share this memory of mine with you.. I hope it made you feel something.

The grandson was looking out of the window, down at the woods that ran through his wildest imaginations. "Hey!" a voice shouts from behind him. He turns to see his grandpa standing in the doorway. "What are you doing up this late at night?" Grandpa questioned. "I can't fall asleep, can you tell me a story?" the grandson asked. “There once was a great shining knight...” Grandpa started before being interrupted by his grandson. “I’ve already heard this story before, can you tell a different one this time, Grandpa?” the grandson pleaded with beading eyes. “Alright,” Grandpa said before putting down the book, “I have a special story for you.” “Where’s the book?” the grandson questioned, sitting up from his bed to look at Grandpa’s hands. “There is no book for this one, this is from the heart.” “But how will I read this story again?” the boy continuing with his everlasting questions. “Whenever you’re sitting in your bed, just like now, and you need something to entertain yourself, just think to yourself, and the story will come to you,” Grandpa explained. “But...” the grandson began before Grandpa coaxed him to pull up his covers and get comfortable. “This story is about a kid, just like you,” Grandpa pointed to the grandson, “and how he and his friend went on an adventure in the wilderness, just them two, no adults, no supervision.” Grandpa continued, “Are you ready?” The grandson replied with a simple nod. Sam was walking down the streets of Decatur, Tennessee, a small town of two hundred people right outside Knoxville. He walked into the small convenience store, picked out a Coke, put a nickel on the counter, and left. He continued his stroll through the town, passing by his school, which filled all the kids of the town, including his best friend, Dew. Sam has known Dew since before they could even remember anything. 10 years later, they were still as close as anyone could be. Sam, now remembering about Dew, ran like a gazelle to his house. He leaped over fences, ran through bushes, and eventually arrived at Dew’s house. Dew’s family lived in a simple, 1-story house that you could tell they’ve tried keeping up, but have let go over the last few years. They had a large field in their backyard that led to the woods where Sam and Dewey would spend their adventures. However, they had never gone past the creek that marked the boundary between Dew’s backyard and the unknown, respectively called “The Damned Creek”. They’ve always dared each other to go over the creek, but the farthest anyone’s made it was a simple hop, and then a hop back- “Wait, they were scared of the woods?” the grandson interrupted. “Yes, and they had a very good reason to,” Grandpa cheerfully replied. The grandson sat in silence for a minute, pondering. “Well I wouldn’t be scared of no woods, even if I was just a baby,” the grandson finally stated. “Oh grandson, you still are just a baby. Now settle down and let’s finish this story.” Summer had just started, so Sam had a plan in mind for the boys. Sam knocked on the wooden door and promptly opened it and entered the room. Dew’s family had treated Sam as one of their own, so they didn’t mind. Sam ran through the dusty, ragged house, each stomp feeling it might pummel through the creaking floorboards. He saw Dew in the old rocking chair in the living room. “Hey Dew!” Sam blurted out the second he entered the room. “Hey Sam!” Dew ecstatically responded. “I have an idea,” Sam left Dew wondering. “What’s the idea?” Dew questioned. Sam took the old walking stick by the front door and pointed towards the backyard with it, “We’re going to where no man has ever gone before!” he exclaimed. “We- We’re going to th- the woods?” Dew stuttered. “We are going to fully explore the other side of The Damned Creek, and there is nothing and no one who is going to stop us,” Sam proudly said with his fists on his hips. “But how will we ever get back?” Dew nervously responded. Sam sensed Dew’s apprehensiveness, and comforted him, “Don’t worry Dew, we’re just gonna go over to the other side, look around, and then come back.” “That’s it?” Dew, still nervous, but feeling slightly better. “That’s it, now let’s pack our essentials and leave after the sun dips below the tip of that tree,” Sam pointed to the large apple tree residing in the backyard. Dew nodded and went into his bedroom to pack. The boys walked with their backpacks full of food and tools such as knives, apples, and even hammers. They were unsure of the frontier, but Sam was ready to enter and Dew was still apprehensive, but was mostly ready. They encountered the fresh-water creek that divided the two lands from each other. The two boys looked at each other, giving each other the go-ahead signal to enter the unexplored territory, and suddenly, they jumped together. Birds flew out of the area, heading towards the heavens as the boys trekked along the frontier. They hacked and slashed through the shrubbery which crowded the forest floor with Sam’s homemade pocket-knife. Dew had his father’s binoculars out, hoping to see a rare species of birds fluttering about. The sun shone through the forest top, breaking through pockets of space, revealing the numerous leaves around. Sam took out his compass and asked Dew, “Do you remember what direction your house is in?” Dew looked around, but was confused as all the directions looked the same, “I’m not sure...” Dew said apprehensively. Sam looked down at the compass, in which the needle was pointing west. “It says that we are going west, so I guess your house is in the East,” Sam concluded. “No... no, that can’t be right because the forest is to the right of my house,” Dew worriedly cried. “Well then how are we going towards your house if we’ve been traveling in the same direction for the past 30 minutes?” Sam questioned. “I don’t know, but I think we should go back--” Right on cue, as if God was watching from above, clouds surrounded the sky, and lightning struck, sending the boys into panic. They frantically ran in a direction, much less worried about being lost, and more worried about the imminent threat of weather. The boys jumped and ducked and weaved their way through branches, shrubs, and trees. Out of breath, they stopped to catch their breath, panting like a dog who had been running for hours. “Hey, what direction did we run in now?” Dew asked Sam. Sam put his hands in his pockets when he didn’t feel anything. He then put his hand in his backpack to locate the compass. He didn’t feel anything either. A sudden sense of fear and panic struck Sam like a train and he didn’t feel too good. “Dew, I... I think I need to--” Sam woke up in a rush. “Woah, woah, woah, you need to stay down there buddy,” Dew coaxed Sam, “You were out a little while, it’s almost sunfall, we need to get out of here now.” Sam looked around to see the orange reflection of the sun bounce off the leaves of the trees. He got himself up and studied the area once again. He noticed the way the shadows were casted. “Look,” Sam pointed to the base of the trees, “See how the shadow is pointing that way (he pointed towards the right of the tree).” Dew nodded. “That means the sun must be in the opposite direction of the shadows,” Sam exclaimed, “And since the sun always sets in the West, we must follow it to your house. The boys excitedly picked up their stuff to head back home when they suddenly heard a growl from nearby. Dew and Sam simultaneously turned their heads in the direction of the noise and saw a large gray wolf. Its beady yellow eyes stared into the flesh of the boys, giving its signal that it wants to have dinner. “Um, Sam, we should... you know... run” Dew mentioned to Sam. Sam motioned his finger to his mouth as a way of telling Dew to shut up. Sam picked up a rock from next to his foot. “The second this rock hits that tree, we run,” Sam told Dew, who nodded in agreement. Sam wound up his arm, and looked at Dew for a second, and launched the rock. It made a large cracking sound as it hit the bark. The wolf turned its attention to the noise as the boys took off. They ran and ran, harder than ever before. They felt like cheetahs as the trees and grounds whipped past them as they chased the sun. The sun was glowing through the sky, giving Earth its goodbye, as the boys hurried towards the house. They did not look back to see if the wolf was chasing them or not. They just ran. Sam looked ahead and saw a tiny dip in the land, it must have been the creek he thought. Sam took off faster now. Dew, though, could not see the creek and was almost depleted of any energy. Sam took one graceful leap across the creek, and made it safely to homeland. Dew staggered behind, panting. Sam also panted, but from the safety of the known land. Sam laughed and turned around to head home when he heard a shrilling scream. He looked back at Dew to see the wolf had, indeed, caught up to them and was mere feets away from Dew. Dew’s back was to Sam, and Sam could not do anything to disturb the wolf. He simply must spectate his friend’s situation. The sun had fallen from the sky, giving way to darkness in the world. Dew slowly stepped back away from the wolf, inching closer and closer to the creek. The wolf’s fangs were glaring, even to the point where Sam could see its whiteness cut through the dark. Sam knew that Dew must act fast, or else it would not be good news. He had one solution. He took his backpack off and started running towards the wolf. Dew heard rapid footsteps approaching behind him and yelled. Sam jumped and threw his backpack at the wolf, knocking it down and grabbed Dew with him. They ran back, through the field, and finally, into the house. “Geez boys, I haven’t seen you all day and you just run into my house like that?” Dew’s mama exclaimed. “Oh you wouldn’t know the half of it Mama,” Dew sighed. “Alrighty then, get y’allselves cleaned, I have supper ready for you,” Dew’s mama smirked. The boys looked at each other one last time, and headed to the bathroom laughing about the events that had unfolded that day. “The End.” Grandpa sighed. “So that’s it?” the grandson questioned. “That’s it.” “But what about--” Grandpa cut him off before he could finish the sentence. “I think it’s time for bed now, not time for buts and what ifs,” Grandpa said as he tucked his grandson to bed.

Our load was from Carson CA to Chicago. Picked up in CA on Monday and load due in IL Wednesday morning. We knew we were going to be driving into some bad weather, but we've spent whole winters in the NE and been in lots of snow and ice. Six years experience, each. My co-driver, Preston and I were well prepared, extra water, extra food, warm clothes, truck just fully serviced. We're good to go. We thought we'd beat the worst of it and make it to Chicago. Worst case we'd lay over in a hotel once we got there and wait for conditions to improve. I drive days and Preston drives nights. We switched shifts in St Robert MO. It had been raining since about Tulsa and the temperature had been steadily dropping, but still in the 40's. Watching the radar closely and saw the snow bands coming but still thought we could make it to Chicago before the worst of the storm hit. Just north of Bloomington IL, things go from meh to terrible in just a few miles. Preston started seeing jackknifed trucks everywhere. He's driving about 15-20 mph and it's still really sketchy. He decided he needed to get off the road. The Limestone Rest Area is 30 miles ahead and he decides that's where he's going to stop. Even that distance, took several hours, but he made it safely and parks on the shoulder at the rest area entrance. We're good. I hadn't slept very well even though I trust Preston's driving ability 100%, I knew what was ahead and how things can go south in a second, so I was up at about 0630 (normally 0800). I get up and come out of the sleeper and it's bad. Really bad. Really windy, blowing snow, truck is covered in ice. Preston is telling me how bad it was and I thank him for getting us safely off the road. What little traffic is still on I-55 is crawling. Shortly after, the state police close the interstate. We're good though, more than a quarter tank of fuel, plenty of food and water, safely off the road. That quarter tank will easily last 50-60 hours at idle. It is what it is, but we're safe and warm. These trucks at idle will build up soot in the diesel exhaust filter. After about 6-8 hours of idling they will run an automatic "re-gen" where the diesel engine runs up the idle and burns off the soot. So it starts it's re-gen, which is no big deal. Normally. About 15 minutes into the re-gen, alarms start going off. WTF? Low coolant alarm, overheat warning, engine shutdown warning. This isn't good. I think, eh, the grill probably has snow and ice blocking the airflow, probably not that bad. I get out to look and I see the bright red all over what snow hadn't been melted by the hot coolant, there's coolant all over the ground. This is bad. I take a look under the truck and under the hood, trying to determine where the leak is. Hoping maybe because it overheated, it just blew off some coolant. We'll add some and perhaps we'll be good. So we add coolant and start the truck back up. All the alarms are cleared, maybe we're okay. I get out to look and there's a steady stream of coolant coming out from right below the radiator. Maybe it is just a hose. By the time I get back in the truck all the alarms are going off again. Now we keep tons of stuff in the truck to make at least temporary repairs so we can get back on the road. If it's just a hose or a broken clamp or something, we can fix it. Then I think, if it's not something simple and I get down in the snow and get wet and colder and I can't fix it, at least temporarily, now I'm colder and wetter and we have no heat in the truck. Probably better not risk it. That turns out to be a great decision. We start calling for roadside assistance and or a tow. We also call back to our shop in CA, hoping they can find someone to assist as our prospects are pretty bleak. Best case was 24 hours, mostly I'm told we can't even put you on a waiting list. Starting to look serious rather than just inconvenient. California calls back, "got a wrecker coming for you, ETA 90 minutes". That's amazing, thanks for the help, I owe you a twelve pack! Several hours go by, it's down to about 45 degrees in the truck. I call the wrecker company for an update. State Police are commandeering wreckers to try to clear the road. We're working our way towards you but still over 20 miles away and there's trucks crashed and jackknifed everywhere. Currently no ETA. This sucks. The wrecker company dispatch tells me that we're at the worst rest area in the state and that there's no facilities. We're parked too far away to even see if there's a building or not. Google Maps shows there's a building. But the dispatcher is local, surely he would know. What if we walk the nearly 1⁄2 mile to the building and it's closed? Or not heated? If we expend all the energy, get colder and wetter walking over there and have to walk back, we're screwed. We'll wait. A couple more hours go by, down to 35 degrees in the truck. We're bundled up but still cold. Can't run the truck even briefly. This is really bad. About another hour goes by and we both, within about 5 minutes of each other, start uncontrollably shivering. We have to do something. We're about 5 miles south of Pontiac IL. Out of extreme positive thinking, I try Uber and Lyft both, yeah, that's not going to happen. I Google taxi's, yeah, no. I trythe. I try the CB radio for 20 minutes. No one even answers. I call the Pontiac police department and explain our situation. No, we're overwhelmed, try the State Police. I do, "sorry, nothing we can do, you're at a rest area, shelter inside the building." We gather up some supplies, I put plastic bags over my shoes to keep them dry, Preston has waterproof hiking shoes on. We're good. We set out for the rest area building and warm shelter. We hope. I don't want to sound overly dramatic, but this is my recollection... Now Preston is 30 years old and in decent shape. I'm 63, sadly a smoker and have put on far too much weight in 6 years of being on the road. But it's less than half a mile. I didn't even think about it, other than it's going to be cold. I might add here we live in Arizona, other than getting out to fuel or drop a trailer or the few other things we have to do when we're in cold weather, we don't really do cold. We're acclimated to the desert. About half way to the building, I realize I may be in trouble. The snow is shin deep, it's like 10 degrees. I'm already having trouble taking deep breaths because of the cold air. I ask Preston to slow down some, which he doesn't want to do, but thankfully he does. We keep walking, my chest starts hurting, I think to myself, not like heart attack pain, it's just because of the cold air. The building, shelter, is about another 100 yards. I got this. That last 100 yards was surreal, I don't want to say I saw my life flash before my eyes, but it was terrifying. I had to stop, I told him, "I don't think I'm going to make it". He was like whatever dude, it's right there. I felt like I was going to collapse. There's only a few times in my 63 years I can remember real fear. This was the top one. I prayed over the last 50 yards. Finally, inside, a coffee vending machine, something hot to drink. The best coffee I ever had in my life! It took me an hour to recover. I was embarrassed, how could I almost not be able to walk a 1⁄2 mile? I made a commitment to lose weight, excercise more and quit smoking. It took about 8 hours more for the wrecker to reach us. We got up to Batavia IL and a hotel finally at 0400. I passed out. Turns out it was the radiator, it had developed a leak. The next day we were back on the road.

“...Speak now, or forever hold your peace.” The pastor's words reverberated throughout the small building, louder and more clear than any of the others he had spoken that day. As Tristan looked at the woman holding tightly to his hands, he couldn't remember including that part in the vows. It was antiquated, out of date and something no one did anymore...right? But now, with the question hanging in the air like the scent of freedom and happiness, he was inundated with a thousand reasons why the people at the front of the room shouldn't be joined together for the rest of their lives... He looked out over the church, a droplet of sweat slipping down his temple. Scanning, his eyes at last landed on a slender form with long, honey blond hair. Tessa. His heart lurched at the same time that his mind sped backwards. He was six, Tessa five, and she glared at him with sparking blue eyes, her hands on her hips. “I'm gonna marry you one day, Tristan Rawlings, just you wait. And then you have to ask to kiss me first.” Tristan grinned. “That's not how it works, Tess. When we get married, I get to kiss you whenever I want.” Her hand tightened into a tiny fist, which she held up to him with a threatening glower. “I'd like to see you try.” He put his hand up to her fist and gently worked her fingers open until they were palm to palm. “I'm sorry, Tessa. I promise I'll ask next time.” With narrowed eyes, she squinted back at him, softening. “You better.” Memories filtered through like an old photo album, until Tristan, standing sweating in front of a hundred people, landed on another one in particular. Sweet sixteen, and Tessa Marlowe was the star of the hour, glamorous and glowing. Tristan watched as she blew out her candles and laughed, eyes sparkling, the dimple to the side of her mouth making an appearance just to stab him in the heart. Matty Jenkins put his hand on Tessa's waist, and looked over his shoulder to where Tristan stood in the corner of the room, hands clenched in fists at his sides. Matty's filthy paws shouldn't be allowed anywhere near Tessa, and Tristan knew a deep urge to remove both of them violently. It was later in the evening, when he overheard Matty informing the other guys of what he expected that night, that Tristan felt the urge spill over into a white hot rage that blinded him until someone much larger pulled him off a trembling, bloody lipped Matty sprawled in the dirt. Tristan's heart dropped when he saw Tessa, eyes wide with shock and concern. He was gonna pay for his loss of control, and only he knew how deeply. But then, to his confusion, she stepped towards him, her hand outstretched. He stood motionless, afraid any movement would wake her to the mistake she was making. Her fingers, feather light, touched his cheek, the skin hot where Matty must have got a swing to land before Tristan tackled him to the ground. Tristan swallowed, then spoke hoarsely. “I'm sorry, Tess. He just - he said - ” Her thumb brushed his bottom lip. “I heard what he said.” Her eyes, silver-blue in the moonlight, flicked up to meet his, and his breath hitched. Her lips twitched upwards in a smirk. “My knight in shining armor.” The smirk faded, leaving her expression open and unguarded. Then, with one hand on his arm, she went up on her tiptoes and leaned in, brushing her lips ever so gently over the bruise on his cheekbone. She stepped back, her hand slipping down his arm to join their fingers, and tugged him behind her as she stepped barefoot through the yard, past Matty with her chin lifted high, and away into the house. The party was forgotten while she smiled shyly at him and held ice to his cheek. Looking up into his face, she pursed her lips to the side in contemplation. “I don't know what I was thinking. Going out with Matty, I mean.” “Eh, we all make mistakes sometimes. I knew you'd come back around in time. I mean,” he forced a grin, even though her nearness was wreaking havoc on his pulse, “you did say you were gonna marry me one day.” She swatted his arm and laughed, even as her cheeks went pink. “Tristan Rawlings. I was five years old.” He caught her hand in his. “Five and a half. Plenty old enough to know what's best for you.” Eyes lowered, she giggled, but he could tell it wasn't a real laugh. With one finger, he tipped her chin up so he could see her face. “What's wrong, Tess?” She shook her head quickly, as though shaking off a thought, but he could see a glimmer of a tear in her eye. “It's nothing. Thanks, Tris, for being my friend.” In his teenaged mind, Tristan had felt those words as though she had slapped him. Friend zoned, and just as he thought he was getting somewhere. But now, after years with a dark haired woman who constantly made him feel that he would never measure up, he saw Tess's face through different eyes, and thought that maybe, just maybe, she had defined him as a friend purely to protect herself. He thought back to the night before, at the rehearsal dinner, where he had seen her slip away and followed her without even thinking twice. She moved quickly to the gazebo in the center of the grassy park, and stood with her hands on the railing looking over the water. The sun was setting in front of her, and made a halo of gold and pink around her, reflecting off the water to sparkle and shimmer in a frame that fit her beauty. Where had that thought come from? No sooner had he questioned his thoughts than his shoulders relaxed with the unequivocal knowledge that it was true. His best friend was beautiful. She always had been and he'd always known it. Just because he was set to tie his life to someone who would punish him for even allowing those thoughts to rise to the surface didn't make them untrue. With long, even strides, he made his way through the soft grass and joined her at the railing, hands in the pockets of his slacks as he leaned a shoulder against a post. When she looked up at him, meeting his curious gaze, his heart constricted in his chest. A tear, glinting in the light, trickled down her cheek, and she made no move to erase it. “Tess?” Her name was all he could get out, an uneasy feeling rendering his mind blank except for pain and concern. She smiled, and it was a knife twisting. “It's okay, Tristan. I'm okay. Just promise me something?” “Anything,” he breathed out. A dry chuckle was her first response. “Don't over commit, Rawlings.” “I trust you, Marlowe. More than anyone else.” She shook her head and looked back out over the water, a shuddering sigh causing her shoulders to tremble. Then she looked back over at him, and he was taken aback by the fury in her eyes. “You don't get to say that to me anymore, Tristan Rawlings. Not while that she-beast is in there waiting to swallow you whole.” He stood up straight and took a step back. “Whoa, Tessa, c'mon, that's not fair.” She took an aggressive step towards him and stabbed a finger into his chest. “No. It is more than fair. You know it as well as I do. You're just too blinded by propriety and what your mother wants to recognize it. Listen to what you just said to me. You're about to promise your life to someone you don't even trust. You're about to give your heart away to someone who you know won't value it and treasure it like the gift that it is. She's mean to everyone around you, Tristan. And even sometimes to you, she just covers it with just enough sugar that you're blinded.” She drew in a long, deep breath, closing her eyes briefly before opening them to look directly into his, searing his soul with the depth of sincerity and love he saw there. “So, promise me that you'll think long and hard about this tonight, about her. About love. Promise me you'll choose love, not obligation.” It was his turn to draw in a shaky breath at the enormity of what she was saying. “Tess, I - ” One corner of her mouth lifted and she moved her hand to cup his cheek. “It's okay, Tris. If you choose her, if she is what you truly want...it's okay. Really. I just want you to be happy.” Her hand dropped and she took a step back, the cold air rushing between them like a chasm. “I'm gonna head home now.” Desperation clawed at him, and he didn't even know why. “I'll see you tomorrow?” Her head tilted to the side and she looked up at him, eyes searching his face. “If that's what you want.” “Please, Tess. You have to be there.” He swallowed any more words that wanted to come before he started begging. Another searching look, and then she nodded. “I will. 'Bye, Tristan.” She turned her back to him and her sandaled feet made swishing sounds in the grass as she moved away with a jarring finality. Why did he suddenly hurt all over? And now, his eyes found hers across the heads of the entire congregation, and he was moving towards her, his feet carrying him as though his heart had taken his body captive. There was a rush of shocked whispers, his mother calling his name, his bride swearing and demanding he stop whatever ridiculous notion he had. At the back of the church, she stood by the door as though keeping escape close to hand. It seemed an eternity just to get to her side, not because of the disapproving stares and the recrimination that was bound to follow, but because he found that he had to be near her, he needed to touch her, to feel her heart close to his own. A foot away now, he held out his hand, and her fingers slipped over his palm before threading through his. “I choose love,” he whispered. “I choose you.” One tear trickled down her cheek and she let out a choking laugh as his thumb caught the silvery moisture before it dropped. “I chose you a long time ago.” “I know that now. It just took me a little longer to realize you felt the same as me.” With a glance over his shoulder at the fuming woman in white, he said quietly, “Let's get outta here.” “I thought you'd never ask.” She grinned up at him, and of one accord, hands clasped tight, they ran out the back doors. At the back of the church, after tugging the bow tie loose and flinging it into the dirt, he tugged Tessa closer and let his eyes roam over her face, lingering on her lips. “Tess.” “Yes, Tristan?” “As per my promise twenty years ago, I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to kiss you now.” Her sky blue eyes held his gaze. “Can I say something first?” He swallowed. “As long as you make it quick.” Her breath of laughter was tantalizingly close. “I changed my mind. You don't ever have to ask me first again.” And so he didn't.

Sticky notes littered his bedroom wall. Yellow, green, blue, and the hot pink that used to be yours. He kept a pen in his pocket, a black ball point, and a notepad in the other one. He forgot a lot of things. Simple things, like what he ate for breakfast, and important things too, like doctor appointments. He remembered the day you two met though. One of the only long-term things he remembered. He didn’t remember what you were wearing or the place, but he remembered the feelings. The scramble of getting your number on his phone because he was afraid that if he wrote it in his notepad, he’d forget about it until next year. You had laughed at his haste, but complied, writing in Someone for the name. He texted you to make sure it was right, and you parted ways soon after. He never changed your contact name. He forgot to turn his alarm on that night, forgot to feed his tiny fish, forgot to take out the trash. But he remembered to text you good night. Your love was fast. He didn’t forget you. Sometimes he’d forget why he was feeling so giddy, why his heartbeat was acting up. But then he’d look down and see he was talking with you. You were always patient with him. Always. Sometimes you’d ask him a question and he’d blank out and ask you to say it again. You knew the whole conversation was out of his head by then. He’d write down his favorite parts though. You moved from texting to calling in summer. He’d put you on speaker and sit low on his couch, writing down the important things, things you might bring up later. You moved to facetime in the fall. He sat in the seat in front of his window, the orange and red leaves serving as a beautiful background. He didn’t want you to see his sticky notes, and they were everywhere else. In the winter, you started seeing more face to face. In coffee shops, bookstores, libraries, wherever you could meet. Before you’d part, he’d read you a poem he’d written every single time. You’d touch foreheads and then leave. It was a sweet little routine. His memory grew worse. He forgot to eat sometimes, set on the fact that he must’ve eaten earlier. Even when he remembered, his fridge was mostly empty, since he forgot to shop for groceries. You moved in when sweater weather was over. You didn’t have much. Two boxes filled with clothes, and one with your other things, like your lotion collection and stationary. You didn’t have to go out to meet each other anymore, you were in the same house. He often sat cross-legged on the couch, with a blank expression, and you’d join him, laying your head on his shoulder. About the sticky notes, you said nothing, only sometimes you added on. You added ‘I love you’ and ‘Smile’ amongst the ‘Brush your teeth’ and ‘Feed the fish’. When he ran out of poems, you’d tell him ideas of what you could do together. You tried hiking together, but he tripped on a rock, earning a scar running along his arm. You had blown on it, kissed it ever so softly, your eyes clouding with worry. He didn’t like blood, didn’t like the way it dripped bright red against his pale skin. He only wore long-sleeved sweaters after that. Rarely let you drag him out. The only times he did was to see you smile. To watch your dimples come and go. You loved getting ready, wearing fancy clothes, and painting your makeup like a masterpiece. You had only come with two boxes but by that summer you had over a closet-full of clothes. He forgot to rinse his plate, forgot to brush his teeth, forgot to buy new glasses, but he remembered what you liked, remembered to get you something if he was ever out alone. You memorized his face, every freckle, every crease. He memorized your laugh and your soft touch. The scar stayed, a red line reminding him not to go out. One of the only things he didn’t really need reminding on. If he was feeling okay, then you would spend the day talking. About everything and nothing, and all the in betweens. About politics and animals and sometimes the sticky notes. While you spoke, he didn’t keep the notepad near him. He started to be afraid to lose the authenticity of just hearing your voice. If he wrote it down, he would miss the light in your eyes and smirk in your smile. He bought the ring very suddenly. It was early morning, and you were still asleep, tangled in the covers. The night before had been a talking night. His hair was starting to grow long, and you told him to cut it. He had put it in a ponytail and said he liked it that way, though you probably still remember. Deep down, he does too. The ring was simple, in case he would forget where he put it and lose it. You always loved christmas. Green and red were your favorite colors at the time. Weeks earlier, you had bought a tree and ornaments. An angel for the top. The first time he asked it was morning. The golden light was still barely peeking in through the white curtains, the birds were still stretching. He had grabbed your hand as you poured your bitter coffee and slipped the ring on your finger. He was short for words so you kissed him instead, the taste of mint evident because he finally remembered to brush his teeth. You were going to go and see the big tree in the city. It was only out the 24th and 25th and you wanted to go both days. It was the one time you didn’t need to persuade him. You took the ring off to shower. After you were almost ready, you saw him with the ring in his hand, a blank expression that you knew so well plain on his face. He actually asked that time, his words tumbling out in a jumbled mess. Nothing like the poet he was. The third time was the worst. He had stopped you as you were walking, getting ready to ice skate. He looked sad, and his pale skin was paler than usual. You had caressed his cheek and pressed foreheads like you used to and you continued to pick up your skates. The fourth time was on the ice. You were the one who fell for once, and as he caught you, he whispered the question in your ear. It was the most romantic one in your eyes. You wished it wasn’t ruined by your brain yelling at you that he was sick. That he probably wouldn’t remember later, that he might just forget you later. The fifth time was when you were back at home, untangling your hair from the unnecessary amount of bobby pins it had suffered through. You had cried softly into your pillow that night. It was supposed to be perfect, but life disagreed. He had apologized in the morning, and when you tried to wave it off, he told you he heard you crying. Half of his sticky note wall came down that day. He was so tired of forgetting. He wanted to love you with all his heart, mind, and soul, but he was busy trying to make sure to keep himself alive. And his fish. But it was both of your fish then, and you made sure to remind him it was okay, that you still loved him. The bad days were still there. But so were the good days. So were the good days.

RUBY SAYS: I am a woman with a ‘past’ and wonder who would marry me. I am fair, tall and have nice features. I know that if I dressed provocatively somebody would give me a wolf whistle. I have remained a spinster long enough and have decided to somehow take the plunge into matrimony. I had started reading matrimonial ads and one day this ad caught my eye : I am 43 and am a widower. My wife died of natural causes after 22 years of marriage leaving behind a daughter who is now 19. I am idealistic, broad minded and in good health. I am looking for a suitable partner. I am voluntarily unemployed as I am financially secure due to investments I have made . This ad appealed to me and I contacted the advertiser saying I am 30 and have suffered in life and was looking for an understanding partner. I said that instead of merely exchanging bio-data I would like to meet the interested person. I was quite sure the advertiser would have received many responses and wondered if he would message back to me. One Vivek responded after a fortnight. He said we could meet at lunch the following Saturday at Belvedere restaurant about 1 in the afternoon. I saw it was Tuesday and sent back a message agreeing to meet at lunch as proposed. ‘You could identify me by seeing the woman carrying a yellow Gucci handbag with gold flower pattern on it.’ On Saturday I dressed myself in grey pants with a multicoloured silk top. I had given up going to beauty salons and so only combed my abundant shoulder length hair and left without any make up. I was at the restaurant at 5 minutes to one and was entering the restaurant’s foyer when a man approached and said “I’m Vivek.” I smiled and said “I’m Ruby.” I studied him closely. He had nice features, was tall but partially bald and had a thin moustache. He was dressed in white pants which appeared baggy perhaps to his having gone down in weight. He wore a blue T-shirt on top. To me he looked more like he was about 35 though he had said his age was 43. I was impressed with his appearance and deportment. He said pointing “That is the dining hall.” I went with him as he led the way. The maitre d’ on seeing Vivek came forward and escorted us to a table where we could sit facing each other. A waiter now brought us tomato soup. Vivek said “I chose items from their standard menu and have ordered. They know me here as I visit this place often. If you prefer anything special....” I said “Nothing special is needed.” We spoke generally and I found he had a sense of humour. Or was it irony? I had yet to decipher it! After we had generally introduced ourselves I spoke up and said “The past is gone. Do we need to dissect it?” “Okay, I won’t probe.” I said “May I ask a personal question? Just curious.” He nodded. “Did you receive many responses to your ad?” He laughed and said “Yes. A variety of people answered. Mostly parents, brothers and so on. Yours was the first I saw sent on your own which impressed me.” We spent nearly two hours talking and I found he was just the man for me. I became Vivek’s wife. His daughter Jasmine couldn’t participate as her exams were near and she was in another location 500 kilometres away. 3 months later Jasmine came back. Initially she was a bit remote but soon we became friends. Jasmine said she had finished her studies and had also been selected for a job in this city where her home was. Vivek later told me “You’ve done well in making friends with Jasmine.” “She is friendly too. On work she is going to be absent from home 9 hours a day in a 5 day week. I’ll see she gets all the help at home.” Jasmine was at work for 6 months when she said “I want to invite my supervisor home for lunch. He is a very nice man. Very understanding. Teaches me new things to work better.” Dad said “Do so. I’ll order whatever foods you choose.” I said “I’ll prepare the food. And I can also order the required takeaway items. Jasmine, we’ll make it a grand event.” I was under the impression that our guest would be someone in whom she was romantically inclined. It was almost a month later that the supervisor was able to accept the invitation. He came on a Saturday at midday. Jasmine received him and brought him in. She said “Dad this is Mr.Oberoi who is my supervisor.” Dad shook hands with Oberoi. Then she came to me as I stood staring at the visitor. I greeted Oberoi and we sat talking. After a while Oberoi said “It was very pleasant talking to you people. I will introduce my wife Pearl to you after she comes back from the USA. You see she is an American national of Indian origin. It seems her family settled in California 3 or 4 generations ago. I expect her to be back by Xmas. She likes India and wants to live here like the natives!” I now served an appetiser when Oberoi said “This is what I miss in Pearl’s absence. She also prepares something excellent like this.” The lunch was elaborate and Oberoi said “I’ve had a hearty meal. Many thanks.” After Oberoi took leave Jasmine went with him to see him off in his car. I said to Vivek “I know Oberoi.” “I noted you seemed cross with him.” “No. I was only surprised to see him. I told you I have a past. It’s Oberoi.” Vivek said “As agreed I won’t ask further. Won’t you tell Jasmine about your knowing Oberoi?” “I will. All in good time! And I’ll reveal my past also to you.” * The sixth floor of the high rise apartment complex was now occupied by Modi. The postman rang the bell and said “I’m new to this locality. These 2 letters are for Jasmine.” Modi said “She doesn’t live here any more. Ask in the apartment’s office in room 24 below.” The next morning Modi started for a walk and joined old man Xavier who lived on the ground floor and would also walk at the same hour. Modi said “Xavier you’ve lived here since the apartment was commissioned. Did you know a Jasmine? Even yesterday there were letters addressed to her from various charitable organisations. They were obviously seeking donations.” Xavier said “Yes. She lived in the sixth floor you now occupy.” Xavier paused and added “There was some romance associated with Jasmine. There was an Oberoi on the 3 rd floor. I was told they came to know each other when they got stuck in the lift for an hour. After that it seems they would often meet. It was said their romance was an open secret.” Modi said “Very interesting. Please tell me more.” Xavier said “I can only tell you about rumours that spread.” “Please tell me.” “Jasmine was quite a good looker and besides Oberoi, one Jagjit who lived nearby fell for her. They say she didn’t care for Jagjit. Jasmine’s parents fixed her wedding with someone. Jagjit spread news that she had been intimate with Oberoi and the wedding was cancelled. Thereafter her parents went back to their provenance. Despite her being attractive she found no suitors. Subsequently they say she snared an old moneyed fellow to marry.” “Did Jasmine have an affair with Oberoi?” “You’re asking me a very difficult question to which I’ve no answer. All I can say is Oberoi was a nice man to move with. I’ve heard Jasmine was also very good natured. Jagjit they say was a bad type and it seems was later involved in some smuggling case. Ask Sen in the second floor. He could tell you further as he had worked as Jasmine’s colleague .” Modi met Sen and brought the talk about Jasmine and letters which kept coming to his address. Sen said “There’re mischievous elements everywhere and reputations are spoilt. Jasmine was wronged but she is now happily married.” END

I “Can you hold this for me?” “Of course.” A house of cards is an unstable thing, but I’m happy to help. I hold the Jack of Hearts as she lightly places another card on top. II “It’s swaying. I need you to hold it here too.” I nod as I watch the cards quiver and gently pinch the Queen of Spades. III She slumps on the table, the bottle of wine half-finished beside her. Her sobs shake the table as I desperately grab blindly onto cards, trying to keep the structure upright. “Can you help me?” I ask. I wish I didn’t have to, but I only have two hands. I can only do so much. She shakes her head before burying her face deep into her arms. The words are muffled but I can still hear them. “I can’t.” “But you can.” I say, the cards threatening to fall. “Start by holding one card and we can steady it together.” She reaches out and my heart rises with hope, but it’s the bottle she reaches for. IV She sits across from me, slumped in her chair. Her eyes are dry now as she drinks from another bottle. The house of cards lies between us, precarious. I’m holding my breath, my lungs tight. They ache for air, but the cards are too delicate. Too ready to fall at any provocation. She lifts a hand towards the King of Diamonds and pushes it forward. I want to reach out and catch it but it’s already too late. The King’s eyes stare up at me, pleading with me to pick him up. But I can’t. My hands are already full. V She pokes a card loose and watches the tower tumble. Watches me scramble to fix it. The Four of Diamonds falls with the Nine of Clubs. They circle around each other as if they were dancing. “Stop it!” I cry as I snatch them up. I throw them back onto what is now more of a pile than a house built with intention. My skin burns with anger and frustration. She looks at me, eyes wide with shock. The large bloodshot orbs grow wet with tears. I pick them up and try to rest the two cards back together, to show her I can fix it, but she turns away from me and begins to cry. “I’m sorry.” She does not answer. VI I watch her aimlessly throw cards onto the table. It used to be a house of cards but now it’s just a mess she won’t pick up. I feel helpless. “Maybe glue would help?” She shakes her head. Her eyes never leave mine as she blindly drops the Two of Hearts. I cringe as it falls uselessly through the air, spinning with the friction of empty space. She smirks at me. I feel like I’m going to vomit. VII I stand at the doorway. I cannot bring myself to sit with her. The cards on the table blend together so I can no longer tell them apart. “I need you to help me rebuild it.” “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” She looks betrayed. “But I need you. I can’t do it without you.” “I love you, but I can’t help you anymore.” I turn to leave but I can hear her begin to cry. I hesitate, my heart heavy with guilt. What kind of a person abandons their friend? I think about turning around. About helping her try to rebuild it one last time. She hiccups and sniffles back the tears. “Selfish cunt.” I step forward, leaving the room and the table and her house of cards behind. I step forward and relief washes over me. I walk towards my own house of cards, so fragile and new. A house of cards I built with love. A house of cards for me, formed by my own two hands. A house of cards built from forgiveness and understanding. A house of cards that I know will become even stronger as it grows. The guilt constantly bites at my soul as I think of her alone in that room, but I had to leave. Even if I don’t often believe it.

Ananya bit her cheek just hard enough for the salty sweetness of blood and saliva to wash across her tongue. The pain and swelling receded as she released the flesh to meditate on the flavours that skimmed across her tongue. “Eat, child.” Velka’s scolding was muffled through Ananya’s cotton-stuffed ears. “You will never learn the flavours of the world if you do not experience them.” Ananya focused on the coolness of air flowing across her tongue as she quelled her frustration with a deep breath. She was one-and-twenty this past spring. No longer a child, though the news had yet to reach Velka. Eyes still closed, Ananya reached for a bowl in front of her. She’d caught a glimpse of the offering before she’d taken up her place in the small ceremonial hut, though that glimpse offered no clues. Each bowl bore a hodgepodge of foods that had been mixed and mashed and mixed again until its contents took on a shade of brown, grey, or beige. Ananya’s task was to identify the ingredients within each dish; to attune to the flavours of the world. Once she had distinguished the flavours and their sources, she would meditate on clan Gartvrung’s future alongside Velka and Naritsa. As one of the clan’s three oracles, their meditations would guide their dreams. Dreams that, if carefully nurtured, would steer Gartvrung from danger. Ananya was honoured to be an oracle. The Sensati--oracles of the five senses--were only born to the northern clans, and only one clan one hundred years ago had ever claimed all five senses among their Sensati. But Ananya was a Linguata, a Sensati of the tongue, and it was well-known that taste was the most useless faculty through which to divine a clan’s future. That did not stop Velka--the clan’s long-standing Aurata--from chastising Ananya to eat. Velka attuned to her divinations by listening to the fire crackling, cloth and skin chafing against the rough rugs on the packed-dirt floor, and the chatter of clansfolk passing by outside. Ananya’s attunement was not so pleasant. Holding her breath, Ananya took a delicate sip of the soup-mush in one of the bowls. She gagged. There was something fatty and lumpy to the mix, a dried herb like thyme or rosemary and...she gingerly moved her tongue through the sickly silky mixture. Yes, there was definitely something rancid in there, lending a sour, musky flavour to the slop that clung to her breath as she inhaled. It would not be the first time that the clan’s cook tossed a mish-mash of inedible scraps and long-forgotten dry goods into one of Ananya’s attunement soups. Hoping that Naritsa, the Vidata, was looking elsewhere, Ananya did her best to quietly spit the food back into the bowl. Someone snorted--undoubtedly Naritsa--and Ananya felt heat crawl up her neck and cheeks. “If you are laughing, then you are not attuning,” Velka said with practiced disdain. “If you are not attuning your senses, child, then you are risking the safety of all that depend on you. What will you tell our people when someone lies dead because your sight was consumed elsewhere?” “Forgive me, elder,” Naritsa whispered. Velka scoffed. “Ask not for forgiveness from me, but from Gartvrung.” “How do I--” “Shush, child! Focus on your attunement and stop disturbing mine.” Ananya did her utmost to conceal the smile blooming across her lips. She could not know if Naritsa saw but-- “Eat, child!” Ananya prepared herself for dreams just as she did every night. She bathed with the other Sensati in the hot springs, plaited her hair, and stuffed her ears with cotton. Once the candles in her family’s hut were snuffed out, she began the Linguata meditations: drawing her tongue from cheek to tooth to palate. As she did so, she was meant to dwell upon the clan’s future: Would Gartvrung’s stores last through the coming winter? Would allies or enemies poison their elders or leaders? For Ananya, the practice felt utterly futile. Assuming she predicted something more pivotal than a future meal, she had few means of determining when a prediction would occur. One year, she successfully predicted that the cook would serve stale bread for a feast. She realized the prediction was manifesting moments after the bread was served to over a hundred of their closest allies. She informed the cook, triggering an argument between said cook, who wanted the bread removed, and the chieftain, who didn’t want to appear disorganized or sloppy. Ultimately, Ananya and the cook were the only two who noticed the bread was stale. The chieftain had done his best to ignore her since. So, this night, when Ananya’s thoughts drifted away from clan matters, she held very little concern that it would lead to the Gartvrung’s downfall. In any case, her thoughts weren’t terribly unrelated to the clan’s future. Simply put, rather than meditating on the taste of her own mouth, she meditated on the taste of Darvik’s. The chieftain’s son had kissed her two days ago, and the memory of that kiss still glazed her tongue even as she drifted off to sleep. For as long as she could remember, Ananya tasted the future in her dreams. As a baby, she dreamt of the warmth and creamy sweetness of her mother’s milk. When she got older, she tasted dirt and snow and all the other things that young ones stick in their mouths. For the last five days, she had dreamt of herbal stews, the delicate sweetness of watered-down mead, and sour berry tarts drizzled with syrup. These predictions were always correct: the clan’s cook had served the same meal for dinner the past four days. Tonight, though, she dreamt of something else. A salty, warm, musky flavour that coated and filled her mouth in an unfamiliar way. It clung to her tongue and palate long after, and was only washed away by a sweet, burning acidity that left her tongue numb. The numbness lingered for some time, until a burst of salt, heat, and metal washed her senses. The dream repeated itself twice more than night, broken once by her usual dream this week--this time with particularly tart berries and watered-down syrup, which indicated that the cook was finally running out of the provisions required for this week’s meals. Ananya spent most of the next day puzzling over the new dream and each flavour it conjured. Her inspection of the cook’s stores revealed very little, though she was certain the second flavour was a particularly strong brandy concealed behind three barrels topped with bushels of sage. Ananya nearly missed the bottle, which, she surmised, must have been the goal: there was no dust on the bottle and it appeared half-drunk. This small victory gave her hope, but the other two flavours remained mysteries despite her best efforts. She considered speaking with Velka--the older woman had surely tasted many things in her fifty years--but that conversation would inevitably lead to an examination of Ananya’s thoughts and meditations. While this would not usually be an obstacle, Ananya would be forced to admit that she had not meditated on the clan’s future in quite some time. Unless, of course, the elder considered Darvik’s dimpled smile and broad shoulders to be of critical importance to Gartvrung’s future. No matter, Ananya’s dreams and predictions had never held any importance for the clan. She sorely doubted that would change anytime soon. Darvik returned from the hunt two days later. He was covered in blood, grime, and a dusting of snow, but Ananya saw only his beaming smile and the redness that dappled his cheeks. He winked at her as he passed, and she nuzzled into her scarf to hide the blush it elicited. She forgot the strange dream that plagued her sleep, her mind consumed with the curve of Darvik’s lips and the strength of his arms. That evening, as the sun gilded the snowcapped mountains and glittered across the frosted ground, Darvik led Ananya into the woods. “I’ve been thinking of nothing but you for the last four days,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers as he reclined against a towering pine far from the village outskirts. Ananya tasted his breath as it clouded the small space between them, the memory of their kiss a flurry across her tongue. He cupped her cheeks and brushed his lips against hers. Ananya’s heart fluttered like prairie grasses caught in the late autumn breeze. “I want more, Ananya,” he said. Seduced by the savoury tang of his mouth and the heat radiating from his body, she nodded. She hadn’t a clue what ‘more’ entailed, but how could anything objectionable arise from something as sweet as this? Her breath caught as he traced her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “I want you to taste me, dream about tasting me,” he muttered, his breathing skimming her neck and jaw. A coy smile tugged at her lips. “We’d have to do a lot more kissing.” Her breath caught as he nipped her earlobe. He chuckled into her ear. “It’s not my mouth I want you to dream of.” Ananya smoothed her skirts and ran her hands along her hair, patting away her frayed edges. She took a breath and sucked her tongue at the lingering taste of him. He’d taken his pleasure with her and then claimed business elsewhere, leaving Ananya hungry and wanting and empty. She swallowed her shame and picked her way back to the village, all the while mulling over their tryst with a hollow heart. Darvik was more interested in her dreams than in her . That evening, as the other clansfolk prepared a feast, Ananya joined the Sensati in their attunement. She was just as distracted now as before, and despite Velka’s prodding and scolding, ate very little of her grey sludge. The elder shot her a look of concern before slipping out of the hut and into the dancing lights and music of the village centre. “Let me guess,” Naritsa said, joining Ananya in the doorway. “Darvik lured you into the woods to act out one of his little fantasies?” Blood rushed furiously to Ananya’ cheeks. “There’s no shame in it. Well... not for you. He did the same to me last month.” She heaved a sigh. “I suspect that if Velka were a decade younger, he’d have tried with her, too. I swear that boy’s mother dropped him as an infant. If only I could see the past as well as the future, I would prove it.” Ananya snorted. “He does have a rather oddly shaped head.” Naritsa smirked and covered her mouth to suppress an obscene giggle. “That’s not the only part of him that’s oddly shaped.” At the feast that night, Ananya and Naritsa sat on a log by the bonfire, trading swigs of brandy stolen from the Cook’s kitchen and grimacing as it seared its way down their gullets. With time and inebriation, their snickered gossip about Darvik and the other young men of Gartvrung grew boisterous. Eventually, Darvik could no longer pretend to ignore them. He appeared flattered, at first, but it soon became clear that they were not fawning over, but ridiculing, him. “Ladies,” he said on approach, sizing up the small women from the log they slouched on. “Sensati,” Naritsa corrected, drawing out the word. Ananya held back a drunken giggle and snorted loudly instead. Darvik noticed. “Sensati.” He began anew. “Whatever you are talking about seems unbelievably amusing. I’m sure we would all like to join in your merriment, if you would tell us what it is you find so entertaining.” He beamed as he spoke, but the stiffness in his eyes and jaw betrayed him. “You would not find it so amusing,” Ananya said, her jaw clenched as stiff as ice. “Oh?” Darvik said, crouching down before them to meet her eyes. “Why so suddenly upset?” A wry smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “Something leave a nasty taste in your mouth?” Ananya’s nostrils flared, her heart raged against her chest, and she opened her mouth. The words on the tip of her tongue would have soured his mood and seared his pride. But she didn’t speak them. Because, suddenly, there was an arrow protruding from Darvik’s throat, his blood spurting into her mouth, across her chest, and over the glowing, fire-lit snow. Naritsa shrieked. Ananya froze, every hair raised at the familiar warm, salty, metallic flavour that coated her tongue. Darvik clutched at his throat before crumpling to the ground. As the chaos quickly unfolded around her, Ananya had a brief burst of pride: she’d finally predicted something useful.

He waits outside, his breath short within his lungs and his hands constantly patting down his sides. It's cold outside, and he wore a heavy button up jacket he received from his mother for Christmas, though he had lost weight since he had last been home, and it was a little large. He seems to be a child dressing to play grown-up. The wind blows slow but steady, reaching his uncovered ears, but the blood stays settled throughout him. He refuses to give in to the cold and wait in the lobby. She'll be there soon anyways, he theorizes, as his heart pounds against his chest with the thought. He does not want to admit there is an inkling of doubt within the back of his mind. She walks out, and he acts like he wasn't watching the door. She smiles at him, though it seems out of place to him. She wears a bright red overcoat, with large buttons that remind of of a blood red moon he once saw when he was a young boy, on the farm. He smiles in exchange and opens the door to his car for her, trying his best to abide by the faltering rules of chivalry. The restaurant is quiet, and they sit at a table in an isolated corner, out of the sight of prying eyes. He orders quickly, not caring for the food here, but knowing she'll enjoy the atmosphere. She takes her time, politely chats with the waitress, an older lady who wishes she was anywhere else, but still smiles. They speak quietly, her eyes holding his attention more than he thought they would. Her eyes are a deep hazel, much deeper then his. He wishes his eyes were better suited to hers. Conversation is wide, with topics of family and life before the city drawing each others attention. He watches carefully as her lips form each word, the movement strangely mesmerizing him. The food arrives but neither takes notice, choosing to bid the waitress only a small smile and a passing "thank you". She has a salad, with all the parts looking as if the had just been freshly plucked from the garden, the greens being unnaturally tender and the tomatoes a full, bright red. They reflect up into her eyes, burning them brighter. His order is of less importance. The conversation continues, but slowly hollows out as he prefers just to watch her movements and subtilities that accompany her. He wishes he could be as attentive to the conversation as to her movements, but one must suffer, and her beauty is more engaging then his voice. He wishes his voice was more suitable. The meal passes as with the time, but he doesn't take any note of numbers. He notices her voice straining over the lack of response, and her eyes wishing for more then her own words, but he is unable to reciprocate. The red overcoat is put on, his over sized button up, and they head out the door. He positions himself to block her from the wind, but only by habit of attempted knightly practice, and she does not notice. The time is late, and she has to be off early the next day. The drive home is quiet, with conversation trickling out through obligation. His attempts to speak are obscured within his mind before given a chance to form. Her hands lay across her lap, and his thoughts of speech were sidetracked by the thoughts of holding those hands, and keeping her warm. They arrive at her place, and he leaves the car running. She undoes her seatbelt, and they bid farewells. She leans in, though it seems obligatory, and he follows her lead. Her lips are soft, and she tastes of nothing. They hold here, and he finds himself wishing to stay in this second. He pulls away, unsure why. She looks down, and exits the car. As she walks away, he watches. She does not notice. He pulls away from here grudgingly. Home is minutes away, but that does not matter. He continues to drive, constantly, throughout the night. There is no music or sound, just his thoughts. His thoughts are empty, thinking only of nothing. Thinking only of the unanticipated sweetness in nothing.

I thought he was dead, but there he was, right in front of me on the street, smiling at me. It can’t be. My mind was racing. I saw them bring his body up from the boat. It was a boating accident right before our wedding. He had insisted he wanted to have a bachelor party on a boat, middle of the sea. I wasn’t comfortable but he had insisted. Think about it, no naked girl would be popping out of any cake, he had laughed. There were eight on the boat and my brother was one of them. He had hired for a whole night, Friday. The plan was for the group to return on Saturday and our wedding was on Sunday. The relationship has not been easy for both of us. He was very good looking, had a high paying job as an investment analyst and an attitude to match. I was just a country girl, who had arrived at the city, lost. I was offered a job as junior copywriter at an advertising firm. It was a dream for me to work for the advertising firm. It was during one of the events organized by my firm for his investment company that I had met him. My dislike for him was instant. Maybe I just disliked handsome men. I was told that I needed to liaise with him for the press release for the event. Tried calling him a few days before but when the line got through, he just said that he was in a meeting and that I should call later. Many more calls and I still could not get the press release from him. I tried calling the firm’s PR lady, however, she was also unable to help as he was the person to approve the contents of the press release. Finally, when I got him on the line, he tried to brush me off again and that was when I said `Actually, I am standing outside your office and if I do not get that document now, I am barging in.’ It was a threat, no doubt, but it worked. He looked up through the glass door of his office, saw me standing with my hands on my hips and within next ten minutes I received the press release. `You must be very tired,’ I heard a voice and turned. There he was with a glass of champagne in his hand, giving me that cocky look. `You must be very tired for you have been running in my mind since that day,’ he completed his sentence and started laughing. Such arrogance! I just moved away to another corner. The event was going well. Guests were mingling, networking. I saw him talk to groups of men in rich suits. It was almost midnight. I went searching for my boss. She was talking to a few people from the investment firm. I called her aside and told her that I was leaving. She asked me to take a taxi as it was nearing midnight. I nodded and turned and wham! I bumped into him. He must have been eavesdropping, for standing that close. I apologized and walked out when I felt someone pulling me back. It was him. He smiled and started leading me out of the room, holding my elbow. I felt like a little child being dragged away after doing something naughty. Tried pulling my arm away but his hold was very tight. I didn’t like it but walked quietly. As soon as we were on the pavement outside the hotel I shrugged free. `What’s wrong with you?’ he demanded. `I just want to talk to you.’ Some girls who walked past us looked at him and whispered something among themselves. I felt a little jealous but kept a straight face. `I need to go home,’ I said. `I will drop you off,’ he said signalling the valet. In a few minutes, the valet brought a gleaming black BMW. He opened the front passenger side for me to enter then walked to the driver side and sat down. I told him where I lived and half hour later he dropped me outside the house that I shared with my housemates. As I was about to get down he casually leaned and kissed me, full on my lips. Shocked, I almost stumbled. The following few months saw him drop me off after work. My housemates were green with jealousy. He was like the hero out of Mills and Boons romance novel. Tall, handsome and rich plus he knew how to manipulate women. A few times he tried to get me to his house. I said no. He asked me why. I told him that in my family, the women do not go to men’s house before there were any type of ties. He understood, I presume, for the next day, he proposed with a diamond ring. I was shell shocked that it took me a good 60 seconds before I said `Yes’ to him. So, I was his fiancée. With the new relationship in place he asked me to move into his home, a sprawling home on fifteen acres of land outside the city. He had a stable full of high breed horses, a few more expensive cars. As soon as I started living in with him, things sort of changed. I had an expensive car to drive to and fro work so he didn’t drop me after work anymore. I also dined with many of his clients after work. Those people seemed to have some kind of business dealings with him. Many a night I had to be up to help him type documents or send emails. Although I was quite aware of what was going on, I did not have the full picture nor I bothered to ask him. Life was good and rich. I kept my salary aside and at times helped my parents and brother back home. My parents worked on our farm while my brother was pursuing his degree in engineering at the university in a city nearby. One night after sending off the last email, he sat beside me on the sofa and casually said let’s get married. I turned and looked at him. He raised an eyebrow. I said okay. The next few weeks saw me coordinating the wedding preparations. My best friend Debby was of great help. He was immersed in work, that at times we hardly met for days. Something kept thugging at my heart for I felt it was strange that he spent long hours alone in the study, talking on the phone and at other times just sitting, staring at the night sky. The wedding drew closer. My mum was very happy. She had her own list of invitees. Dad had his, so did my brother. Then a week before the wedding, he told me that he wanted to have his bachelor party, at sea. At sea? I argued. He argued. Finally, I gave in when he promised to include my brother in his list of invitees for the party. The group left on Friday evening from the city pier. I received a photo from my brother showing the group having fun under the night sky at sea. There were only men. No naked women prancing on the deck. My phone kept ringing but I didn’t hear. I had a very late night, putting things in place for the wedding the next day. Finally, I woke up from my deep slumber and picked up the phone. It was an unfamiliar number. Hello? The voice on the other side said so many things that my mind could not register. I only heard `Come to the city pier. You need to identify someone’. How I reached the city pier, I had no idea. There were ambulances and police cars everywhere. A Coastguard vessel had docked in. Paramedics were bringing someone on a stretcher. Oh, my God! It was my brother. My heart almost stopped. He had burn marks on his arms and they had put oxygen mask on his face. I stumbled and felt someone hold my arms, steadying me. I was in a daze. Then they brought him up. He was all burnt. I could only see the engagement ring on his left hand. That was his. The Coast Guard chief told me that they tried to revive him on their vessel but he had died on the way back to port. I was trembling. No, tomorrow was our wedding. How could he go like this? The next few days were all in a daze. Instead of a wedding we had a wake. His funeral ended and I moved out of his house. What happened after that, I have no idea. I returned to my parents’ farm and stayed there ever since. It has been two years. My brother had a difficult recovery but the family supported him. He did not want to talk about the incident. All he said was he was asleep when the boat went up in flames. Yesterday I returned to the city to attend a job interview. There he was, right in front of me on the street, smiling. He gestured me to walk with him. I paced faster and reached his side. He took my hand into his. We walked in silence for a moment, then he turned to me and asked,’ Have you moved on?’ `Do you think I could move on? I did not know what happened. Our wedding became a wake.’ `I came to put your mind to rest. You needed to know.’ We walked a good ten minutes. The street was crowded, so we had to weave through throngs of people. At times, allowing people to walk between us. He told me that the blast on the boat was planned. Something about an investment gone sour. The client was not happy. He found out that the client was linked to a cartel after the deal fell through. But it was too late to recover the investment. But when he discovered an unusual device on the boat,in the galley, he had covered it with his own body so the damage to others would be minimal. Yes, he was the only fatality that night. The rest seven including my brother survived, though some had bad burns. My eyes welled up. Tears started streaming down my cheek. I wanted to hug him badly. Two years of not knowing had finally come to a closure. I turned to hug him. Only I was there and the crowd. He wasn’t anywhere. I looked around. There were people everywhere but not him. Who did I just speak with?

&#x200B; Wooden blocks and trains lay scattered across the living room rug. Danny Flores’ six-year-old granddaughter, Sophie, was obviously bored. She had abandoned the toys Danny had hoped would keep her entertained and was whimpering to her parents that she wanted to go home. “There’s nothing to do here,” cried Sophie. “How about we go for a walk?” suggested Danny. “I saw some pretty wildflowers growing on the ridge at the end of the road.” “Maybe we should be going home,” said Danny’s son. “Sophie likes her regular routine after dinner. Anything different can make her cranky.” Danny looked around for something that might interest a six-year-old. The walls of his house were meant to look rustic, like a log cabin. They were decorated with old saws and mining tools, but he knew those only scared Sophie. “Hold on a minute. I’ve got something to show you that I think Sophie will like,” said Danny, jumping to his feet and scurrying toward his bedroom. He came back carrying a heavy lockbox the size of a toaster oven. “I bet I know what’s in there,” said Danny’s son with an eyeroll. “Tell me you’re not going to get Sophie obsessed with the whole silver and gold thing.” Danny set the box on the living room’s coffee table and turned a dial to unlock it. “You know that gold and silver are the only things that hold their value,” Danny said to his son as he opened the box’s lid. “If the worst happens, a number on a bank statement won’t buy you anything. Same thing with your paper money.” “I know, I know,” said Danny’s son as if he was already bored with the conversation. “But I’m not here to give you a lecture,” said Danny. “I want to show Sophie some beautiful things she might like to hold.” Danny fished through the box and pulled out three large silver coins. He set them on the coffee table, one at a time. “These are one-ounce rounds. Sophie, come and look.” Sophie walked to the short table and stared down at the three coins. “You can pick them up if you want,” said Danny. Sophie examined each coin, turning them over in her hands to admire the designs on the front and back. She stacked the coins on top of each other and listened to the sound they made as she clanked them together. “What do you see on them?” asked Danny. “There’s a lady, like the Statue of Liberty. And there’s an eagle on the other side. And this one has a koala. And this one has a skier.” “That’s right,” said Danny. “The one with the koala came all the way from Australia. And the skier is to celebrate the winter Olympics.” Sophie continued to run her fingers over the coins as Danny described how silver was mined and how money used to be made from silver. “Which one of those coins do you like the best?” he asked his granddaughter. Sophie thought hard about it before saying, “The one with the koala.” “Would you like to keep it?” “Can I really?” “Sure,” said Danny, thrilled by the excitement in Sophie’s eyes. “You can’t give her that, Dad,” said Danny’s son. “It’s worth too much. How much does an ounce of silver cost these days? Twenty-five dollars?” “It’s okay. I want her to have it. Look how excited she it,” Danny said with a chuckle. “Now she’ll want to come over to her grandpa’s house more often. Won’t you Sophie?” Sophie nodded her head as she stood up, clutching the koala coin close to her chest. “How about you come over next week and I’ll have more coins to show you?” “Can we Dad? Can we Mom?” Sophie asked, turning from one parent to the other. “We’ll see,” said Sophie’s dad. “I better dig up some things she’ll like,” said Danny with an eager grin. “Now Sophie, don’t let your parents try to tell you that the roads are bad and you can’t visit next Sunday. It’s the middle of the summer and the roads are in great shape.” In the middle of the next week, Danny drove his pickup truck into downtown Bozeman to visit his favorite precious metals supplier. Liberty Coin was a small shop with bars over the windows and three long glass display cases. A thick metal door guarded most of the inventory, which was not on display to the general public and only revealed upon request. “Hey Pete,” Danny called to the store’s owner. “You looking to buy or sell?” Pete called back. “Buy. Something kind of special. I showed my granddaughter some silver rounds and she liked them so much, I give her one. So now I’m looking for more silver. Coins with interesting designs.” “You gonna keep giving them away?” “I was kind of planning on just showing them to her. Maybe I’ll give her one more.” “I’ve got some neat ones with tigers on them. Or how about a ?” Pete pulled out a few silver coins from one of his display cases. Danny picked them up carefully by their edges. “Yeah, these are perfect. Give me a Silver Dollar and a tiger. And now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve got a chance to teach my little Sophie some important lessons. Like how much more gold is worth and how bigger is not always better. Maybe she’ll listen better than her dad.” “What do you have in mind for these lessons?” asked Pete. “I’ve always wanted to get one of those quarter-ounce gold coins. I could use it to show Sophie that even if it’s way smaller, it’s still worth 20 times what an ounce of silver is worth.” “Pretty good lesson if you ask me,” said Pete. “I’ve got one of those quarter-ouncers right here.” As Danny held the small coin in his hand, he felt the same gold fever he always did when handling the glowing metal. He left the shop with over $500 worth of new gold and silver in his pockets. Sophie and her parents were back at Danny’s house on Sunday. Sophie asked to sit next to Danny during dinner. “Can you show me more silver?” asked Sophie sweetly, as she passed a plate of cornbread to her grandfather. “As soon as we’re done eating,” Danny answered excitedly. “You’re going to love what I found for you.” Sophie’s big brown eyes grew even bigger to show she could hardly wait. She and Danny moved to the living room coffee table while everyone else was still eating dessert. Danny carefully presented the Morgan Silver Dollar and the tiger coin. “What do you think of those?” asked Danny. “Oh, they’re pretty,” cried Sophie, picking up the silver circles and watching the light reflect from their surface. “That one used to be used as a dollar,” said Danny. “But now it’s worth a lot more. You see the lady on the front side? That’s Lady Liberty.” Sophie continued to play with the coins as Danny happily explained how a dollar used to be worth a dollar because of the amount of silver in it and how silver was mixed with copper to make the coin harder. “You know, a silver dollar is pretty big, but bigger isn’t always better. Now I’m going to show you something made out of gold.” Danny pulled the quarter-ounce gold coin from his pocket and laid it next to a one-ounce silver round. The gold circle looked small in comparison. “That’s real gold,” said Danny. “Wow! It’s pretty too,” cried Sophie. “If you look close, you can see Lady Liberty on the gold, but this time she’s standing. And on the back are a nest of eagles.” Sophie studied the gold carefully and said, “Yeah, I see them.” By this time, Danny’s son had moved over to the coffee table to listen to his father’s lesson. “Now gold costs more than silver. A lot more,” continued Danny. “So let’s see if you can figure out which one is most valuable. If I was to let you choose to take one of these coins, which one would you choose?” Sophie batted her big eyes at her grandfather and then studied the coins for almost a minute. Then she pointed to the Silver Dollar. “This one.” Danny laughed and said to his son, “I don’t think she understood my lesson.” “Were you actually going to give her what she picked?” his son asked him. Danny chuckled and said, “Well I guess it can’t hurt to give her the Silver Dollar.” He picked it up and handed it to Sophie. “Here you go.” “Oh, thank you, Grandpa,” said Sophie, rushing to drape her arms over him in a long hug. “Well, that’s the biggest hug you’ve ever given me,” gushed Danny. “I thought you’d gotten too old to give your grandpa hugs.” “No, not me,” replied Sophie. “Are you going to show me more about coins when I see you next week?” “If you want,” said Danny with another chuckle. “But you have to promise me you’ll read about gold and silver before then. Maybe your dad will help you.” Sophie promised she would learn all about gold and silver, but after the next week’s dinner, she did not have any answers when Danny quizzed her about values and weights of coins. He showed her gold and silver pieces anyway and let Sophie keep the silver coin she preferred. Sophie continued to loudly pester her parents about seeing her “Silver Grandpa” and family dinners became more regular than they had been in the past. Sometimes dinner was at Danny’s house and sometimes he had to pack up his precious metals and drive to his son’s place closer to town. He kept trying to get through to Sophie that gold was more valuable than silver. To drive the point home, he cleaned and polished his quarter-ounce gold coin until it glowed from across the room. Then he roughed up a silver coin, leaving it looking grimy. “Take a look at these,” he said to Sophie. “Look how shiny the little one is compared to the big one. Wouldn’t you rather have the gold?” Sophie took a close and thoughtful look. “No. I like the silver one.” Danny laughed and said, “If you weren’t so cute, you’d drive me crazy.” “So can I have the silver one?” Sophie asked sweetly. “Sure. Go ahead.” The Montana summer ended, the trees lost all their leaves, and the first snow fell. The slick and muddy roads did not bother Danny, especially when Sophie called to make sure he was coming to dinner. Liberty Coin continued to supply him with interesting silver rounds, and Danny continued turning them over to Sophie. “You ever known anyone who liked the look of silver more than gold?” Danny asked Pete, his coin supplier. “Can’t think of anybody,” said Pete. “Gold is special. Most people can’t tell the difference between silver and aluminum.” “That’s what I thought, but my little granddaughter is crazy about silver. She likes the look of it more than gold.” “You taught her your lesson about how gold is worth more?” “Lots of times, but she doesn’t seem to understand.” “Why don’t you buy a whole stack of silver coins and put them next to a little gold one. Tell her they’re worth the same. Then she’ll understand.” “Good idea. Give me your best deal on a stack of silver.” When Danny drove to his son’s house that Sunday, he put the tall stack of 25 coins in front of Sophie and then showed her the little piece of gold. “This gold coin costs as much as all of this silver,” he said to her. “So if you had to choose only one of the silver coins or the gold one, which one would you take?” Sophie reached over, and one by one, pulled each silver coin from the stack. She inspected the front and the back. Then she pointed to one decorated with the image of a horse. “I’ll take that one.” “But the gold one could buy you twenty-five of the silver ones.” “I like the horse,” said Sophie stubbornly. Danny smiled and shook his head. “I must not be a very good teacher. I don’t think I’m getting through to you.” “So can I have the horse?” “Sure, take the horse.” As much as Danny loved Sophie and the way she snuggled up to him, he began to worry there was something wrong in her head. What if she could not understand numbers? What was she going to be like as a teenager or a young adult? If she did not understand money or value, she would spend more than she had. People would take advantage of her. One weekend in December, he decided he would make one final attempt to reach her. “Are we going to play gold and silver?” Sophie asked him. “One last time,” replied Danny. On the table in front of him, he placed his gold coin next to a larger silver one. Danny made sure his son was watching and listening. “Now Sophie, since we started looking at coins, I’ve given you 23 ounces of silver. But I’m afraid you haven’t learned anything about what they’re worth.” Sophie stared back at him with eager, innocent eyes. “I’m going to let you choose one last time, okay?” “Okay.” “You understand that Grandpa’s been trying to teach you a lesson?” “Yes.” “And he’s been telling you that gold is more valuable than silver?” “Yes.” “Then why do you keep picking the silver?” Sophie’s face grew serious. “I don’t know if I should say.” Danny chuckled. “You can tell me. Don’t be afraid. Whatever it is, I’ll understand.” Sophie acted like it hurt to get the words out as she said, “If I picked the gold one, I knew you’d stop playing. You’d stop giving me the silver.” Danny leaned back in his chair as he realized what had been going on. He looked sheepishly at his son and then laughed at himself. “You know, I was actually worried people were going to take advantage of her. Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” Danny shook his head and laughed again. “You’re a shrewd one, Miss Sophie.” “If this is really the last time to play, I pick the gold one,” said Sophie. Danny pushed both the gold and silver coins toward her. “Add them to your collection. You’ve turned your Silver Grandpa into your Poor Grandpa.

For the new-year Gregor had decided to give the woman who ran the restaurant he eats at every night a massive tip. Gregor had been saving up for this since the middle of October when it had become clear Sachi and her two children and 3 grandchildren were falling, perhaps they already had slipped and were only waiting with clenched teeth to hit the concrete, straight on their faces into the pavement of poverty. The grandchildren still don’t like Gregor much, but ever since winter fell upon New York the apartment Sachi lives in gets too cold for children to safely stay in for too long, unless they’re wrapped tightly with blankets, so nowadays the children sit in the restaurant and sometimes even eat with Gregor. Times like these, when the whole world feels so sad and desperate, leave Gregor vulnerable to fleeting bouts of good-will and charity, which is what had caused him to decide back in October he’d got to begin saving up for a gift. Every night, for what seems to be Gregor’s entire life, but really for the past two years, Gregor has gone to ‘The Winter Fly’, a restaurant owned by Sachi and run by her and her two children. Every night Gregor leaves work and walks, sometimes walks for quite some time, always going nowhere until he looks up from the ground in front of him, all too suddenly realizing how awful his stomach and head feel, remembering the too sweet smoothie he makes for himself every morning, wondering if tomorrow he’ll make himself a real breakfast of eggs and bacon. So by the time Gregor makes it to ‘The Winter Fly’ his body is drained to near emptiness, so tired his neck droops so low you can see the individual vertebrae running up his curved spine. One of the grandkids thinks, when Gregor slouches like this, he looks like a dinosaur. Always upon entering Gregor looks at Sachi, who used to always smile when he or anyone else would come in; she now only seems to smile. Her eyes move like she's smiling, but Gregor can’t see her mouth. Sachi used to not notice or pay any special attention to Gregor, he was simply another regular at a rather busy restaurant, but since March he slowly became Sachi’s sole patron. Some nights Gregor is the only person in all of New York to visit Sachi and her kin. Gregor has eaten something different every night since he’s gotten to know Sachi better. Ever since Sachi has had no one else to talk to, he’s been letting her just make whatever she thinks best at the moment he walks in. When waiting for his food he used to always order a can of Sprite, which would react poorly in a stomach empty save for milk and frozen fruit; but since Sachi became his friend he drinks the warm, refreshing tea she brings him when he sits down and takes off his mask. Gregor hates taking off his mask in public places, but he noticed a while ago it seems to make Sachi relax a little when he does it, so he does it despite his discomfort. Sachi’s daughter used to make most of what Gregor liked to eat. She somehow kept, even in the rotten streets of New York, an ocean air about her, this daughter. She was the only one out of Sachi’s family who showed any particular attention to Gregor before he was their only customer, an attention born from noticing that every night, at around 10 o’clock, she’d have to make her soup with oysters (this was before Sachi began deciding and preparing Gregor’s food for him, back when Gregor would eat the same thing every night), and an attention that led to some wonderful conversations between the two about the poetry of Masaoka Shiki, some of which Gregor kept on his body at all times, in his small pocket notebook. This daughter had mostly grown up in America, but despite her concrete world she had always dreamed of diving off sharp cliffs into ocean waves; she and the other woman of her imaginary village spending an eternity, day after day pulling oysters with pearls inside of them out from the sea. Even as an adult she’d pass her lonely hours by picturing her and her friends sparkling under the soon to be setting sun, catching their breaths and waving to their husbands and children who sit on the coastal grass, watching the divers, back and safe from the steep cliffs the woman leap from. This daughter used to always prepare the seafood at ‘The Winter Fly’, only she had to stop when she started spending her nights working somewhere where she would be able to make a consistent, guaranteed wage for her family. Since October this daughter has left her family every night to attend some minimum wage job in some awful, disgusting, upscale part of the city. Throughout the bitter autumn’s end and into winter this daughter could be found crunching dead leaves on Manhattan's pretty streets late into the night, traveling home to her mother and brother and sister and children and niece. And on the way home from the fancy restaurant she’s embarrassed to work at, she walks down a dim lit path along the river and stares at the un-lit penthouses towering above her, thinking about how happy her children and niece would be to fly up to the 200th floor of a skyscraper and enter a warm empty apartment; she sees in the high tower’s highest room a wooden bath filled with clear, nearly boiling water. Then she sees herself putting the three kids one by one into the water, and just laughing at how cute they look all lined up in the tub, which makes the kids laugh to see their mom and their aunt so happy, which makes this daughter laugh and smile so honestly she can’t keep up the fantasy any longer, returning to the cold night. ... In an apartment underneath some ugly building Gregor lives with his wife Daisy. He lives a perfectly miserable life. At only 24 years old he feels he has plenty of time to be miserable. But when he and Daisy walk through the park, led by their three pointing dogs who subtly but constantly pull their walkers forwards, Gregor can’t help but feel like he owes something more to life, as if he accepted too great a gift by just being born and now he must repay his debt. The pestilent lurid thoughts of the too conscious mind bother his wife too, to the point that at any given moment at least one of them is likely dealing with a searing headache; they’d met on a subway train when Daisy had noticed how brutally Gregor was shoving his thumbs into his eyes. If only they could spend more time with one another, but things keep them apart. Nowadays, Daisy feels it best to keep a safe distance from her husband, mentally speaking. Sometimes Gregor says things that make Daisy’s stomach sink; a seemingly arbitrary remark will fester into days or sometimes weeks of worry. Like when Gregor started reading about metaphysics and kept telling Daisy that ‘everything is meaningless’, which neither seemed true or important to her, but he kept saying it like it was some great discovery, and Daisy had noticed that since Gregor started telling her and anyone else who would listen that ‘everything is meaningless’, she reckons it's been since sometime in the fall, her husband’s whole posture has changed. Not as if his back has straightened out, but more as if his spine lost its will to fight and like a willow tree it’s left itself to blow the way the wind decides best. She can’t help but feel glad for Gregor, glad he’s finally seeming to leave whatever trance he’d entered when he woke up to life too late in his late teens; but more than that Daisy can’t help but loathe her husband’s willingness to leave her behind, still fighting for air. She thinks about this all the time, him leaving her to the lonely thoughts of depression. So, when they walk through the park Daisy looks at her husband like he’s a million miles away, straining to stare at the lips she loves and knows, familiar lips that spout something nonsensical and scary about how... ‘it’s not that there isn’t a self, I’m not saying you or I don't exist’. Daisy glances down at their dogs, her mind drifting to a picture of her and Gregor, along with their three headed best friend, fighting their way through hell. HS dark cloak covers from his ankles to his nose and the brim of his bucket hat droops so low his eyes are covered by a visor of shadow; she wears a kimono the color of moss, patterned with cherry blossoms. She stabs a sword that’s twice her body length straight into the neck of some infinite demon, she sees Gregor follow their Cerberus into a fiery cave filled with screaming violence, unafraid of the nightmare. ‘What I’m saying is that the self is an illusion, you see, as in, “You are a product of your own imagination.” A figment!’ ‘What did you just call me?’ ‘A figment!’ Every night Gregor gets home at around 11:30, giving the couple only a few hours together before Daisy must leave for work. Usually 3 and a half hours exactly. His visits to ‘The Winter Fly’ always give Gregor energy enough to smile and ask questions and be kind to Daisy, but she knows how hard and long his days are. All Gregor’s fried mind can process is basic entertainment, so the two spend most of their time together watching TV, and it just makes Daisy’s heart melt when she sees Gregor batting his eyes, trying to stay awake until his love must go, too tired to do anything but stare at his own blank mind. But they just watch TV, and sometimes Daisy watches Gregor not-sleep, and when it's raining she sits by their window and watches everything get washed and soaked and cleaned. And every night, the first thing he does when he walks inside their basement apartment, Gregor leaves a bag of food that slowly cools or warms to room temperature on the table by the front door, for his wife to take to work. The food used to always be that daughter's delicious oyster soup, but nowadays she eats whatever treat from the sea Sachi has prepared for her. On the train to work Daisy used to drink coffee, but now, when no one else is in her car, Daisy removes her mask to sip deeply from the tea she asks Gregor to buy her, but that Sachi always gives him. Gregor works for the New York Public Library’s cataloging department, and across town his wife works for one of the city's many hospitals. Gregor works late into the night, long hours, because he’s basically the only person in the city that can do his job. Although, you would think finding books in a modern library is as simple as typing a call number into a computer and then finding the appropriate section where your desired books wait for you. At the least you’d think you could like hire people to take requests from patrons and know the library well enough to quickly find the books. Not so at the public library on Eucalyptus Ave. There, somewhere in its corridors bent to all sorts of inhumane ways, a phantom waits for all who come to take. One time a persistent public school teacher had insisted on receiving a tour of the library’s attic, an idea which Gregor almost begged his department head to snip in the bud, but which ended up happening on a cold May day last year. The phantom had found the teacher, leading to an epic end of the tour: his students passively watching as their once sane instructor was dragged down the library’s front steps by two pale officers, screaming about some made-up government agency that was abducting him so they could inject radioactive liquid into his veins and neutralize/silence yet another enlightened, free soul. You surely want to know why Gregor and the children were not harmed by the phantom, and of course that is the key to it all. When Gregor came into ‘The Winter Fly’ tonight he was surprised to find a young man sitting in the restaurant, eating a claw, a can of diet coke unopened on the table he sits at. ... Malcom’s mom had told him to get a can of diet coke for her from the restaurant down the block. Malcolm hates his mom. With tears just behind his wide young eyes he’d left her rundown apartment for the last time, holding a dollar and ten cents in coins in his hand. ‘I don’t give fuck’. Malcolm kept saying to himself. He likes to have his music at such a loud volume it hurts his ears to even listen. ‘I don’t give a fuck’. Malcolm is only fifteen years old and already he’s decided to kill himself. His mom is cruel and violent towards him, no one cares about him, his only friend is a fat ugly mean kid. When he can’t sleep at night he stares at his phone for hours on end, thinking about killing himself. At least since this last October, so for the past few months. He’d read a few books that mentioned slitting your wrists and lying in a tub, but Malcolm’s family doesn’t have a tub. Despite the obvious opportunities of living in New York, Malcolm thought jumping from anything, building or bridge, might be too much of a spectacle even for his own internal viewer, who was likely to be the only one to know about it anyway. If only he lived by the ocean so he could just walk out onto the beach, take as many of his mother’s pills as he could swallow, and swim out to sea. In his suicidal fantasy Malcolm imagined that when his body fell to the ocean’s floor it passed through some threshold, onto an entirely different life, one where he could swim all day and have friends and a wife and search for pearls beneath the crashing waves in an air of silence. ‘Are you sure that's all?’ the woman asked. Malcolm nodded. ‘Well, please stay as long as you like, it's too cold out there for a little boy!’ Malcolm stopped looking at the woman who kept bringing him food. It smelt so good, but he had to stop looking because both the woman and her food were just too warm, and he’d been out in the cold for just too long. So Malcolm stared at the ground, his music slowly bursting his eardrums, slowly deciding whether he should go back to his mom's apartment, or stay with this woman and her two silent grandkids, or just go starve out in the cold. Out the corner of his eye he noticed the woman leave the front of the store, then he checked to see if the children were still attending their coloring books. He immediately took the opportunity to grab some alien leg out from one of a half dozen delectable steaming bowls, not-smiling while he sucked white meat out from the boiling hot claw. As he prepared for the final bite from what was probably the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten a man walked into the store, and Malcolm immediately stopped eating. ... In his hand is the red envelope containing the new-year’s gift of 1,000 dollars. Gregor notices the boy’s face quickly flush and a calm fade out his eyes. The boy is sitting at the table right next to the entrance and he seems to stare at Gregor with an intense hatred while Gregor listens to the soft music he can hear through the boy’s headphones; this despite the amplifiers being shoved deep into the boy’s ears. Gregor notices the soup the boy is not-eating, each bowl filled with urchin and eel and fish cakes, each steaming like a chimney, and it all reminds him of Sachi’s daughter and the loves she cooks with. Gregor stares at the leg of some twisted dead creature and imagines him and Daisy, with their three dogs pulling them along the way, walking along the high cliffs of lands’ end; above him a gray sky that always rains so the poetry they write gets wet and wrinkled; but that's no matter, he and Daisy write hundreds of poems every day, there’s no time to read them. Gregor walks over to the counter where he can’t tell if Sachi is smiling at him or not, he greets Sachi, accepts his tea, and asks if her children might be in the restaurant tonight. Even though the mask covers her mouth, Gregor now can tell Sachi is not smiling, he can tell she wants to cry. She starts telling Gregor about the boy sitting in the corner who had only just enough money for one soda, but he looked so cold and lonely. And so she’d told him to sit down with her grandchildren, and that she’d make him whatever he’d like so long as he’d stay a bit. In a flurry of excitement, since Sachi had barely spoken to anyone all day, she told Gregor how the boy had just stared at her. Clutching the diet coke he’d bought in his hand, after probably 20 or 30 seconds, he’d finally spoken, and what he’d said touched Sachi in her soul. "My grandmother once cooked us seafood". Sachi said she knew just what he meant, and so that's why, even though the boy won’t eat anything she brings him, she keeps trying to find something he might be interested in. As if that’s why this boy isn’t eating, as if just the smell of Sachi’s cooking isn’t killing him. Gregor glances at the boy once more, takes his food to go, then hands the red envelope to Sachi. The kid seemed to be staring at some blank horror, and Gregor notices the boy’s eyes look like Daisy’s, when the couple walk through the park. ... Inside their apartment Daisy sits by the window, waiting for it to rain. She stares at her phone, scrolling aimlessly, upset by how much music there is out there and how much her friends seem to explore and expand their musical tastes. Daisy just listens to the same songs, over and over again. Tonight keeps listening to a really, quite incredibly sad one: *Candy says,* *I’ve come to hate my body* *And all that it requires* *In this world* On the street above her (she lives in a basement) people are hurrying by, trying to escape the coming rain. Daisy thinks about going for a long walk. *I’m gonna watch* *The blue birds fly* *Over my shoulder* *I'm gonna watch, them pass me by* *Maybe when I'm older* *What do you think I’d see* *If I could walk away from...* Daisy’s singing voice was once described to her by a friend as sounding like someone might sound if a bleeding ulcer rested next to their voice box, but she doesn’t hold back to sing: *“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’.* As the rain picks up, she writes a note to Gregor: she’s got to leave for work early and won’t see him tonight. She wraps herself in the poncho that she’d stolen from the National Gallery of Art’s museum gift shop a few years ago, its pattern a blurry looking picture of a stream. Daisy thinks about whether or not the fact that she stole something from a museum, when like normally you would think if someone stole something from a museum that’d be a major crime, is funny or not. On a train, deep underground, she tries to think of something. She tries to find a song she wants to listen to. But Daisy can’t do it, she doesn’t know what to do. At the hospital she works at people die every day, people die of viruses and cancers and accidents all the time, and here Daisy sits, a young married lady, pleased with the thought her train might stop at some station she’s never been to, hoping it will let her off by the sea. When she gets off the train her stomach growls at her. She has only a few hours till she must be at work. Often people say stuff like ‘you can’t get a bad slice of pizza in NY!’ or ‘even average pizza in NY is better than most pizza!’, but they’ve never had this pizza Daisy’s having right now. It’s not even that the pizza tastes bad, she barely tastes anything at all, just that sitting in some lonely late-night restaurant, terribly alone, tired but with your whole day ahead of you, your whole life just waiting to be lived... Picking at her terrible skin, Daisy doesn’t notice the proprietor of the pizza joint staring at her, watching her as she squeezes and plucks and examines all the tiny brownish , slightly translucent little bugs that grow in her face. While working on an exceptionally small, un-compromising blackhead she’s finally swept from herself by a dream of cold water that washes over her irritated thoughts like a wave; she's floating in a silent forest growing out the seafloor. Although she doesn’t remember it happening, she knows Gregor used to swim down here with her, but as she looks to the water’s bright surface she gazes at her love treading water, breathing in the sunny air above. Daisy looks at her barely eaten pizza, thinking about ‘The Winter Fly’ and what Gregor probably will bring home for her, but what she couldn’t wait to receive. ... Malcolm watches them speak. He can’t believe what he sees or what he hears. The man hands the envelope to the woman, seeming to be thanking her for something. They speak in a tongue Malcolm doesn’t understand. He still was holding the claw he’d taken from the food the woman had been bringing to him, but he no longer ate it. It just hung in his hand, drooping boiling liquid onto the fluorescently lit floor. No one ever gives Malcolm presents, but he thinks ‘I don’t give a fuck’ and starts swiping through his phone to find a new song to listen to. He’d listened to the same 3 songs over 100 times today. But then a panicked voice, and it only gets more surprising when he looks up. Malcolm sees both the man and the woman with their mask pulled down, the man smiling at the woman aghast, the envelope now in the woman's hand and slightly open. Perhaps what came next was just too much to handle. ‘TOO MUCH!’ The woman yells, as she hands the envelope back to the man, but he just smiles and refuses to accept it. ‘It’s TOO MUCH! Please Gregor, my family will kill me! I can’t accept this money!’ ‘You Must!’ For once in his life, or at least for the first time in a long time, Gregor feels triumphant. Not like a king, but like a man satisfied with life, amused by its silliness. ‘Gregor! You are poor just like we are! You and your wife are our best customers! What are you thinking?!’ Malcolm listens closely but understands none of this. He just watches with open eyes as two people haggle over more cash than young poor Malcolm has ever seen in real life, but the oddest thing about an already unusual scene: They both seem to be trying to get rid of money. They don’t want it like it’s something someone is trying to sell you on the street. Only, with every passing second, things get stranger. ‘You Must Sachi!’ ‘But... I.... Gregor!’ Malcolm nearly drops the claw he's holding, watching the woman literally try to put the money in the bag of food the man is carrying out. ‘Sachi! Please listen. Me and my wife owe our lives to you and your family. Without the food you’ve made us, we wouldn't be poor, we'd be dead!’ While their voices calm down and the woman begins to smile and cry, the idea comes to Malcolm all at once. Loud in his ear drums his music bangs against his skull. No more living with mom, no more school. Suddenly Malcolm remembers his cousin even said once, all though it was maybe a year or two ago, that he could live with their family, if only Malcolm could make it out his mother grim place and somehow survive the journey across the country. Before this moment that idea of adventure was just a dream. Neither of them makes a sound, the woman just lets go when he grabs it, and then Malcolm is gone. He barely stops going forward for the next 30 years. He makes it to the west, and ever since and forever more there was and never will be a wilder soul across all the rolling roads of America than that kid Malcolm. He runs out of the restaurant so fast the only thing Gregor and Sachi can make of him, when they finally react, spinning to see the door already swung shut, is the thief’s shadow still moving across the bright white floor.

Kaylee opened her eyes. Before her, an infinite blackness stretched out in all directions, interrupted only by pinpricks of light from what she somehow knew were distant stars. She was dimly aware that something about her had changed, but couldn’t quite put a finger on it. It was then that she realized she didn’t have a finger; She had no body at all. She tried to remember where she had come from, but could conjure only hazy memories that flitted away almost as soon as they came. She realized she should panic, she should be afraid, but no such emotions would come to her. “Hello,” someone said in a voice that seemed to come from all around her and from nowhere. The voice was neither male nor female, loud nor soft, here nor there. ”Hello?” she responded. “Sorry about that” the voice said. “Sorry about ... what?” “That existence. It wasn’t what I intended.” “Oh.” Kaylee was silent for what seemed like a long time, before venturing to speak again. “So are you... umm...” ”Yes.” She thought again for a long time, and realized she had always known there was something- some*one* out there. It was true. It was real. It was *all* real. Something was real. Kaylee couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before she spoke again. “How did I... uh... get here? What is... here?” The voice didn’t immediately respond, and she worried that it was gone. Long moments passed; or perhaps centuries. It was really impossible to tell. Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, came a response. “Well, there is no ‘here’ anymore. There isn’t much of anything for you anymore, I’m afraid. It’s very hard to explain. As for how you got here... your existence is at an end.” “Oh. So I’m dead?” “If you want to think of it that way.” From the tone of the voice, it sounded as if the being was shrugging. “Regardless, this is the end.” ”End of what?” ”Earth. Life. The Universe.” “Everything?” Kaylee was afraid just for the briefest of instances, before realizing there was nothing to be afraid of; Not anymore; Not ever again. “Everything except me” came the matter-of-fact response. ”Oh.” For a long time after that, Kaylee merely existed. Or perhaps she didn’t. She wasn’t sure about anything anymore. As she stared into the infinity ahead of her, one of the distant points of light blinked out. She stared at the spot where it used to be, then after another long wait, another one disappeared, then another, and another. Something like fear gripped her, though she was sure there was nothing to be afraid of. ”So what happens now?” she asked. Another long silence. “I will start over. Everything begins anew.” ”And... to me?” There was a momentary pause, as though the voice was considering how to respond. “Hmm... Do you remember where you were before you were born?” ”No...I guess not” Kaylee admitted. ”You’re going back.” ”Oh.” She focused on the little distant dying stars. They were going faster now, one or two a year. “When do I go?” she asked after a hundred centuries. “‘When’ is not a concept I deal in. To me, you are already gone and have been gone for longer than your mind can comprehend. ” “So...” Kaylee struggled to comprehend what she was being told. “I’m already gone?” ”Yes” “Then there’s not really anything to worry about” she concluded. “There never was” the voice assured her. After eons upon eons of watching, the last point of light diminished and disappeared. Every photon in the universe had been exhausted, leaving only black. After a millennium of utter darkness, Kaylee tried to remember what her existence was like before she came here, but her memories betrayed her, faded away just like the rest of the universe. Realizing there was nothing to hold on to anymore, that there was nothing to be afraid of, Kaylee let go at long last. As the energy that had once been Kaylee dissipated into nothingness, returning to the void from where it had come, she voiced the final thought of her existence to anyone or anything who was still listening. “Well, that’s the end of all that then, isn’t it?” And it was.

CW: bears and swears “You sure we’re going the right way?” Jon asks as the Land Rover bumps along the rutted dirt road. Though it’s only late afternoon, the tops of the trees stretch overhead, their limbs intertwining like fingers to form a dark canopy that filters out the light. “I’m fairly certain,” Andreas says, with a hint of a Swiss accent. “Though...” he pauses as he holds his phone closer to the Rover’s moonroof. “I’m not getting any signal here.” “Kara,” Jon says, glancing in the rear-view mirror to the red-headed, thirty-something woman the backseat. “What do the directions say?” Kara unfolds a piece of paper and scans it. Join the Dartmoor Company Retreat We’ve arranged an exclusive, private campsite, only 1 mile from the Cheat River launch site. Authentic backwoods ambiance on the border of West Virginia and Pennsylvania. Food, fun, and teambuilding, plus a wild ride on class IV rapids! Directions: Take Cheat River exit, Right on Hemlock Hollow for 15 miles Turn left onto dirt track (look for sign ‘Naskar Park’) for 5 miles “We’re going in the right direction, we passed the Naskar Park sign a while back,” Kara says, meeting Jon’s brown eyes in the mirror for a second, before he looks back to the track, slowing the Rover to make a tight turn in the road. “How many miles to you think--" “Shit!” Jon breaths out as he slams on the breaks. The Rover’s front bumper rests a few feet from a large tree laying across the track. “Can we get around it?” Andreas asks. “No. There’s not enough--” BOOM! “Christ!” Andreas says, his head level with the glove box as he crouches down in the passenger seat. “What was that?” “I think it was a gun. A shotgun,” Jon says, as he slowly sits up from his hiding place behind the steering wheel. TAP tap Heads swivel to the driver side window, where a gun barrel raps against the glass. “Eh, didn’t mean to scare you,” The man with the gun smiles broadly. His gaunt face is topped with a camouflage hunting cap and anchored by a wiry red beard flecked with grey. “You here for the campsite? It’s not far.” He says, slinging the gun over his back. “I’m Ned, the caretaker, I’ll take you there.” The Dartmoor team exits the vehicle, stretching after the 3-hour drive. They introduce themselves to Ned as they shoulder their backpacks. “What are you hunting?” Andreas asks. “Oh, well I wasn’t so much hunting, as protecting,” Ned says, as he climbs over the trunk of the tree blocking the road. “Protecting? What are you...” Jon’s voice trails off as he straddles the tree trunk. Four deep grooves, about six inches long are etched into the tree. Dark red droplets run from the grooves onto the ground. “What is that?” “Eh?” says Ned, returning to the tree to see what Jon is staring at. “Oh, well, that’s most likely Nokomis, the Werebear. She gets ornery during a full moon, like a werewolf. So the locals have taken to calling her the Werebear.” “Oh, right, of course. There’s a fanatical bear roaming the woods, near our campsite,” Jon guffaws as he slaps Andrea’s back. “This your prank, Andy?” “It most certainly is not.” Andreas says. “I already did my prank for this year, and it scored very highly indeed. This...” he points to the fallen log and bloody claw marks, “seems more like your kind of thing, Jon.” Jon scratches behind his ear, mussing his wavy brown hair. “Could be Kara.” “I told you, I’m not participating in your stupid prank contest. It’s so juvenile. I hope Andreas wins, so you’ll finally be dethroned," she says, mock bowing at Jon, “Captain Maturity.” They follow Ned for a few minutes until they reach a small campsite with a firepit and a six-person tent. “You can put your gear in there, “ Ned says, pointing the nylon dome. “Just make sure you don’t have any food or smelly stuff, like chewing gum or coconut-scented lotion.” “Is this the only tent?” Kara asks. “I was hoping I’d have my own.” “Uh, yup.” Ned replies. “Your boss said she’d join you tomorrow, for the Whitewater rafting. So it’s just the three of you in there for tonight. It’s good for camaraderie and team-building, is what she said.“ He continues, “It will be getting dark in a few hours. If you want, you can take a walk. Stick to the trail though, and be back before the sun sets.” They dump their backpacks in the tent and head down the trail, boots crunching the leaves and snapping small sticks. Kara inhales the earthy and slightly musty smell of wet foliage. "It's good to breathe fresh air. " "Hmm. Yes, though it's not as pure as the air in the Alps," Andreas says. "That whole Werebear thing," Jon says, kicking a pinecone down the trail, "that's a prank for sure. And Kara, you only have a few weeks left to get your prank in. You must want to get Andy and me back for what we did." "I beg your pardon," Andreas says. "My prank was very tasteful, and quite beautiful." "I was picking fake snow flakes out of my hair and keyboard for weeks," Kara says. "It was totally biodegradable paper," Andreas says. "It's not as if I bruised your ego like Jon did. With that fake journalist interviewing you about your fascinating sourdough recipe." "Whatever, I'm not interested in your stupid games any....oh look!" Kara says, “Puffballs!” A cluster of spherical brown mushrooms, the size of small tangerines hunker on the right side of the trail, each with a black dot in the center of its dome, like a small puckered mouth. Kara picks up a stick and pokes at one. A sickly yellow-green smoke rises out of the black dot, spewing spores into the air. “Is that safe?” Andreas asks. “Yeah, I think so.” Kara says. “I mean, I don’t think they’re hallucinogenic or anything.” She rocks a rotting log with her boot. “As a kid I loved walking in the woods. Finding puffballs and weird insects, like roly-polys and thousand-leggers.” The log rolls aside, making doodle bugs and millipedes scurry for cover. The rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker on the trunk of pine tree is interrupted by an eerie wail, like a dove and coyote duetting in the distance. A flash of movement between the tightly packed pines catches Jon’s eye. “What was that?” he asks. “What?” Andreas and Kara ask in tandem. “You didn’t see it?” “What did it look like?” Andreas asks. “I only caught a glimpse. Looked like a person with dark, braided hair, wearing some kind of animal skin outfit, maybe?” The wailing sound echoes softly, again. “We should be getting back,” Kara says, “It’s getting dark.” When they reach camp, a crackling fire burns in the pit, sparks spiralling up to the full moon. Ned serves chili and cornbread on metal plates as they sit on logs circling the pit. Jon breaks out a bottle of whiskey, pouring large shots into tin mugs and handing them round. “How was your walk?” Ned asks. “Really good, I saw puffballs," Kara answers. “But we heard something strange, like sad singing, and Jon saw something that might have been a person, with a black braid, moving through the pines.” “That so?” Ned says. “Well, that was probably Nokomis, daughter of the moon. Pour me some more whiskey and I’ll tell you a story.” “Nokomis belonged to ‘those who keep records of a vision,’ the Chippewa, clan of the Nooke," Ned says. "They had travelled many moons from the Land of the Dawn, where the sun rises from the salty sea. Here they found fish, and deer and bear. On a full moon night, Abeque gave birth to a girl, Nokomis. Nokomis grew strong and tall, and talked with the animals in the wood, the birds, the stag, the bear. One day the chief said, 'she is a witch’ and he chased her into the forest.” Ned takes a slug of whiskey, before continuing. “He hunted her for seven nights. Then on the night of a full moon, he saw her standing in a small clearing, and readied his bow and arrow. Sensing danger, Nokomis shape-shifted into a bear. The arrow struck her chest, but did not kill her. Though she bleeds from her heart every full moon, and wanders the wood in a rage, seeking revenge on brown-haired men.” Andreas and Jon look at each other, wondering whose hair is browner. “Well, you’d best turn in, you have an early start tomorrow.” Ned says, standing up and handing them a flashlight. "I'll come back in the morning." Jon flicks the flashlight on, shining an unsteady beam toward the tent. He unzips the front flap and they duck through the opening. Kara, the last in, zips the flap as the men remove their boots. They sit on their sleeping bags drinking the last of the whiskey while watching the shadows jump and dance along the nylon walls as the fire burns lower. Eventually they settle into their sleeping bags and close their eyes. An hour later, Jon sits up quickly. “You hear that?” “Go back to sleep.” Andreas says, groggily, turning in his sleeping bag. Aaaa waaa aaah laaanaa layaa Andreas and Kara sit up, holding their breath as they listen to the strange lament. “It’s getting closer,” Kara whispers. A crack of branches breaking just outside their tent. A snuffling sound as something heavy paws at the ground nearest Jon. A hulking shadow stretches up one side of the tent, outlined by the dying embers of the fire. Steam rises in small puffs from the creature’s mouth, as its heavy, laboured breathing fills the ears of the occupants. "Land Rover, now," Jon says as he pulls on his coat and fishes in the pockets for the key. A thundering roar shakes the tent, filling it with the putrid smell of rotting flesh. Kara’s fingers slip as she tries to unzip the front flap. Jon's side of the tent shreds in long strips as four sharp claws puncture the nylon and draw downwards. "Kara, open the damn tent!" Jon screams as they huddle round her. She finally unzips the flap and they stumble over each other, running barefoot in the dark towards the Land Rover. The ghostly song follows them as they trip over branches and rocks. They reach the Rover and pile in. Jon starts the engine, turns on the headlights and backs down the narrow track. At last they reach the sign at the top of the road. Naskar Park In the backseat, Kara is laughing hard, doubling over. “Oh, oh man. If you could SEE your faces.” Andreas and Jon turn to look back at her. Then Andreas starts laughing. “What’s so damn funny?” Jon asks. “It’s an anagram,” Andreas says pointing to the sign, illuminated by the Rover's high beams. Jon considers the letters, arranging them mentally into possible words. “Shit," he laughs, “Kara's Prank."

Jameson pushes the curtain back with the barrel of his gun, he glances out at the sea of white. The snow has stopped for now but it is a stark reminder of how unforgiving this land is. He looks over his family, trying to ensure confidence with his protective stare but the feeling of desperation creeps in like the frigid draft from between the cracks. The tales of the mythical stranger appearing this time of year plagued Jameson's thoughts. How was he to know when? At what time of the night does this demon come. The sun had been down for at least two logs now, it was late, but he could not let the flames die, nevermind banking the coals for the cold, cold night ahead. "How long do we have to wait husband? The kids are exhausted." "Send them to bed mother, Garrison and I will keep watch." Jameson replies, motioning to the sleeping area. "You know the little ones are terrified, they won't be able to sleep at all." Mary Elisabeth replies in a whisper, adjusting the blanket surrounding the baby in her arms. Garrison enters the dimly lit room after scouting the sleeping room. With axe in hand he stands at attention by the fire. "Father, you should lay with Mother and the children, I will keep watch, we can take shifts." Garrison's tall, limber body glides over to the window and peers out. Jameson contemplates this strategy for a moment when his concentration is broken by Emma, the middle child. "Who is it Father? Who is coming for us?" "It's nothing!" Snaps Jameson "It's just a tale from the old country, theres nothing to be worried about." Jameson places his musket next to his station by the window. He picks up Emma and tries to comfort her. "Hows this young one? Mother will tell you an amazing story about our travels across the great sea to start our brand new life and you can fall asleep while your brother and I make sure we have something warm to eat in the morning, we'll sit and watch the fire tonight." Emma leaning on Jameson's shoulder replies "But I don't want to go to sleep, I'm scared he will come get me in my dreams." "Come now lass, no more scary stories." Jameson demands "That is but an old tale of the Kruger from the old country, he cannot get you here so far away." "He comes in your dreams Father, you could be anywhere and he can still get you." Emma resists. Jameson reaches out his hand to the seated Mary Elisabeth. "Come now ladies, time for bed, your brother and I will keep the fire lit." After ushering Mary Elisabeth with baby into the bed, Jameson lays Emma down next to them. He kneels down face to face with his daughter and in a soothing voice promises "Now you be a big girl and stay here with Mother and your sister. Theres nothing to be scared of, you have your brother and I out there watching over." "Yes Father." Emma timidly replies. Jameson exits the room, pulling over the curtain as Mary Elisabeth and children get situated in their beds. Jameson returns to his post by the window and glances out again, noticing the snow has started once again. Garrison stares intently at his father, taking a hefty gulp from his horn of whiskey. Observing the fear in Jameson's eyes, Garrison wonders what could possibly terrify a man who had spent days out in the freezing wilderness, tracking a deer to feed his family. Who knows what horrors he saw out there ponders Garrison as he takes another pull, passing along the vessel to his father. "What is it Father, really?" Garrison pleads. "No one knows son, not really anyway, it comes in the night." "So it is the Kruger!" Exclaims Garrison. No, no son, tis a tale as old as time but goes by many names. Old Stewart said that a shipmate had seen it once when they were out on a merchant ship, in the vast of night. The shipmate told Old Stewart that this demon flies from house to house in one night, on the wings of devil dogs in a sled made of bones." Jameson continues "This Demon steals your provisions and brings coal. No one knows what it wants or why it does such things." "He brings coal?" Questions Garrison "But we can use that right?" "No son, this coal is said to burn only smoke as black as pitch, tis of no use to us." "How do we kill it?" Garrison asks resolutely. "I'm not sure we can son." Jameson states as a matter of fact. Jameson takes another pull from the whiskey and passes it back to his son and sits back for a moment. The fire begins to burn a little brighter casting an intense light throughout the room. A distant sound brings the men to their feet. Garrison tightens his grip on the axe handle, motioning the head of the rusty axe towards the fire, alerting his tired Father. Garrison now realizing that his Father had been up for days with this routine, watching over his family every night for weeks. Jameson stares blankly up towards the ceiling trying to see with his ears. He looks over at his confused son "It is like the Angelus of the church, a thousand of them!" Garrison exclaims, staring intently at the window. "I know this sound." Jameson recalls. "The Hessian immigrants had them in their dances in the town square back in Shoreditch." "Stand fast! It comes as but a specter!" Jameson grabs his musket and props it to his shoulder. The flames of the hearth are crawling higher and higher, a welcoming column up the radiant chimney. The men standing wide-eyed and unsure of what to do next. Emma, startled by the noise, peers out behind the curtain. Her eyes become fixated on the size of the dancing flames. "Back into the room with your Mother!!" Jameson demands, shouting at his hypnotized daughter. Garrison lashes over and pushes Emma into the room. He holds his finger up to his mouth desperately trying to command silence from his erratic Father. Garrison points to the ceiling with the axe as they hear footsteps on the roof. Jameson's eyes are nearly popping out of his head, trying to be quiet "It must be a hundred men up there...an army...we are no match." The men are still as they wait in terror. A silence washes over the house for a moment then a maniacal laugh rips through the air. "HO HO HO!" It screams A rock bounces down the chimney and the fire explodes outward from the hearth, a plume of black smoke engulfs the room. Garrison lunges toward the fire and takes a mighty swing with his axe, chops through the smoke, and hacks at the stone as the head of his axe flies off. Jameson flies back to his musket, knowing it was a mistake to leave it by the window. He hurriedly cocks the hammer and unloads a screaming blast in the air. In an instant, almost as soon as the muzzle flash has rescinded, the tumult is over. A portion of the wall between the rooms has a hole blasted through it and Jameson becomes terrified of what he might have done. He drops the weapon as he rushes to the threshold, pushing Garrison out of the way. Garrison, reels around and is quick behind his father, also weighing the possibility that his father might have just shot his mother and sisters. Jameson opens his mouth to call out but is taken aback with such confusion and relief that he cannot believe what he is looking at. Garrison pushes his father to the side to get a clearer look. He takes a step forward and with his footfall his sleeping sister awakens, raises her head and with a rub of her eyes asks "Father is it still night time?" Emma is now cradling a doll that he cannot remember ever seeing before. Mary Elisabeth and the baby are still asleep but now the baby is clutching a small carved wooden dog. The men try to regain themselves. "Back to sleep little one, it will be morning soon." Jameson whispers as Emma is happy to lay her head back down. The men turn from the bedroom and try to look around the house, trying to asses any damages and perhaps find a meaning to what just transpired. Jameson heads to the kitchen area to inspect any changes. The carrots and biscuits have been taken but beside the shelving unit lies a shiny new axe. Jameson picks it up and walks toward Garrison with the handle extended. He hands it over to Garrison knowing in his heart that it was granted to his son. They hear the bells once again and run to the window to see if theres anything of their visitor that they can still see. They can't see anything from the window so they rush outside. They observe no tracks in the snow and stare once again at the roof to see if theres anything from all the footsteps they heard. The bells jingle again and Jameson and Garrison locate the sound from beyond the roof. That laugh rings out again. "HO HO HO!" This time it seems more jovial. They wonder if it was like that before, might they have heard it differently? Up in the distance they see the silhouette of a sled being pulled by reindeer through the sky. A large man sits gracefully in the sled and raises his hand, waiving at the astonished men. Standing frozen in the snow Jameson and Garrison are beyond comprehension of what they are seeing, all they can do is wave back.

His name was Steve, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He pictured himself growing old with her, while she grew old with him too. But he couldn’t grow old. Being immortal had its downsides. Now was his seven hundred years birthday and he was staring at her picture. He begged her to come back. He thought he heard her voice when he shed a single tear and a slight breeze called him from the sea. **Two** He thought he heard her voice when he shed a single tear and a slight breeze called him from the sea. The windows of the room were open, and it would be a beautiful sight if he weren’t dying. But he was dying. He was alone in the room, with wires spread all along his arms, and needles through his skin. He had that heart surgery, but apparently that new heart wasn’t working either and no doctor was able to tell the reason. The heart was beating irregularly, like a disabled man trying to walk. The heart was broken, so they tossed it out. The man watched the sun go down as he breathed his last breath. **Three** The man watched the sun go down as he breathed his last breath. He woke up and the room was full of light. There was something unrecognizably fluffy under his feet, like he was walking on cotton. A woman dressed in white was staring at him. “Is she here?” he asked. “No, she’s not”. “Where is she?” “She’s never been around.” “I’m coming back.” “You can’t go back.” “I can’t stay here either. I have to go back to her. I have to go home.” She smiled. “Don’t be silly” she said. “Home is where your heart is.” **Four** “Don’t be silly” she said. “Home is where your heart is.” He smiled to her, remembering an old song from U2 that had a verse somewhat like that one. He was holding his sweatshirt - which he didn’t even recall having. It had been with her for months. -You sure you can’t stay with this? - He asked, shaking the sweatshirt stupidly - I won’t ever be able to use it again. -I haven’t stretched it that much. - She said, pretending to be offended and repressing a smile, which he noticed. -It’s not about that. There’s your perfume all over it. She blushed and her eyes filled with tears. -Nah, you’re gonna work it out. - Now she pretended to smile, repressing a tear. Which he noticed. -Yeah, you’re right. See you later. - He said unleashing a smirk. Once she turned her back, he started crying. **Five** Once she turned her back, he started crying. He couldn’t let her leave like that. He wouldn’t let her leave like that. -Please, please. - He yelled, running after her and grabbing her suitcases. - Stay. Please. -Not anymore, Henry. I can’t do this anymore. -I’ll change. -You can’t - She turned to him, picking up her baggage. - Neither can I. I’m sorry. - Her voice was hurt, and that was what truly hurt him. It cut his heart and soul and left him stranded by the door while she got in the cab and left. He would never see her again. **Six** He would never see her again, and that was why he was holding her so tight. -Do you swear you’ll come back? - She wouldn’t. -I do, honey. It’s only for six months. - It wasn’t. -Do you promise to remember me every day? - She wouldn’t. -Of course I do. There’s nothing or anyone who can get you outta my head. - There was. -No French guy? - No. -No, you silly, no French guy, or American guy or any other kind of guy. - Yes. -I’ll miss you. - True. -I’ll miss you too. - True. She had a nice life in Paris. **Seven** She had a nice life in Paris. She had a boyfriend and a dog; she was living with her parents and hanging around with good friends. Nothing could go wrong and she would never get hurt because she couldn’t feel anything. Till a night a guy came along, and he had a broken heart. She realized she also had a heart, and her heart didn’t fit in Paris. Then her heart didn’t fit in the world. But her heart fit on his. But he was broken, then so got she. Then he left her back in Paris, and she hoped Paris would be enough again someday. He left back to the world, wandering brokenly ever after.

Albany, New York. 2018 “Now you’re sure you want to give up the house, Mr. Butler?” The older man smiled at the question and nodded. “None of my siblings are around anymore and the kids don’t want it. I can’t take care of it anymore, I know mom and dad would want it to go to a nice couple like you. Especially with your baby on the way.” I smiled as I shook his hand and he handed me the keys to the house. The farmhouse was a gorgeous yellow color with grey accents. The house was surrounded by beautiful trees, though one stood out to me. “That tree looks younger than the others,” Noah commented. My husband was an expert on all things nature, especially trees. “There’s something else about it. I just don’t know yet.” He shrugged as he carried our things into the house. The inside had been recently redone to look more modern, but Mr. Butler left some older paintings on the wall. “Isn’t it crazy, Evie? The man said that four generations of his family have grown up here,” My husband asked me. I nodded, thinking of all the stories that must’ve happened here. Noah started to put things up inside, while I looked around outside. I looked up at the tree I had noticed before and it felt like it was calling to me. I examined it carefully when I spotted a sliver of gold inside a crevice high in the tree. Determined, I started to scale it, reaching for whatever was there. I grabbed a hold of it and pulled it out to discover a very weathered book. I opened it up to discover the name Alice Rioux written within, the Rioux was crossed out and Butler was underneath. I smiled to myself, realising it must belong to Mr. Butler’s mother. I turned the page to see a journal entry with the date, ‘April 5th, 1939.’ I sat there, reading through the pages until my husband called for me then returned it to its resting place. “You won’t believe what I found, Noah. He smirked, “What?” I told him about the journal I had found. “I guess that tree was special.” After we had unpacked everything and had takeout, I returned to the tree and continued reading. “You shouldn’t climb like that when pregnant,” Noah called out from the kitchen window. I just shook my head and kept reading. I had already read halfway through the journal from sitting there for only half an hour. I had learned that she lived her entire life in France, before moving to America when she was 21 and marrying her husband. She had a sister who lived in America as well, though she didn’t seem too fond of her. I also found out that the tree I sat in was the tree they planted together, and I couldn’t help but feel connected to her. As I continued to read, I found out that she got pregnant at twenty-two, the same age as me, and had a daughter, Violet. She had a total of four children, Mr. Butler was the youngest of them. Everything about her intrigued me, and she just felt so special to me. I was interrupted from my thoughts by my husband shouting my name. This time I brought the journal with me so I wouldn’t have to climb. “You enjoy your day of reading,” He chuckled as he kissed me on the cheek. I nodded and handed him the journal. “I’ve been thinking about names,” I stated confidently. “And what are you thinking, love?” “I want to name her Alice, Noah.” He smiled and nodded, “I like that name. Alice.” Albany, New York. 1939 “Not what you expected, Ms. Alice,” A local farm boy chuckled behind me. I sighed. The breeze hit my face harshly as I walked up to the falling apart farmhouse. “Edith called it a fixer upper but I would be better just tearing it down and building it up again,” I muttered. A good portion of the roof had caved in and the porch looked like it was rotting. I looked back at the boy, smiling like a fool, before I finally decided to enter the house. The inside was just as bad. Mold and rot were everywhere. There was a couch, which I guessed was older than me, falling through the floor. “So where are you staying till this place is fixed?” I took a deep breath, since Edith didn’t mention the state of the house I had planned on moving in immediately. “I have no idea,” I told him. I was starting to tear up, realizing how lost I was. Edith would never let me stay with her. She probably planned this out as a way to make me go back to France and leave her alone. “Hey, don’t cry, you can stay with me on my farm,” The boy piped up. I looked at him in confusion, this kid looked sixteen, he must’ve meant his family’s farm. Noticing my confusion he spoke up,” I’m not that young. I’m eighteen and I inherited it when my parents died.” I thought about it before realizing how insane it was. This boy was a stranger, and I hate the outdoors so why would I want to live on a farm. However, I didn’t have many other options. “What’s your name?” He smiled at me, “My name is Mickey. Mickey Butler.” “Well, Mickey, we should head home, “ I grinned at him and opened the door of my car for him. He seemed starstruck for a second after entering the car. “This is pretty fancy, Ms. Alice.” I chuckled. “Thank you and please just call me Alice.” He gave directions to his farm, which was only a mile away from the house. His house stood on a top of a hill, surrounded by trees with fields below it. It was painted a faint yellow with white accents and was in much better condition than the home I just left. As the two of us left the car, I could hear barking as three dogs ambushed us. “You three quit it, we got guests,” Mick scolded them. He ushered me towards the door, shooing the dogs away. The house was decorated beautifully, with rose colored walls and paintings I would expect to find on display in France. All the furniture had intricate carvings, and everything was cleaned perfectly. “Everything here is beautiful,” I exclaimed. I could see Mickey getting red from the compliment. “My mama brought everything with her when she moved here from France.” I smiled, “Your mother was French.” He nodded as he took my bags upstairs. I followed him to a small room with a twin sized bed and couch. It was simple but I couldn’t complain since he offered me his home for no few. I got all my things settled into my new room, and once I was happy with my new setup, I headed downstairs. “Hey, I’m making dinner. Are scrambled eggs alright with you?” I nodded before taking a seat at the table. “Oh, over on the counter there’s a seed for you.” I stood up, thinking I misheard him, and walked over to discover there in fact was a seed. “Why is there a seed for me,” I puzzled. He served dinner and replied, “Papa said you should plant a seed when you have new beginnings. Thought you could plant it on your new land.” I thanked him before eating my dinner. After we ate dinner, I went straight to bed since I had a long day ahead of me. I woke up with the sun and packed my day bag. I went downstairs to find Mickey already awake. “Good morning,” he greeted me as he headed out to the fields. I followed him, letting him know I would be gone for the day before driving off to where my sister lived. She shared a small apartment intown with an older man, who she said was never home. She seemed almost a little shocked when she opened the door and I was there. “I thought you got on the first boat back to France, Ali.” I smirked, “After discovering the ‘perfect’ house in ruins, a local boy agreed to let me stay with him till I have things together.” She rolled her eyes and groaned, “It’ll take months to fix up that place. You’re better off in France.” “Well, I’ll hire people to take care of it and I’ll get a job to help pay for it and pay Mickey back for letting me stay with him.” She laughed, “No job you get is going to pay for all that and you told mom and dad you didn’t need your money.” I could feel myself getting angry and decided to leave. I got even angrier when I realized that she was right. I decided to return defeated to Mickey’s farm. He waved from the fields as I drove up, and it made me feel a small bit better. I would miss him when I went back to France. Edith was right, I couldn’t live here, I had no idea how she managed to live here without our parent’s help. “Is everything okay, Alice?” I hadn’t even noticed him come up to me. “I’m afraid not. I can’t afford to get the house repaired or live anywhere else so I’m going to sell it and go back home. He looked shocked. “Absolutely not. You could’ve just asked, I’ll help you fix up the house.” I shook my head, “You’ve done too much already without me paying you.” He thought for a second, “ You can help around the farm. That’ll be your payment to me.” I knew he wasn’t going to let it go so I agreed. So this is how Mickey and I worked for the next six months. I would tend to the farm while he worked on the house. He made me dinner every night when he got back, and we repeated this everyday except for Sundays, when he wouldn’t let either of us work. He started taking me to farmers markets to sell produce and we would go out to eat using some of our earnings afterwards. We got very close over this time, so close that he proposed to me. I said yes and we got married soon after. We sold the old farmhouse, and used the money to renovate the house. I found the seed in one of my bags one time and remembered what Mick had said. I feel like the seed really did represent new beginnings, and I thanked it for the fortunate turn of events. Mickey and I planted it together next to the house, in the midst of the other trees. “It's a dogwood tree,” he told me as he planted it, “They’re beautiful in the spring.” He rubbed a bit of dirt on my face as I swatted away his muddy hands. “I love you, Mick.” “Love you too, Alice.”