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Allura 52

“You have the ability to achieve great things, Cody. This is why I’ve chosen you to help save the Fading Vale.” He listened to the ham radio and sat with his mouth open. The voice started the day before, calling out his name from the small speaker. He didn’t respond but after hearing the panic-stricken voice say his own name he was forced to reconsider. Cody had considered just turning it off and pulling out his dusty console but the radio kept calling to him, especially when the voice sounded so desperate. He waited several minutes, hunched over at the table in the garage, for another crackling message but there was only static. The older man didn’t sound like anyone he knew and he spoke as if he were in a fantasy novel, talking about a “corruption that plagued the land.” The boy placed his finger on the off switch when he considered the first words that were spoken on the channel. The older man’s tone was filled with desperation and sadness, “I know you can hear me. Our time is drawing nigh. You must take heed. Our world is fading and soon yours will too. The magic of the Vale is diminishing. I have traveled across all planes of existence-” Static had interrupted and flooded the channel. At first, he was weirded out by the message, backing away slowly and going back to his room. It was a little bit creepy and somewhat odd. But he found it much more curious when he returned the next day with a notepad. His father wouldn’t notice it missing. He was too busy to even notice him when he was there, sitting on his chair in the living room and watching a game. Cody had sat at the workbench all day waiting for another transmission. He was slumped over with his hand on his cheek when the static popped and he perked up. “-must find them all. Grand Wizard -- The Helm of Shadows has given me the ability to see into the great beyond and instill objects in your realm with magic.” This time the voice was choked with lumps. “Woe to our kingdom, woe to the valiant and to our peoples if you should fail. The sacred objects have been transmuted from my world to yours, to open a portal into our world. Only a person pure of heart can use them and I’m afraid there are no more in mine. Seek them out and bring them together.” The man then spoke his own name and the boy stood back, mouth agape. A line of ink on the paper showed where he had stopped writing and scrawled across the page. The last word was “the Fading Vale.” What did it mean? It couldn’t possibly be a real place. It reminded him of a fictional land only existing in fairy tales. He wanted to chuckle but the pronunciation of his name was too eerie. Before he could turn off the radio the elderly man spoke behind a wall of static, “-objects may seem trivial but they are very important. I have imbued them with the five facets of existence: physical, emotional, social, spiritual, and intellectual. These can be found near-” More static. “You’ll know- when- them.” He adjusted the knobs and pressed the speaker on the mic. He remembered the lingo his dad taught him, “Come in, this is Cody. Come in. Do you hear me?” When he received nothing back, he held his head in defeat and stared at the words. “Five facets of existence.” He said aloud. What did he mean? It was rather silly to belief in such fairy tales, especially when he was taught to never talk to strangers. There had to be some way to figure out if any of it was true. What was the harm in trying to find out? His father called from the kitchen, making him jerk. He’d ask Cody what he was doing and had the same reason, “playing with the radio,” which was the truth. It wasn’t like he would care. Rules, even if they were for his own protection, were meant to be broken. He made it into a game. Find the secret artifacts and save the Fading Vale. Real life was better than video games anyways. He looked around the garage, a room filled with tools and gadgets he didn’t fully understand. It was like a sorcerer’s lab, with racks for wands (screwdrivers) and containers of mystery. Surely if the wizard enchanted some random object it would have some importance to himself. It would have meaning. A box was sitting near the back door marked “Toys.” He pulled it out and opened the lid, furiously digging through the contents. All the toys brought back tearful memories of regret. His 10th birthday present, just last year, a small basketball, was sitting near the top. When he held it, he had nearly forgotten about the hours he spent throwing it at the hoop in the back. He bounced the ball, not as springy as it used to be, and rubbed his finger over the dirt spot on the side. It did feel like an artifact from a bygone era, a physical artifact. He set the ball on the workbench, having a new appreciation for the lost item. There was a smile across his face. He ran to his room, eager to uncover the secrets that had been forgotten. The dusty gaming console was sitting under the TV in his room. Nothing good had ever come from this except frustration. He looked around the mess, his clothes and blankets were jumbled together on the bed. There had to be something here of importance. Crouching he pulled things from under his bed, quickly rummaging through the unsung posters and toys. Each of the toys didn’t feel like they had magic properties. He didn’t know how he could tell but they somehow felt empty. He turned to the closet and noticed the collections of chains and necklaces. One of them did stick out, the necklace with the shark tooth. They had been at the beach when he got it, the sand was hot and the wind was warm that day. It had been one of his happiest family moments. He sat on the sand for hours, taking in the nice weather and meditating on the waves that crashed against the shore. The shark tooth dangled when he put on the necklace. He placed his palm over it, feeling a connection in his soul that steered him towards his desk. A composition notebook, with sketches and loose papers crammed inside, was sitting upright between several other books. He took it out and all the papers fell out. He cursed but then saw the notes that he had written in the open pages. They were from his math class. He flipped the page and saw notes from science class, and then drawings he made in art. It was all here, all of the things that he was supposed to know, all the knowledge passed down from his teachers. In the margins he had written his own interpretations and daydreams of the lessons from school. If there was anything in his room that was importance this would definitely be one of them, an “artifact.” There was a note on one page that not written by himself. It was written by his best friend, Stevie. In class they had shared a lot of things like pens, papers, and notes during a quiz but the thing that had brought them together in the first place was when he let him have a piece of gum. He pulled the gum pack from the jacket laying on the bed and held it up. This is what had brought them together and a tool he could use the break the ice to make other friends. The package glimmered in the light. He walked to the kitchen after giving up on searching his room for any other “magical” auras. He thought he heard his dad’s voice from the living room but he wasn’t there. He walked to the counter where he had left his pocket watch. It had elaborate engravings and when he popped it open, he saw his father’s initials. Instantly he lowered the watch and his eyes glossed over, to know that anyone, let alone his father, would give away something so personal. All the shame, guilt, and intimidation for doing bad things went away. He clutched it to his chest, feeling his father’s love, and that perhaps he wasn’t just the bad things and that he was a good son after all. If he saw him crying though, he would throw a fit. He put the watch in his pocket and went to the garage. As he laid the objects out in a row, he saw the meanings of them all at once and almost did cry if not for the absurdity of it. The wizard of the Fading Vale would be pleased, if he wasn’t consumed by the corruption already. But as he stared at the objects, he wasn’t sure how they were supposed to work together. The ball, the pack of gum, the journal, the pocket watch, the necklace, were they supposed to be combined? The radio was static. Maybe he had failed. Maybe the magical universe was gone forever. But then he heard rumbling near the garage door. A burst of light seeped in as the grumbling came louder, followed by the mechanical sound of the creaking door, being opened from the other side. When he moved his hand from his face, he saw his father standing there with a look of surprise. The door was fully open now and the sun was shining in. “Oh, hey kiddo. What are you up to?” Said his father. Cody smiled from ear to ear and said nothing. His father picked up the small basketball. He stared at his son with a look of playfulness, something Cody hadn’t seen in a while, and handed the ball to him. “You want to toss it around?” “Sure dad,” said Cody, turning off the radio. As they left the garage through the back a gust shuffled the leaves around the garage opening. A booted foot stepped out of midair, followed by a wooden staff that clattered on the driveway.

THE MYSTERY IN THE MALL Aisha and Ahmad are twins. They were well brought up by their parents. The parents made sure the twins never lacked anything especially EDUCATION because it is the key to success, the sword to conquer injustice, the tool for empowerment and the shield against oppression. Nevertheless, the children on the other hand, also try their best in making their parents proud. However, Mary the eldest of the twins always had a problem of concentration when it comes to studies. She prefers to play around with her friends around the neighborhood or visit her class mates from one house to another. In the school, she fights with the weaker children in the class, tears their books, sometimes she even goes to the extent of misplacing her class mates books. As such this is the main reason why she is always flogged at school and at home. Therefore, Mr and Mrs Abdul decided to take Mary to a boarding school to complete her senior classes. Mary was really excited when she heard about the news of going to a boarding school at least to her own thinking she would be free. However, both parents called Mary and advised her. Mr Abdul told her to be serious and stay focused on her studies, while Mrs Abdul weeping the tears rolling down her cheeks, also cautioned Mary to stay away from bad friends and be a good girl. In the morning, Mr Abdul set out to Mary's new school, because the school authority ordered that parents should bring their children by 2pm . Mary all excited jumped out of the car, when she sighted the gate of her new school. They went to the principal, who directed her to the school matron and they bade good bye The school gave her what she needed for her academics. Initially, the new student behaved like a good one, she woke up early attended classes and did not fight with any students, not until after two weeks One day, while their teacher was in the class room, a student reported Mary of disturbing her with noise for the third time. Therefore, the teacher asked Mary to come out and kneel down since she was not serious with her lessons anymore However, with time, she started coming to lessons late, she don’t do her assignments as scheduled, even the extra mural lessons meant for senior students, she is always absent. Nevertheless, the two twins performed excellently and got promoted. This made the parents so happy, except Mary’s situation of which her situation worsened. As such the principal sent a letter complaining of her attitude, to her parents at home, this made them perturbed However, after three months in school, exams were scheduled and conducted as per the school curriculum. Parents were asked to come and take their children home and also to collect the results of their children. Like any other parents, Mr Abdul came for his daughter. They were so happy to see each other. He hope Mary’s performance has improved. Yes, to his surprised, despite all complains, she did averagely well. The principal encouraged the father on the girl’s capabilities, if she would change her attitude and concentrate. He also promised Mr Abdul, on the change of her attitude positively as the school would try its best to work on that. A week later, the family decided to go for shopping at a mall nearby. All the children were so happy because its been quite long. They entered in to the car and off he drove. On reaching to the mall, the father asked them to behave themselves well. The twins were close to their parents following them anywhere they go. As for Mary, she was busy going from one section to another, entering from one elevator to another happily Few hours ago, the family decided to have lunch, but were was Mary? Suddenly she appeared, the mother asked, were has she being all this while, but she said she was with one of her friends in her new school. They ordered for fried Rice and chicken and all of them sat and were eating peacefully. I want to visit the ladies she said. Alright be fast about it, because after the meal we are leaving because it is getting late. Thirty minutes had gone, and there was no Sign of Mary. Meanwhile, someone was in there enjoying the elevators again, going from one section to another. However, after she was fully satisfied, she decided to come down to meet her family. Mary immediately entered the elevator, and pressed number [1] from the 7 th floor she was descending down from. She was so happy. What is happening, she said to herself? Why is the light off, why is the elevator static? Mary became afraid, she knew she was stuck in the elevator due to power off. She started crying, she was sweating profusely, she observed that she needs air and her breadth is becoming difficult. How long would this take she said to herself? My family must be waiting anxiously! She sat there all alone and no phone to communicate and others had got down already Nevertheless, Mr Abdul became suspicious, something must have went wrong. He asked others to stay in the car. When he entered the mall he too was surprised to see the place dark. All customers were asked to please be patient as the problem would soon be solved. After, waiting for thirty five minutes, the power supply was back and the elevators became active. Mr Abdul his eyes widely open looked around, searching for his daughter, but Mary was walking, slowly gasping for air almost collapsing. Help, someone shouted! Mr Abdul turned and saw his daughter. Mary, what happened? Without requesting for explanation he lifted her and took her home. Shortly, afterwards Mary revived and told her Ordeal to her family members. They laughed at the naughty girl and at the same time felt sorry for her.

“Yep, it’s definitely human remains.”; The Medical Examiner stated. His voice betrayed no sign of emotion. “Are you sure Doc? What could have done THAT much damage to a human body? An eighteen wheeler or a freight train?" Industrial equipment? The nauseous deputy continued to speculate wildly. "Maybe this is from a large animal attack. I've seen grizzlies really maul their prey, but nothing to this level of carnage.” Even fifteen years in the Sheriff’s Department hadn’t prepared him for the gruesome sight before them. "Honestly, it looks like this person has been through a wood chip..." Ralph quickly cut him off before the deputy had a speculative meltdown. “I can’t determine ANY cause of death until we get ‘him’ to the morgue for examination.” “So it’s definately a ‘him’, then?” “Right now I can’t even be sure of that; but at least the corpse is fresh.” “I’ll say.”; Agreed Phil. The deputy held his nose in disgust. His asinine criteria for ‘fresh’ was quite different. The next afternoon, Ralph began the medical examination. Normally he was unaffected by the morbid nature of his profession. Being detached helped him to concentrate on the necessary task at hand. All his patients deserved for their final secrets to be told. If they died of natural causes then they could be buried or cremated with dignity. If their lives were cut short from foul play, then they deserved justice so they could eventually be at rest. When the medical examiner realized the surreal circumstances that ended the life of his mangled patient, he dropped his ham sandwich and dialed the Sheriff’s department with a rattled immediacy. “This is Ralph down at the Morgue, you’d better get the Sheriff over here as soon as possible!” II Meanwhile, the Sheriff’s office conducted an official investigation at the crime scene. The forensic crew swept the area and discovered some very disturbing facts. The first of which was a spiked level of radiation near the lake. The second was a trail of large, reptilian-like animal prints leading down to the water line. Lastly came an even more curious item of questionable value. A perfectly-formed, oblong crystal was found among cattail reeds at the edge of the lowland swamp. Whether it had anything to do with their investigation was anyone’s guess but it obviously hadn’t grown on top of the weeds. In keeping with protocol, the team tagged and photographed it as potential evidence. Sheriff John Wright was too level headed to believe a mutated alligator was on the loose but the collected 'evidence' did point to such a bizarre conclusion! The only thing on his mind however, was what to eat for lunch. When the sheriff heard the dispatcher calling him on the radio, he knew he was in for another missed meal. He responded to the Coroner’s request with all the usual police jargon and was on his way. Sheriff Wright knew the importance of Forensic Science to his police department investigations. He just preferred to learn autopsy results from the comfort of his brown leather office chair. He knew that Ralph Gentry recognized his intense dislike of blood drains, phlebotomy tools, cadaver tables; and the cold lifeless occupants of them. Since he had been summoned anyway (despite their unspoken agreement of ‘live and let live’); the Sheriff knew it had to be important. “I came as soon as I could Ralph, what have you found out?” “Prepare yourself John. I know you don't like coming down here but it was necessary. I had to show you this in person. If I had tried to explain it over the phone, you wouldn’t have believed me.” He thought he could handle whatever nightmarish thing Ralph had to show him but he was wrong. With one swift jerk, Ralph removed the sheet and exposed the unrecognizable human remains on the table. It was the most brutally mutilated cadaver he had ever encountered. The sheriff felt a wave of dry heaves make his stomach contract involuntarily. Ralph spoke to distract his nausea. “Do you see anything unusual about this corpse besides its exceptional state of mutilation?” “Jeez Ralph! Did you have to mangle the body so much?” “Oh, I forgot. You haven’t seen the body, have you? I’ve yet to even stick my scalpel in ‘John Doe’. It was already this way when your men found it last night.” Before the Sheriff could interject; Ralph continued explaining. “See the esophagus, imploded pelvic region and abdomen?” “Yes.” The Sheriff replied. He forced himself to look at the monstrosity on the table before them. He attempted to comprehend what the Coroner was trying to point out but the carnage was just too distracting. After a few moments, Ralph further explained. “I don’t have any theories on how this could happen but the cause of death was sudden traumatic shock and tissue damage to the body." The sheriff glared in annoyance at the medical examiner for stating the obvious. Ralph held up his hand to belay the upcoming sarcasm and continue making his point. "Despite its seeming impossibility; this man's body has been literally turned inside-out. The remains are just like an inverted piece of clothing; discarded on the floor.” “How can that be... no human could do th...” Ralph interrupted. “I don’t know HOW; that’s your job! I’m just trying to inform you of the facts. For lack of a better description; some 'thing' has reached down this man’s throat and gathered up his insides and midsection. Then they were pulled outward while reversing his flesh like a shirt.” III Sensing the Sheriff’s next question; Dr. Gentry answered; “Yes it was a man. That much I know. I found his genitals inside his body where his stomach should have been. Here is the stomach. It’s in almost perfect condition except for the fact that it is on the outside of his body.” Ralph had known John’s logical mind for too long. He anticipated his next thoughts too. “No, I can’t identify him by his teeth. They were pulverized by whatever rammed its way down his throat. His fingertips are still intact so I made his prints for your men to run through the computer.” John’s walkie talkie unit paged him. “Come in Sheriff Wright!” He reached down and unfastened it from his belt. “This is the Sheriff. Come in.” He dreaded hearing more bad news but could tell it was coming. “We’ve found more of ‘em.”; The deputy stated somberly. “How many more?”; He reluctantly asked. There was no question over what they were discussing. “Looks like two more severely mangled bodies so far, sir. Another probable body is missing but we have found a blood trail.” “What’s the 10-20 this time?”; He requested. “About a mile and a half North of the first crime scene, on Holcomb Bridge road.” The Sheriff pictured the area in his mind and informed the deputy that he would be there ‘right away’. Then he signaled ‘over and out’ and informed Ralph that more of his morgue drawers were about to be occupied. IV Once again the crime scene showed traces of radioactivity and the bodies were mutilated beyond recognition. Several detectives were already on the scene when the Sheriff arrived. He was debriefed and led to the bodies. “Looks like the same ‘m.o.’ as the first victim.”; He remarked to his chief investigator. The previous murder could no longer be treated as an isolated incident. The news media would have a field day with the story and put more even pressure on his department to catch the perpetrator. No one wanted the murderer arrested any more than him but the non-stop calls from the worried public would only hinder their progress. “Has anyone ran the plates on that camper over there yet? I bet that would provide a strong lead to the identities of these bodies.” “Yes sir. It belongs to an out-of-town family that were here camping last night at the lake. Mr. and Mrs. James; Frank: 51 and Sherry; age 49. Their 15 year old daughter Regina is still missing but presumed dead; based on signs of a mortal struggle and massive blood loss. We believe the attack started here and proceeded down to the lake.” Both men stepped over the yellow police tape to follow the gruesome trail while the detective explained his running theory. “From this point; only the suspects strange, er... ‘footprints’ are continuously visible. An occasional set of heel marks show a heavy drag pattern. This would indicate that the victim was either unconscious or dead; and being carried. We have a search team combing the woods for her... ah... body.” “Good work. Sounds like solid reasoning. Obviously we can't assume the victims are the missing campers without official determination from Dr. Gentry. If these victims are anything like the first one, there will not be any usable dental records to ID the bodies. We may have to request DNA from other family members. By the way, were there any crystals or other unusual objects found near the crime scene?” “Crystals, sir? “Yes, like the one found at the other crime scene.” “Do you really think that has anything to do with this, sir? I mean; it just doesn't make any sense." “None of this makes any sense. It defies logic and sanity. Obviously we have a very violent, highly deranged individual or group on our hands. We can’t rule anything out until we know otherwise. After all, the crystal could be our only concrete lead. No matter how thin or unlikely it seems to us now. If we discover more crystals at this crime scene, then it would appear to be more than an odd coincidence. Oh, and Johnson..... Get a haircut! We’re trying to convey an image of honesty in this department. How can the town’s people trust you if they can’t even see your face?” “Yes sir, as soon as I get off duty.”; Replied Johnson. “Go now son. Your work is done here for today.” V 45 minutes later, three more oblong crystals were found in the bushes by the shoreline. Immediately the Sheriff's 'crystal connection' went from a far-fetched theory; to a near probability. “What kind of maniac would senselessly mutilate innocent people and then leave mineral clusters as a bizarre ‘calling card?’”; The sheriff wondered. "Who or what would even have the superhuman strength necessary to commit such brutal crimes? None of it adds up." The spiked levels of radiation around the crime scenes was equally puzzling. First he requested a roll call of all mental asylums within a two hundred mile radius. Then he organized a search team with bloodhounds to comb the countryside for signs of the suspect. Lastly, he instructed divers to drag the lake for bodies, first thing in the morning. “If the press gets hold of these strange details then the headlines will be calling him: ‘The radioactive crystal killer’; or something ridiculous.”; He grimaced. His investigators needed to hold back unknown details in order to weed-out false confessions. Every leaked detail worked against them. The townsfolk depended on them for public safety; yet they was no closer to catching the murderer than they were from day one. Soon public opinion would turn against his department. When that happened, State police would shut them out of the investigation and take over. Those depressing thoughts plagued him far into the night. It had been an extremely frustrating day. "Small towns are only supposed to only have small-town problems."; He lamented. The next morning, relatives of Cindy Weeks filed a missing person’s report. The Sheriff investigated her case personally since she had last been seen on a nature trail about 3 miles from the crime scene. The young lady was 19 years old (and legally able to come and go as she pleased) but her parents were insistent that she was responsible. They insisted that she would have phoned if she had made plans to spend the night elsewhere. Normally after hearing an ‘angelic’ description of a teenager from naive parents; he would have told them there wasn’t anything he could do until 48 hours had passed. However, under the dire circumstances, he had to investigate immediately. Time was of the essence in these matters. With any luck, she would simply turn up (safe and sound) after spending a clandestine night with her boyfriend. Sheriff Wright hoped that was the case. He and the rest of the search team combed the nature trail where she was last seen, as a precautionary measure. It wasn't far into the search before signs of a struggle, a long blood trail, and another 'posed' crystal pointed to the worst for her. Fortunately, no body was discovered so there was still a (minor) chance of finding her alive. All they could hope for was that Miss Weeks had somehow escaped the ‘crystal maniac’ with survivable injuries. Sheriff Wright’s next course of action was to check with Ralph about the two newest bodies. As expected, they had met with the same fate as the first unidentified victim. Ralph could offer no new information since he had so little to work with. In a rare moment of cooperation, the Sheriff encouraged Dr. Gentry to ‘keep at it’. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, a large mob of reporters surrounded his car. They were all shouting and trying to get an official statement. He gave the standard, “I can offer no information at this time until the investigation is complete”; brush off. Then he added; “My men are working around the clock to find the person, or persons responsible. Please remember that I am personally involved. I live here too. I promise to make an official statement as soon as I can.” With that public appeal for room to do his job, he made it to his car and roared off in a cloud of dust. VI Later that night John was roused from his fitful sleep by the incessant ringing of the phone. His wife sat up in bed and turned on the lamp. “It’s 3:30 in the morning! Who would call at this hour?” He answered the phone and after listening, said; “Yes Shelia; I know you wouldn’t bother me if it wasn’t important.... What is it?” Mrs. Wright was exasperated. “For heaven’s sake! Don’t they know that you have to sleep some time?” He silently waved for her to be quiet. “I’ll be right there.” Marie interrupted; “Can’t this wait ‘til morning?” John attempted to explain the importance of the situation. “Shelia said there have been strange lights reported at the lake tonight. It may have something to do with the murders. We can’t afford to overlook it.” As the Sheriff drove down the lonely dirt road that led to the lake, he called for backup. The two deputies on night patrol answered his request for assistance. Deputy Phil Bates and Detective Johnson accompanied him as they circled the nature trail. After 20 minutes in the brisk night air with no sign of 'strange blue lights', they suspected the report was without merit. The sheriff was about to go back home when all three men witnessed the etherial lights for themselves. They stood in absolute awe as an alien spaceship materialized at the edge of the lake! The side of the ship opened and four shrowded beings came out into the cool night air. The two in the middle removed their cloaks to reveal their hidden identities. To the Sheriff's genuine elation, they were the two missing young ladies. The other two individuals were definitely not human at all. The men were unable to move from the intense excitement of being face-to-face with creatures from another world. Oddly enough, they didn’t feel as if they were in any danger. In an indeterminate amount of time, one of the aliens spoke. “Are you the one called Sheriff Wright?” The shock of the situation prevented him from responding. It wasn’t everyday that he was addressed by extra terrestrials. The same alien asked if the question had been improperly phrased. Finally the Sheriff managed to ‘choke out’ the correct response. The other alien stepped forward to make an announcement to the men. “We regret to inform you that our immature offspring accidentally terminated three of your organisms. We are in the final stages of cloning the expired individuals from residual DNA samples that we extracted. Once the regeneration is complete, they will be reintroduced back into their native habitat without delay. We regret the inconvenience this has caused you Sheriff; and would like to explain. On our planet; there is an extremely docile creature that roams the marshy wetlands. The offspring of our species enjoy keeping them as pets. This 'bashful' animal is very much like your terrestrial box turtle. It recedes inside its body as a defense mechanism when it is frightened. To coax them to come out; our 'children' often leave a feeding crystal near their nest (as a reward or incentive). If they retract back inside themselves to hide, our offspring reach into their shell and pull them ‘right side out’ again. Sadly, this regrettable incident only happened because of an elemental misunderstanding. You see, the turtle-like animal on our planet closely resembles your human form. Our young incorrectly assumed that your species was also very shy; and thus required inversion coaxing. They were unaware of your somewhat delicate physiology. VII After the explanation was given about the purpose of the crystals, Sheriff Wright winked at Johnson. His suggestion that they might be relevant to the investigation had baffled the deputy earlier. Now they both knew that he was basically right; although neither of them could have guessed the crystals were for bait. By that time the Sheriff had gained enough confidence to inquire about the clones. "Will they be exactly the same as their original counterparts?" “Technically yes. They will be identical; with one notable exception. They will not possess any memories which their original counterparts acquired during their lifetimes. This is because human DNA does not retain memories or any learned information. To compensate, we are programming them with the basic human knowledge needed to survive. Your experts will unfortunately have to teach them anything we overlooked.” In an emotionless tone, the second alien apologized for the inconvenience. The sheriff pointed to the previously missing girls. “What about them? Are they... ah... clones too?” “No. They are the originals. We found them before they expired and repaired the tissue damage. There was no permanent damage to them.” At that time, the freshly cloned victims appeared alongside the aliens and the two girls. After a short pause the ‘talkative’ alien concluded; “Ours is a peaceful race. We has laws which forbid any interference with alien life forms. We must again express our sincere apologies for the inadvertent harm we have caused. We hope there will be no ill will between our two races.” “Our 'vacation' is complete so we will be leaving your planet now.”; Added the other one. “Will there be others from your planet spending their 'vacation' here on Earth?”; The Sheriff asked nervously. “We will be back in about 273 Earth years.”; Replied the talkative one. "By that time, our young will be mature enough to avoid damaging any more of your species." That news greatly relieved the Sheriff. He didn’t think he could handle any more tragic cases of accidental alien mutilation! He was sure he would have his hands full trying to invent an explanation for the ones they already had. Both aliens made an unfamiliar salutation and returned to their ship. An instant later it gently lifted three or four stories off the surface of the lake and was gone in a ‘blink of an eye’. Phil and Johnson snapped out of their trance-like state and expressed their amazement. “Sir, what shall we do about this?”; Phil exclaimed. “Well, they’re definitely out of our jurisdiction now. Besides, we would need something a hell of a lot faster than a patrol car to catch ‘em anyway!” “Seriously though sir. I almost don’t believe what I just saw with my own eyes; and I know that no one will believe our reports!”; Added Johnson. “I want everyone present to keep what we just witnessed to ourselves. Is that understood? If anyone breathes a word of this to the press or our neighbors, they will put us in an asylum! Just leave the reports and explanation to me! Oh, and Johnson.... Next time get a REAL haircut! I'm surprised you saw a damn thing.

“It appears you’ve been exposed to excessive X-ray radiation. I’ve seen this before in radiologists who maybe put in too many hours.” The next words out of my brother’s mouth just sounded like an ancient dialect of gibberish reciting haikus using only the word “blah”. This was common during moments I needed to protect myself from harsh truths. Usually in the form of “I told ya so” or “Hindsight is 20/20”. It always happens when it concerns my powers. My x-ray vision, which saved so many people over the last few decades, decided to give me cancer. Why couldn’t my x-ray vision see that coming? Maybe I had “blah blah” mode on too long. It’s only a matter of time before I find out my telepathy caused a tiny hike in my phone bill. I used to be able to mold my body at will like putty, slip through a crack in a brick wall and return to form almost effortlessly. Saved a lot of people, including myself, especially in a fight. Then, one day, shortly before a “blah blah” soliloquy by my physician and powerless sidekick brother, I woke up as a deflated blob of putty, unable to return to my regular form. It took me 10 days to de-putty and I could never will myself into any shape other than myself again. That power went almost as quickly as it came. And all I had to remember it were a few local tabloid clippings and a 12-pill/day regimen of arthritis meds that do more harm than good. I know I haven’t woken up as a blob since I started taking them, but they haven’t done shit for my cracking bones. Not to mention I’ve now pissed every color of the rainbow. I’ve heard my brother say once that the cracking sound bones make is gas being released. Could this be true?? I rarely think of the day I got my powers. I was just a boy on a ninth grade field trip to a military research facility who got too close to a room that a lot of people should have never let me near. I remember walking and then a BOOM and then a ringing that was so loud I could almost taste it. All to sneak a cigarette, too. Next thing I knew, I had eye twitches which the doc called involuntary nystagmus. What he didn’t know was that each time my eyes twitched, I could see through walls or skin.. or both.. or neither. Took me a while to control it but, once I did, I instantly knew purpose. Never questioned it. Now I’m wishing I had. No one gives a fuck about me saving them. If they did, someone would’ve come around to save me from these awful side effects. “Blah blah blah blah so take 1 of these, twice a day, morning and night to prevent further metastasis,” my brother said. I popped two, half caring, half pretending. “But until you get treatment, you need a break from work. Maybe it’s time you retired. Blah blah blah sometimes cause auditory and visual hallucinations blah blah blah.” I clicked my eyes a few times to make sure they still worked the way I needed them to. With my brother thinking I’m on a hiatus, I could enjoy myself at work, the way it did when I had purpose. Brotherlessly. Sidekicklessly. I decided to take the stairs down from his 5th floor office. I needed the exercise and maybe I’d release enough gas from my bones on the way down that I’d be magically cured of arthritis. By the third and a halfth floor, I regretted my decision to take the stairs but also saw behind a few layers of concrete and sheetrock that my purpose was about to be reinstated. Two goons trying to rough up a doctor and a nurse in a third floor office. It was time for me to act. Nothing gave me more pure joy than smashing in the faces of those who deserve it most. I quickly put on my mask and casually opened the office door. It took me less than ten seconds to find those goons and snap their necks like twigs. I could see the nurse was almost as aroused by my saving her as I was but I, for the sake of mystery and ego preservation, resisted the urge to exchange even a simple “Can I call you sometime?” Besides, a few twitches of my eyes discovered her name, number and address, conveniently found on the inside of her purse beneath the words “If Found, Please Contact:” I left and quickly finished the remaining 3 floors by taking the one working elevator. God, it was slow as shit. The door opened at Lobby and I discovered four police officers had already arrived. “Third floor,” I said, still wearing my mask, and to no particular officer. Before I could make it to the entrance, I felt something I’d never felt before. Cuffs. On my wrists. The nurse from the third floor had made it down to the lobby. “That’s the man!” she cried, half yelling angrily and half inconsolably weeping. “He killed a mother and her 10 year old son. Broke both of their necks.” I’d never been so confused in my life until I skimmed as quickly as I could through pages of “blahs” which came out of my brother’s mouth, while he discussed something about hallucinations caused by my cancer pills. All it took was this remembering to realize what I’d actually done. There were no goons. I broke the necks of a mother and her son inside a pediatrician’s office. I thought of how odd it was that I no longer hallucinated the memory of my hallucination. It’ll be okay, I told myself. My brother will get me out of this. I passed out. When I awoke, I lied on a stiff bed behind some very expensive looking bars, with my brother reciting the “Unabridged Encyclopedia of Blah” on the other side of them, telling me he told me so. In the next cell, the same two goons from the third floor of my brother’s building bullied an inmate. And there was nothing I could do but hear the words “blah” and the sound of gas cracking from my newly retired bones.

Grandma Charlotte showed me our chains when I was seven. She placed her hands on mine. “Close your eyes,” she whispered, “Look for them.” I saw them before I opened my eyes. I felt their weight pull me down. She dragged my fingers along the ghostly blue metal links that connected my wrist to hers. The links grew heavier as my hand got closer to hers. We walked through the cramped rooms following the phantom trail of our chains into the kitchen. Mom’s heavenly smile greeted us as we entered. She lifted me up in her arms and hummed a song for me. As she held me our chain gradually lost its weight. “What are the chains for?” I asked my grandmother from my mother's arms. “To tether us to our family.” I learned certain things about them over the years:(1) My grandmother carried broken chains. The weight of them slowed her movements.(2) My mother sometimes moved as if the chains carried no weight at all. The chain connecting us floated as if it was lighter than air. (3) My mother and I each carried the same fragmented chain. It was the only chain that burdened my mother, yet it contained no weight for me. --- She looks back at the burning houses. She sees the smoke rise above her town. Their faces scar her mind. As the fire becomes a distant glow, the weight of chains becomes more oppressive. Two chains that were taught now drag against the ground. The cries of the surrounding children drown out her own sobs. They aren't bonded by blood but skin. The children of a town built through hardship, destroyed by hatred. My chains sunk into the ground; their weight anchored me to the snow below my feet. I looked toward grandma. The wood creaked below her chair on the patio. Her chains borrowed through the wood and the ground below. She nods but doesn’t smile. Neither do I. Mother isn’t here to remind us to smile. My bad leg aches as I walk to the car, alone. The radio hums alive as the car starts. Warnings of a storm in the area separated the morning music. I flicked off the radio and drove in silence. The chains feel lighter when she's with Angela. Everytime she reads to her at night, she hears her father reading to her. Everytime she cooks with her, she smells the aromas of her mother's cooking. But for every cheerful moment there are a dozen somber ones. When she sends Angela off for her first date, she is reminded of her family that could never do the same for her. The family that was stolen from her. She sees the smoke in the sky. She feels the ash on her face. So her chains get heavier. ---- The tree fell like a comet. I was too slow to react. My vision was consumed by darkness. I awoke to the winter wind howling in my ear. Snow surrounded the vehicle. As I looked at my hands, my blood mixed with memories of hers. I cried out for help. My only responder, the wind. My leg burned the same as it did all those years ago. I looked to the empty seat next to me and saw her. I struggled to walk. Every step the chains got heavier. Every step I saw her cold face. My chains got so heavy they dug deep into the earth. I couldn't move. A human scarecrow in a winter wasteland. ---- She knew the words before the man spoke them. “There was an accident, y-your daughter...” he said. “She's gone.” She had felt the broken chain. She knew what it meant. The grief consumed her soul. Her girl was gone. Elijah came home later that day. His left leg twisted in an unnatural direction. She hadn't moved. She couldn't move. The chain's weight had caused it to dig deep into the ground. So she sat in her chair on the patio unable to speak to the boy with the limp. --- My body shivered. My eyes were forced closed. Every time they opened I saw her. The wind had stopped but the snow was still present. The whistling of birds slowly returned. Their whistling turned into my mother’s humming. I opened my eyes, the face was no longer empty but warm and smiling. I saw her picking me up, holding me close. I saw her smile when I learned to ride a bike. I saw her mouth the three words she would tell me every night. The chains rose from the ground. They floated like my mothers. My last unbroken chain directed me like a compass through the snow. Although my leg decelerated my journey, I made it safely to the house, my grandma asleep in her chair. I moved towards her and embraced her. And for a slight second her chains seemed to become weightless. ------ Thank you for reading! I am new to creative writing and this sub. I would appreciate any feedback on my first piece so I can improve.

Journal Entry 236: Winter’s Day, 1347 I think that will do it. The last injection should be the correct formula to introduce plant cells into the human body. Hopefully this will allow me to use the infernal sun’s power as a food source to survive in this accursed winter wasteland. Journal Entry 237: Winter’s Day, 1353 It’s been almost a week, and I’ve been terribly sick. I can definitely tell that the bio serum I injected myself with is working. It’s changing my very genetic structure. I’ve noticed that my eyes are turning yellow, and my skin has a green bioluminescence to it. I guess I should have thought about the fact that my skin would be the primary source of dietary consumption, if I really am turning into a plant. Does this mean I’ll have to walk around naked all the time? Good thing there’s no one else around to see my tree stump. Lol. Journal Entry 238: Winter’s Day, 1354 First report of sun feeding: I’m totally sunburnt! I spent three hours topside yesterday afternoon, walking around in my birthday suit, and I’m burnt from head to ankles. I have a stupid tan line where my boots were, and there’s funky tan lines also where my backpack straps were. I’ve been lonely for so long that I never thought I’d actually be glad no one is around to see how stupid I look. Journal Entry 239: Winter’s Day, 1364 It’s been ten days since my last report. I’m struggling to eat solid foods. The canned goods I have stockpiled in the bomb shelter are not staying down. I’ve had violent diarrhea every time I eat, and I’m manically thirsty. It’s like I’m addicted to water. I think I’ll try infusing water with fruit sugars for added nutrients. I feel like I have to start experimenting with plant fertilizer just to feed myself properly. This experiment is just getting weirder and weirder. Journal Entry 240: Winter’s Day, 1374 Another ten days. I’ve been spending significantly more time topside, naked. Emerging from the bomb shelter no longer hurts my eyes, but being inside actually does. I think my eyes have adjusted to the serum injection, and become sunlight dependent. It’s like my very eyeballs are sunglasses now! Journal Entry 241: Sun Day, 1 I’ve pretty much stopped eating solid foods. My primary source of sustenance is now the blazing sunlight. I don’t even burn anymore. I can actually feel my body absorbing the sun’s rays, and there’s a tingling sensation after about thirty minutes walking around. I think I can actually feel the chlorophyll in my skin cells converting sunlight into energy. I think this mad scientist plan I had of turning myself into a plant has actually worked! I’m officially changing the name of my calendar system to Sun Day, as the nuclear winter is no longer a limitation for me! I’m restarting the number system of how I count days as well. Journal Entry 242: Sun Day, 10 Another ten days has gone by. I think I can officially say that I’m no longer reliant on basic human foods. I have the digestive system of a plant now, requiring only sunlight. I’ve decided to pack up my belongings and start searching for other survivors. The last survivor I ran into was two years ago, and they mentioned a settlement near Taos, New Mexico. I think I’ll head down that way and see what I can find. I’ll need to follow the river though to make sure I have water, but that’s good desert country and I’ll have plenty of sunlight for food. How neat to say that! Journal Entry 243: Sun Day, 16 It took about a week to finish packing, and I’ve been walking for a few days. I’ve walked about sixty miles, and it’s a barren wasteland out here. The city of Denver is still a smoldering heap of bombed concrete and ash, and I didn’t see or hear any survivors. Perhaps if I find smaller towns away from the major blast centers, I’ll have more luck finding survivors. Journal Entry 245: Sun Day, 30 Another ten days have gone by. I’ve walked a long way, and still haven’t seen anyone. Am I the only survivor? I have to believe that’s not the case. Journal Entry 246: Sun Day 36 I found people! I’m just outside Chama, New Mexico, and I found a small village that’s established like a trading post. I got some strange looks because it’s not everyday that A: a wanderer comes in from the wasteland, and B: wastelanders probably don’t stroll around wearing only a loincloth. I’ve even stopped wearing shoes because my feet are barklike now so I don’t even need any foot protection. And I’m overall just a green color now, so that scared quite a few people. But these folks, who call themselves Chamites, were overall hospitable. They don’t see me as a threat, although they were rightfully wary at first. I had a great meeting with a group of five townspeople- three women and two men, who gave me a bit of their history. They said they’ve been in Chama ever since the bombs went off. The bombs tended to hit any sizeable population center, or anywhere that there were military installations. So Chama was saved, as it’s always been a small crossroads between Colorado and New Mexico, and not deemed a military target. I spent enough time with the town council to understand that these are not war-like people, but they’ve been having trouble with a group of local raiders that are desperately trying to break into the underground quarters where the people are. Most of the surface level of Chama has been pilfered by this group of marauders, and they want my help as I seem to be the only one who can openly traverse the surface without suffering health consequences. I think I’ll help this group, and maybe they’ll let me stay on with them. Journal Entry 247: Sun Day 40 I’ve been out in the Waste for over a week, surveying the band of raiders harassing the Chamites. There’s about twenty of these scoundrels, but it’s hard to tell who’s who because they are covered head to toe in rags and gear to protect from the sun. They’ve got a cage of Chama captives sitting out in the sun, and they absolutely torment these poor people. The town council told me that I can bring the captives back to the Chama Underground if I can figure out how to spring them. Journal Entry 249: Sun Day 52 I got ahold of one of the smaller raiders, and stashed him in a pile of rocks outside their encampment. He was terrified of my green skin and thought I was an alien. I laughed at that, as Roswell isn’t too far away. But I realized that I have the power to make roots and plants grow now, and I used them to wrap this guy up. Pretty awesome superpower! I’m going to go into camp while everyone is sleeping and quietly wrap vines around the doors of their poorly built housing structures. I’ll free the captives, and come back for my prisoner tomorrow. As soon as the sun goes down and everyone is sleeping, I’ll make my move. Journal Entry 250: Sun Day 53 Last night was terrifying, but successful! I got rolling late, as most of the raiders stayed up drinking some kind of homemade moonshine. Most of them were drunk as skunks by the time they went to bed, so I didn’t have to be as quiet as I had thought. But, I was sneaky and silent, and terrified beyond anything I’ve experienced since the day the bombs fell twelve years ago. Heart thumping out of my chest, and skin tingling with anxious excitement, I made my move. I crept into camp, and tested my powers of growing plants. Reaching out my hands, I concentrated on extending my fingertips. Little shoots sprung out of the ground where I directed my focus, literally willing plantlife to emerge. These neophyte plants grew up, and I was able to use my mind to twist them all together. Once I had created a thick lattice work over the door of the first hut, I focused on hardening these green shoots and turning them into brambles. This made them thick and tough, almost like dead vines. And the beautiful thing is that this only took about a minute of deep concentration! I moved from hut to hut, keeping a careful watch for any guard patrolling the camp. But these raiders didn’t feel the need to be cautious, convinced they were the only ones foolhardy enough to survive topside in the wastes. The sun is so strong on the surface that it burns anything in its view. So I quietly crept from one hut to another, closing off doors and windows. In about an hour, I had the whole camp on lockdown. Just before sunrise, I headed towards the cage holding the captives. There were seven of them, and looked almost dead. Skin burnt, hair frizzled, and dehydrated almost beyond salvaging. I quietly dispatched the lone guard, with the captives watching in wide-eyed fascination at this green plant-man. They had just enough strength to sneak back to my hideout in the rocks where I had left the last captive. We decided to leave him trussed up, either for dead or for finding by his comrades. It took us nearly three days to get back to the Chama Underground. I grew a crop of cactus plants, and cutting them open created enough fresh water to rehydrate the captives just enough for the journey to safety. The people of Chama were ecstatic that I had freed their family and friends, and regarded me as a superhero. They asked what they could call me. I said, call me Chloro Phil.

Monticello, Minnesota Tuesday, November 12, 1957 Dear Elmer, I am going to send you a few lines and will write as I think along. I am getting so that the fingers on the left hand are beginning to line-up a little better than they did a while ago so I can peck away today. Yesterday, the 11th of November, it was just three months since I had a little touch of something. It was on August 11th that my right side went on kind of a strike, it was hard to talk or eat and my right hand and right foot did not want to go the same way that I wanted them to go. I felt this coming on for several months but did not know enough to lay up or did not take time, so after takeing it easy for a while I am now nearly better. I think that worry causes things like this so today I have decided to let worry go where it wants. Now the wheather for this time of year is very good and we have not had any snow here to speak of and not very cold yet but I am certain it will come as it has never failed so far. The day you called me I had just gotten back from the lake cottage and some of the water pipes there had frozen and all the sistem system had to be drained. It should have been done but was put off till almost to late. I was s not at the lake cottage but very little this summer but your mother was out more or less. Do you remember Mr. Clark from the auto dealership? He helped your mother and Aunt Ida with lake house chores this summer. Aunt Ida is about the same as usual and intends to stay at the lake cottage unless it gets real cold and much snow this winter. I received the Old Spice you mailed me for my birthday. I still had some left-over from that the children sent me last Christmas. I must say that little Kenneth is a fine writer and have letters from Judy and see they are gaining knowledge. How long before Judy can play like Liberache? I am not doing any playing these days as my fingers on my left hand don’t cowperate cooperate most days. Now, I am useing the "Hoffman" T.V. We put the Admiral up-stairs in the guest room and I will say that the Admiral has been used a lot and is still going good. I can manage the Hoffman but it has been moved around and not in the best of adjustment but it gives plenty of entertainment. Your mother has the 17" Zenith in her room and it has been given a new antenna. With the three sets you and Peggy will have enough sets to fill every room in your house. I still have the old violin and also have a very good mandolin as I will never use them again so I have already shipped those to you in Oregon in proper boxes. Kenneth can use the violin for the Christmas recital. I tried to get this letter off withoutt thinking of so many things but it seems that so much comes into ones mind that one cannot write about it all, there is always something that turns-up to interrupt ones thoughts and when I think of all you's all out there in Oregon I just forget what to say. I have been at home this fall more than ever and any time I can ever recall and one reason is your mother has been very very busy with company or one thing or another. She gets my meals and brings me scotch but I don't see much of her only now and then as she has been with the company of Mr. Clark most days. Now I will try to get back on the subject I intended to write about as the fingers in my left hand are acheing now. I am glad to hear that your financial advisor business is good, Elmer. It is worth while when you are gaining even though it is hard work. I think I mentioned to you some time ago we have some little money saved up that you could use to help you allong more. I intended to save it for house repairs but since it is no good to me any longer it will go all to you and Peggy and the kids. About the year 1950 there began a farily fairly good income in your mother's business and it was steady until 1955 and there are stock options she invested with Aunt Ida. I never did much of anything in the way of labor, just some little tinkering here and there and tried to help your mother to my ability but she never allowed me to help. Your mother never thought I was good at the business aspect or let alone anything else. The balanse balance that has been put into the bank is about $5,000.00 and it is all yours. I have not made a will but you keep this and it may answer just as good. Your mother has recently withdrawn $1,000.00 for herself as I do not know the intention but there has been a new auto bought and I think the Dodge was traded in. She had bought a new dress too. This is a matter I had nothing to do with and one I don't want to get mixed up in. I know Elmer this is not something you would had advised your mother to do because the Dodge was in tip top shape. I told your mother to call you for your financial advise but I don't know wheather or not she did and I have no way of finding out because I did not ask her before I shot her. She was watching the news as she does in her favorite brown chair. She did not notice me when I walked in her room until the very last moment she turned my direction and saw that I had pointed the gun at her face. I smiled and pulled the trigger. I had to use my right hand and luckily my first shot struck her square in the face and that bullet sent her into eternity. I cleaned with a wet rag the blood and brains as best I could and not much splattered on the 17" Zenith so that is good. Her new dress is ruined so that will need to be thrown-out. The news broadcast on the TV was about the Pan Am airline flight that crashed on Friday the 8 th on the way to Honolulu and killed all 44 people. Elmer, did you see that on the news? What a tragedy. Love, Dad

‘’Raj, how long are you going to stay home, and just keep working on your laptop???’’ Chris yelled. ‘’I know but I feel better when I am up to date with my cases and my emails,’’ answered Raj. Both have been close friends for quite some time. They know well each other. Chris is a gamer. Spends a lot of time playing games on consoles. Especially adventures, and first-person shooter games. Call of Duty for example. Raj is a movie buff. Not movies on Netflix at home. Movies at cinemas. At one point, he was watching seventy movies a year in theaters. That was more than one movie a week! He would then write down on an Excel spreadsheet the movie he had seen and write a little review about the movie with a rating out of ten. A review under two hundred words. Till the pandemic hit the world in March 2020... then it all ended. He was forced to work from home also by that time. Both have been living together as roommates for a few years now. ‘’I know you work hard, go above and beyond, and you are a perfectionist. However, you need to rest. Take you mind off from work. I know lately you have not been going out due to the pandemic. I know you love working from home now. You are saving time and money, and because you are already home, bored, you just keep checking your work emails and your pending cases. Clients will wait. You are not paid to work 24/7. You need to leave some tasks for your peers also. You are not paid more to do their work, ‘’ said Chris. ‘’I guess...you are right. It is not just about the money, getting paid or not, for the extra work. I enjoy my work. I am troubleshooter, I am an analyzer, I am a logician...my brain needs that type of work. Not sure how to explain to you. It is more for me, not only to help the clients, or my company. I desire to be the best at what I do,’’ replies Raj. ‘’I know your personality type. I know what stimulates your brain. You see, cinemas are still closed. How about you start watching some on Netflix or Amazon Prime. You are subscribed to both services. I would always come to you to ask about movies. If a certain movie was worth watching on the big screen or at home. How about you watch at least one movie a week at home, write a review, give a rating, and list the movie on a spreadsheet? As you used to do. You took your hobby very seriously. I know also you enjoy talking about movies in general. About cinema. About stories. About plots. About acting. About actors.’’ ‘’I think you are right. Maybe I should get back into one of my favorite past times. You know, going to the movies for me, is like an escape from reality for 2-3 hours. To be sitting in a cinema hall, lights off, even if it is empty, for me, is like being in paradise. Every 5-6 movies, I make sure I do get also some buttered popcorn and Coca-Cola. I would not abuse because it can be quite expensive and I don’t want also gain weight.’’ Raj puts his work laptop on sleep mode. While Chris is getting ready to launch Netflix on their tv set. Chris seems happier about this movie night than his friend who is a movie buff. Chris is browsing by genre. ‘’Would kind of movie you are looking forward to watch?’’ ‘’Tonight...how about a new arrival on Netflix. A new movie...’’ As Chris is going through a list of new movies that were added to the database of Netflix, Raj is getting ready with a bowl of popcorn and some Coca-Cola. Our friends, found a movie. Titled, The Vanished. A mystery thriller. It is Friday night. They already had supper. It is almost 9 PM. By the time the movie ends, it will be bed time. ‘’All set Raji boy?’’ ‘’Yes Sir! Thanks for doing this movie night with me. I needed a change. I was spending way too much time on my work laptop when it was not even required. I can’t wait for the theaters to open and enjoy a good movie on the big screen.’’ ‘’Soon my friend. We all need to be patient and do our part to minimize the impact of this pandemic,’’ says Chris. ‘’I know. You are right. All of us, all human beings, we need to chip in and do what is best for the human race as a whole.’’ As the movie starts, total silence in the living room. Raj is in some kind of a hypnotized state once a movie starts. Especially if it is a good story, with some great acting. After 15-20 minutes, our movie buff friend can tell if a movie is going to be fun to watch or if it will be a disappointment. It is almost 11 PM. The movie just ended. Raj did not utter a work during the movie. It felt like he was in a cinema where he is not supposed to talk to anyone. Chris was happy. Raj looked at Chris with a big smile. Our amateur movie critique was satisfied. ‘’I feel unstressed. Tomorrow, I will do my movie home work. I will show it to you also so you can tell me what do you think about it. A rating out of ten, list the movie title, a short review, and save it on my personal pc. I feel like I am back in the game. One day, maybe, I would like to be a movie critique. The last time I saw a movie was six months ago...’’ ‘’Raj, buddy, even though life has changed on a global scale, we must stay united, and we must help each other. During this difficult times, mental health is even more important,’’ replies Chris. As another day starts, Chris wakes up, and sees his friend Raj, on his personal laptop this time with a cup of chai, with his glasses on, getting back into movie viewing and movie reviews. Life is never easy and sometimes, we need to indulge in little things that can bring us joy. And, not to always wait for everything to be perfect to enjoy something.

The letter had been delivered in the evening by a desperate courier with a cart full of casualty notifications and return mail which no longer had a viable address. Here, letters were rarely filled with happy news, and I watched with a heavy heart as my wife’s shaking hands tore open the envelope, which was dusted with ash and dirt. She skimmed the first sentences -- looking for “regret” or “apology”, the words which dotted the letter framed on our mantle next to my eldest’s school photographs. She breathed out heavily. “Eileen --” I started, but she cut me off. “It’s Harry. He’s fine, Jacob. He’s fine. But he’s worried about the old Fuller property.” “If he’s alive, nothing else matters,” I replied with a gruff headshake. If this war had taught me anything, it was that anything in life could be regained but a beating heart. “No, there’s more -- he says Sherman isn’t finished with Georgia. The battalion has been asked to accompany the General south, with orders to destroy and redistribute land as they like, permission of the president.” “Eileen, they ain’t giving away loyal land.” “That’s what my brother’s worried about. How will they know it's ours if there’s no-one there to prove it? His lieutenant won’t grant him leave -- says it’ll be considered treason if he goes south without the rest of the men. They’re splitting the troops and not telling anyone which way they’re headed, for fear the rebels will get wind.” I looked my wife in the eye. “Eileen. Ain’t nothing we can do about it.” I could see the wrinkles around her eyes crinkle, the brown irises still the same ones I had fallen in love with decades ago. Suddenly, I was sick of seeing that constant look of hopelessness on her face. I stood up straight from where I had been peering over her shoulder at the letter. “I’ll go.” “You can’t, Jacob. I’d rather have you than that place.” “No, I know what that old farm means to you. It means something to me too. And this war has taken too much from the both of us. Not this too, not if I can help it. I’ll come back safe, I promise.” I could see a tiny seed of hope take root in Eileen’s eyes. “I’ll go too,” she said. I smiled, reminded of the ferocity with which she had verbally defended the few livestock we had left from the army. “What about Jennifer? Or Ruby Belle?” My wife frowned and I thought for a second she was going to nag me for placing both our teen daughter and prize hen on the same level of concern. Instead, she said, “You’ll have to go now.” In the matter of an hour, I had layered every piece of clothing I owned, donned a backpack which Eileen had packed to the brim with food and a small home-made Union Jack, and set out into the November night. I chose to take the quickest road which carried south from the Carolinas all the way to Jacksonville. It was the merchant route, paralleled by the railroad bringing industrial products in exchange for sugar and cotton. I had taken this same path every summer in my youth, walking quickly among the traffic of people and listening for the train’s whistle. As a kid, my mother would put me on the Greenboro rail with a letter in case I forgot to transfer, and I would arrive at the Savannah station to a relieved pair of grandparents. But as I got older and wiser, she’d save the train fare and I would go by foot. The journey would take me over a week of constant walking until I arrived in Georgia -- this time I hitched a ride with the first wagon I met, carrying me past Atlanta in only a couple days' time. The driver refused to carry me any further south, instead heading west to Alabama because his deliveries were no longer needed in the remaining remnants of Atlanta. I grimly understood and continued by foot, deciding to walk overnight instead. Walking in the dark, I couldn’t tell anything was wrong. So much had changed in the few decades since I’d taken this path in the summers -- the plentiful oak trees which I had used to rest from the sweltering sun were far and in between now, waylaid to build new tracks or make room for new plantations. The path was even less familiar with the layer of ice and frost layering the ground. As the sun rose late in the morning, I stopped with a shudder. The earth I was walking on was soft, which I had blamed on the light snow which had accompanied me through the night. But in the dim light, I could see that the road was instead marked by ash. The pasture fences had an unnatural smudge which transferred to my gloves with a touch. I kept moving, my joints not as content as they might have been years ago. As the sun rose higher, I could see people moving en masse down the road. In a different time, I would have met them -- but not now. I walked to the side, keeping my fur hat down over my face. As I got closer, I realized these were not soldiers or merchants but families, mostly women. Their faces were solemn, gripping small cases and wearing lighter coats than recommended in cold weather. They did not afford me any attention -- but I looked at the ragged hems of their skirts and the dark ash coating their shoes and was morbidly reminded of the prints depicting sinners marching into hell which were often included in our church bulletin. This picture of an icy hell struck me with a sense of despair. These people were desperate enough to be leaving their homes at dawn. I took a deep breath and quickened my step. If the army took my wife’s land, we could petition for it back. But if they were burning everything they set eyes on, there would be nothing worth salvaging. I trudged through the ice and snow, thinking of how broken my wife would be if that happened. The land itself wasn’t much to speak of, a crop field centered around a small farmhouse and a grain mill. Eileen’s parents had raised both her and her younger brother Harry there. For over a decade of summers, every morning I would come running over from my grandparents’ house across the road, ducking past my grandmother's magnolia to jump the fence. If the magnolia was still there, it would be many times my height. To the passerby, Eileen’s family and my own were simply neighboring farmers who had chosen to be far from the nearest town for their own peace. It’s true that the Fullers grew wheat and barley, some of which they would hand off to larger farms with silos. But the rest the Fullers would bind up and sell to my grandparents. I remember dragging grain from the Fullers back to my grandparents’ cellar, where it would be packed into barrels. My mother’s parents, lovingly called Pa and Ma Alder, had picked up the trade from a neighboring German immigrant family who had stayed with them for a few months before heading north. Unsurprisingly, beer proved a far more precious commodity than bread and drew customers from around the county. Unfortunately, beer-making was far from welcome in the public eye, mainly due to the church and anti-German sentiment. Anyone looking for beer from my folks would knock at the door and need to give both the name of a reference and a certain phrase before the Alders would even discuss selling. Mostly it was local inns who would send carriages to haul back a couple barrels to increase local business. But there was another reason the beer was kept so secret -- it was funneled through certain people throughout the town to the surrounding plantations. The landowners would never have bought our alcohol, but their servants and slaves, the same social status in their shared poverty, did and were sworn to secrecy if they were ever caught with their purchases. And that’s how I was raised each summer, lying to any questions asked of me by strangers and not asking any of the visitors. I was too young to realize the gravity of our situation but I knew I needed to let Pa and Ma Alder do all the talking. Whenever some client would knock on the door, I’d shake Pa awake and then run out the back door to play with Eileen and Harry for the evening until Ma or Pa came to take me back. It was always too hot to want to do anything other than sit in the cool of the Fullers’ grain mill, even in the evening. My first summer I had been shy, sitting quietly next to the Fullers and waiting to be summoned home. But one day Eileen jumped up and offered me a small wooden spinning top, showing me how it could spin all the way to the other side of the room with a twist of her fingers. Looking back, I guess that was the moment I was bewitched. I was convinced Eileen’s one extra year of life experience meant I owed her undying friendship, even when she tried to climb to the top of the grain mill during my second summer. She fell off the first story and her parents reprimanded both of us -- Eileen for the consequentially sprained ankle and myself for not stopping her. As we got older, our meetings became less frequent. I could finally be of some use at the brewery and Harry and Eileen were always wanted for some farm chore or another. I no longer thought of Harry as the annoying kid who would spoil all of Eileen and I’s adventures with his tattletaling or whining. During the rare mutual break in the day, we would talk about our ambitions. Harry wanted to become a doctor and attend medical school in Montgomery, where he could stay with family. I had a smaller dream, one where myself and Eileen continued the brewery business when Ma and Pa Alder retired. By fourteen, I understood how profitable the bootlegging business could be. I kept trying to ask Eileen what she wanted, but she was determined to avoid the question. I spent the time in between summers constantly wondering if she had gone off and found some other sweetheart besides me. Neither of Harry or I’s dreams came true. Although Harry worked hard at a local school during the falls and winters, he didn’t get a place in medicine. At 22, he finally left the Fuller farm to go to Alabama anyway and apprenticed under his uncle as a shopkeep. When I was 25, Pa Alder passed away in a scuffle with a desperate alcoholic who misfired his gun in a drunken stupor. The man gave Ma Alder every last dime he had and disappeared. Instead of giving me the business, Ma Alder decided to sell the brewery and join my newly remarried mother in the Carolinas. One part of my dream did manifest. The summer I was 18, I bought myself a suit en route to Savannah and proposed to Eileen the moment I arrived. To my relief she accepted and we were married in a tiny church in the nearby town. I helped with the Fuller farm when Harry left and then Eileen and I followed Ma Alder up to the North Carolina border. The twenty-five years following our marriage were good and we were blessed with a son and a daughter. My new stepfather had his own farm, one which we slowly took over throughout the years and, while small, kept us happy and sustained. We felt like we were in a hurricane, whirling through life and being hit with bad luck or poor mistakes. But those times seem so golden now compared to the last few years, in which so much had been taken from us. At the start of the war, Harry enlisted into the 1st Alabama Cavalry Regiment along with a thousand other southerners loyal to the Union. His regiment, at the cost of over half of the men, would be almost too successful. Eileen and I felt the constant shadow of his involvement at every major battle and dreaded the knock of the courier. We were still grieving for our son, who had reached adulthood only to give his life to the army. Now still walking through the slush and mud, I felt the fabric tied around my wrist -- the piece of his uniform which had accompanied the casualty notification. Even a year later it sent a pang through my heart. The Fuller farm, unoccupied for the last few years while Harry was away, signaled a happier, sunnier time in our lives. Its loss would erase further ties to our roots. Remembering the summers I had spent in Georgia pushed me to move my middle-aged joints faster. I would reach the farm before Sherman or his men did, for the sake of Eileen, Harry, and myself -- or at least return to my wife knowing what had become of it.

“Hello little bunny rabbit,” I whisper as I inch toward a little bunny sitting in a grassy clearing. It’s fur is the color of hot chocolate, it’s tail is the pure white whipped cream that sits on top. I am going hiking with my parents in a beautiful redwood forest where the trees are alive with movement. I love to see all the animals of the forest. I could sit in one spot for hours on end just watching them. The bunny’s ears and nose twitch as it tries to figure out whether I am a friend or foe. I am just about to be close enough to stroke the bunny’s fur when - “Lita! Are you coming or what?” Momma’s aggravated voice slices through the forest noises like an arrow. I shoot an angry look in the direction of the voice, but don’t bother responding. When I turn back to the bunny, all I see is the little white puff of whipped cream disappearing into the tall redwoods. “Noooooo! Don’t go bunny rabbit! I won’t hurt you! I promise!” I cry dashing after the bunny as fast as my four-year-old legs can carry me. I get poked by branches and bushes, but I don’t care. At the moment my main priority is that light brown bunny. “Lita? Lita, where did you run off to!” Momma calls her voice getting fainter the further I run. “Lita! Lita!” Her voice is getting more and more frantic, but her voice is only a whisper now. I almost lose track of the bunny, but then I see the little white tail that marks it. I trip over a twisted tree root, and land face first in a patch of green grass. I fight off tears, and sit up. My thoughts dissipate instantly as I take a look around me. I am at the edge of a breathtaking lush green meadow. Anemones, poppies, daffodils, cornflowers, asters, and many more flowers cover the field. Morning dew sparkles magically in the sun. Throughout the field there are lots of houses. Each of the houses are unique in size, shape, and material. Some of the houses are giant, some are tiny, some are round, some are square, some are made of grass, and some are made in tree stumps. It’s not just the houses that catch my attention though. Roaming around the field are all sorts of different forest creatures. There are bunnies, bears, wolves, mice, squirrels, foxes, raccoons, bobcats, deer, ladybugs, spiders, bees, butterflies, herons, woodpeckers, and many more. So many more in fact that I could spend a whole day just listing them all. I realize then that I must be dreaming because I can hear the animals talking to one another! I try to see if I can spot the bunny I’d been chasing, but soon give up. I resolve to watch a group of bobcat kittens playing jump rope instead. After a little while of watching different animals do things like cartwheeling, playing board games, and chasing each other, I decide that I want to join the fun. I push myself to my feet using the help of a sapling. “Hello!” I announce cheerfully. All commotion stops. This is definitely not the reaction I’d hoped for. Everything is silent except for the occasional whisper from one animal to another, and the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Slowly, a lizard, a squirrel, and a bear make their way through the crowd. “What is your business here in Litariana Meadow?” the bear growls suspiciously. I notice how tense he is, and I start to get the feeling maybe I’m not supposed to be her. “Well, that’s a funny coincidence! My name is Litariana! I like to be called Lita though,“ I say nervously, wiping my sweaty palms on my overalls. The bear’s eyes widen before quickly resuming their usual grumpy state, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by me. Some of the other animals in the crowd start murmuring in surprise. The squirrel and lizard scurry up the bear and each start whispering in each ear. I can only hear three words; wait, 12, and prophecy. Curiosity bubbles up inside me, and threatens to overflow, but I sense this is not time for questions. The lizard and the squirrel return to the ground. “We have come to a decision,” the bear announces. “You will leave with no memory of this happening. That is, until you are 12. Then all of your memories will return, and you must come back. However, you can’t tell anyone about this. Ever. Understood?” I nod paralyzed, my eyes wide. The bear motions with her paw, and a little bunny comes hopping forward. “This is Charlan, he will guide you back to the trail.” I can’t help but wonder if he’s the same bunny that I followed before. He’s got the same colored fur and whipped cream tail, but then again, there are lots of bunnies that look like that. Then, before I can even say goodbye, Charlan is hopping along with me at his heels. I emerge from the trees just as Mama comes running over. I feel dazed, and there is an odd tingly sensation in my head. “Lita! There you are! I was so worried when you didn’t respond! Where were you?” She gives me a big hug. “I was . . .” I falter. Where was I? There’s something itching at the back of my head. Something that should be there, but isn’t. I don’t want Mama to worry, so I just make something up. “I was just picking some nice flowers along the path, but then I dropped them. I went to see if I could find them, but they’re gone!” “Oh, it’s alright Lita. We’ll collect some new ones. And don’t go running off like that again, okay?” she says looking me straight in the eye. “Okay. I’m sorry Mama,” I reply. And I’m truly sorry, even if I don’t know where I was. As we walk away I take one last look back, trying to find any clues as to where I was. All I see is a little white bunny tail that looks to me like a puff of whipped cream.

The twinkling lights strung from the trees made the patio a magical experience. Light music from the acoustic trio filtered up to them. Mark and Sandy’s favorite restaurant, they always came for their anniversary and often throughout the year. While waiting for the hostess to escort them, Mark discreetly placed his hand on Sandy’s bottom. She swatted it away with a laugh. “Mark!” “I couldn’t help it. It begged me.” She flashed her smile. “Did I tell you how great you look in that dress?” “Yes. Thank you, again. Your hand confirmed it... Thought of you when shopping.” Arriving at the podium, the hostess did a double take. “Hello! Glad to see you back. You look well this evening.” “Yes. Reservation for two. Mark Stella.” “I’m Zelda, but you know that.” She looked on the computer screen and nodded. “One moment...” Sandy smiled. “Our anniversary.” “Glad to see you again. Must have liked our food to return again so soon.” “So soon?” “Well, yes. Since you were here last night.” Mark and Sandy looked at each other and laughed. “No, we weren’t.” The hostess shrugged. “Okay... I remember you.” Mark blinked. “We weren't here.” “No matter. That was another time. I hope you’re feeling better tonight?” Mark said, “No, really. We were out of town last night. Not here.” “No problem... I remember you very well... How long have you been married?” Sandy said, “Seventeen years. Why do you think we were here last night?” “I remember you. Not that I could forget... Seventeen! You look happy.” She sounded surprised. Mark couldn’t let go. “It wasn’t us.” “It was. But no worries. It’s a new day.” Mark and Sandy exchanged looks. He said, “This couple from last night... Were they well behaved?” Zelda suppressed a chuckle. “Oh, how should I...? Well, not in the best of moods. You’re in much better spirits tonight.” Sandy said, “But we weren't here.” “Don’t be embarrassed. It can happen to anyone. Hunger can get the best of us. You made quite a scene.” She smiled without warmth or humor. “We have an alibi. We have witnesses.” “Fine. Whatever... No one’s going to sue... I must say, if it wasn't you, you have a couple of dead ringers going to the same restaurants.” Mark gaped at her. She said, “Follow me please.” Zelda led them to a table and offered them menus. “Here we are.” Sandy leaned in. “Not too close to the music, please.” The hostess pointed. “There, see? I knew it was you...” Nonplussed, Sandy looked at Mark, who took the menus. “This will be fine.” “Have a better time tonight. And congratulations!” Mark held Sandy’s chair for her. “Did she skip as she walked away?” “I saw that too.” “Who eats at the same place two nights running? 'Hey Babe, let's eat some place different. You know, where we ate last night.'” Sandy relaxed into her chair. “Ahh, here we are... Our favorite place, with my favorite husband.” They laughed. He said, “We’ll enjoy ourselves. But I won’t predict when we’ll return. Leave that to the ‘Psychic Hotline...’” “You need your aura fluffed?” He mimed trying to screw his head on tighter. Leaning in, he said, “This is because of you, you know. You’re the unforgettable one - the one of a kind. Central casting could plop anyone in my chair, unnoticed. But everyone looks at you.” She glanced around. “Are we being watched?” “Tell me where you went last night, when you excused yourself to the powder room.” “You think I came here? Miles away? With someone else? To make a scene?” “You were gone a long time. Even for you.” She rolled her eyes and they laughed. Sandy said, “We couldn’t win... The more we protested, the more convinced she was.” “Let it go. Did you hear her? Each day, she’s a completely new person. How does she find her car keys? 'Couldn't be my phone bill. I just arrived.'” “It's so weird. I can imagine one person having a double. Like a twin, I guess. But what are the odds of an identical couple wandering around?” “It's insane. Forget it.” Sandy looked into the distance. “Remember that time we came for lunch? The creek was running and little kids wading... That was so fun...” Mark smiled at the memory. A man approached. “Excuse me, Mark? Sorry to interrupt. I was leaving when I saw you. I saw you here last night, but couldn’t get to you... Too busy with 'agent' stuff, I guess...” “Oh, hi. Tim, right?” They shook hands. “Jim. Hi. I've been trying to reach you.” “Yeah. Wasn't here last night, though.” “I could swear it was you.” “Have you met my wife, Sandy?” Sandy smiled up at him. Jim said, “Hi... Glad to meet you... Your hair was a little different though.” Mark said, “Call me... Wednesday morning. We'll have lunch.” “Of course. Wanted to touch base. I'll call.” Jim stepped back. Mark nodded and he left. “Sheesh. Can't enjoy dinner without someone glomming onto...” “Hello, he lied...” Sandy smiled. “What are you are talking about? The guy’s a minor idiot.” “That's harsh.” “A stunt double who thinks he can act. Jumping off a roof doesn't mean Shakespeare’s calling.” “That is a big leap.” “He's bounced off too many cars.” “Funny, he noticed my hair was different.” “...From your evil twin's?” “No. I get my hair done and you never notice. He noticed and he’s never seen me before.” “I love your hair.” “Thank you...” “No, really.” Sandy smiled. “I get it.” The waiter approached with a shallow bow. “Hello again, I'm Dwayne, your server tonight. Can I get you started with a beverage?” “Two mai tais please, on the double.” “Two double mai tais...” “No... quickly...” Mark waved him off. Dwayne bowed as he backed away. Mark said, “I don't get how actors do it, always changing roles. Today I'm this person, tomorrow that. Must be crazy making.” “Everyone wears masks, Mark. You did it with Jim.” “I guess... I told you about that time someone was watching me?” “That’s so eerie...” “I looked around this cavernous restaurant and this guy’s looking right at me. Most people would look away, but he kept staring. Very rude.” “What happened?” “Furious, I stood up to confront him.” “No...” “When he stood too, I thought, 'what’s this?' Then I realized he was me.” Sandy laughed. “I was eye-balling myself in this gigantic, wall sized mirror. The room looked twice its size... So I sat back down and ate.” “Should have given him a black eye. How dare he?” “Yeah... Should see the other guy... You've heard of celebrity look alike services? Actors who resemble famous people get hired to populate parties. Get the buzz going.” “What a way to make a living. Paid to pretend you’re someone else.” Mark looked around for the waiter. “I want to do a variation on that with look-alikes from the FBI’s ten most wanted list.” “Don't quit your day job, Mark.” “That would get people talking. 'Guess who Jennifer had at her party last night - Charlie Manson!' “Haven't seen him in years!” “People always claim I take after some actor or another. What do you think...? Tom Cruise? Cary Grant...?” Sandy pondered the question. “Mark, you are, unmistakably, my one-of-a-kind. Who cares what crazy Zelda says?” “People don't see each other. They have cartoon images in their heads.” “Stalked by Elmer Fudd.” Dwayne arrived, set their drinks down and readied his order pad. The place was filling up. “May I tell you our specials tonight?” Mark said, “No.” “We have some very good specials. They’re different from last night's...” Mark did a slow burn. Touching his hand, Sandy said, “Mark...” Dwayne picked up on the tension. “What's wrong?” Mark was direct. “Whatever you think you know about us, Dwayne, I don't care.” “I really just...” “We’re here for a nice meal. If you take care of us, we’ll take care of you. Deal?” Unsure of what had happened, Dwayne said, “Of course.” Sandy said, “I'll have the filet, medium rare, please.” “The same.” “Copycat.” “I always wish I'd ordered what you have.” “So daring. Try something new.” “You’re always right, Sandy. Why fight it?” They smiled. Dwayne said, “Anything else? An appetizer?” “That's it.” “Very well.” Dwayne took their menus and exited. Mark raised his glass. “A toast to you Sandy, my lovely wife. May we always be so happy.” She smiled. “Let's keep doing this another fifty years! Give or take...” They touched glasses and drank. Mark leaned in. “So, the truth, Sandy. It's time you confessed your secret twin.” “I cannot lie. I always wished for someone to blame. But alas, I’m an only child.” “That’s sad. Imagine all we could do with our siblings... Play Bridge. Pickle ball doubles...” “Or scandalize the restaurant staff. Pretend we don't know each other...” Mark sipped. “I actually do have a twin. Separated at birth, I never knew him.” Sandy laughed. “You’re so silly.” “I hope he's okay. I only remember... he was short.” They laughed. Sandy stole the cherry from Mark’s drink and played with it seductively. Adopting a Russian accent, she hissed, “Your secret has been exposed Mr. Stella. Though, by day, a powerful talent agent, by night, you’re a secret agent!” “Oh my God! My cover is blown!” “Hah! I too am a double agent. I locked your wife in the ladies room and am now here, in perfect disguise, to kidnap you back to my lair.” “I’m such a fool! Your disguise is perfect... but for one telling, detail.” She looked doubtful. “Impossible!” “Sandy has a very cute mole on her right breast. Only I would know.” “Silly boy. I thought of everything.” “Prove it.” Exposing her cleavage, Sandy leaned across the table. Mark stared. When he reached out she playfully hit his hand with her napkin. “Look! Don't touch! You cad!” “Insatiable curiosity, my dear.” Sandy dropped her spy persona. In mock outrage, she scolded. “I can't believe you’d brazenly stare at another woman's cleavage!” “Gotta love that mole.” They laughed. She said, “Isn't ‘mole’ a code word for a spy?” Breathless, a woman approached the table. “I'm sorry, I can't help myself. I am such a fan! I loved you in ‘Yes to Me Yesterday.’ This had happened before. Sandy smiled. “I wasn't in that.” “But you were. I can see you...” “I wish, but no, I wasn't.” The woman thought Sandy was lying but hated missing an opportunity. “Okay. Whatever. Could I take your picture? Is it too much of a bother?” Sandy stood and said, “How about if I take yours?” A little disappointed, the woman handed Sandy her phone. She snapped a shot and passed it back. “Sorry to be so foolish. Can't tell you how much this means...” “Don't worry about it.” The woman left. Sandy sat down. “For years, she'll be telling friends she met ‘whatsername.’” Mark looked at his wife with love. “Do you miss it? “What? Acting? Of course. But what can I do? Not too many options.” “You took a break. Could always dive back in. Especially with Timothy getting more independent.” Sandy sipped her drink. “I'm afraid that ship has sailed.” “You have the talent. You look great. Why not?” “Oh... you know...” “You're the one who doesn't believe in age, San. Knock it off.” “Oh, thanks for reminding me. Tim has his driver's license test coming up. Can you be there for him?” “My God. Already? He can barely tie his shoes and he's getting behind the wheel? When?” “A week, Tuesday, I think. I'll let you know.” Dwayne arrived with their dinner. “Careful, hot plates. Anything else?” “It looks perfect.” Sandy smiled. “Thank you.” Dwayne nodded and left. Sandy noticed Mark looking at her food. “I know. You think my steak is bigger.” “Of course it is. Look at it. Your point?” “Want to trade?” “I'm not that hungry tonight. Go for it.” Zelda passed their table and Sandy called to her. “Oh, hi. Can I show you something?” “Hi. Oh, the filet looks great. What's up?” “I know you don't care, but I wanted to share pictures of where we were last night, on Facebook. See the date and location?” “Oh, that's not necessary. I have that app for changing the time stamp too. No big deal. Already forgot about it.” Zelda turned away. The trio announced a brief intermission. Sandy set her fork down. “You know, Mark, if you found something good for me... But I don't want to embarrass myself...” “Sandy... Of course. I'm always looking... thinking of you. Of what would be good for you.” “Hate to look desperate.” “A little secret? Actors love acting. Not desperation... More a state of being.” She smiled in recognition. He said, “But you won't believe what's out there. Zombies and vampires and super-hero sequels. It's embarrassing.” “I guess.” He rubbed his thumb against his fingers. “Don't know who goes to this stuff but it's an avalanche.” Mark signaled Dwayne for another mai tai. He continued, “There’s a few things I’m looking at for you.” “Like what?” “An honest drama. Something light. The comedies are dreck. You’re hilarious, but now it's all sex comedies with adolescents. Embarrassing...” “But...” “...Cartoon crap and CGI. Or slasher flicks. Some good TV with genuine feeling.” “Thanks Mark. That means a lot.” “The best dramas have identity at their core. Now, it's Zombies staggering around with goat guts hanging from their mouths. Disgusting and stupid.” “I'm eating Mark.” “Right. Sorry. You've heard me go on about this.” “I have.” Dwayne arrived with Mark’s second mai tai. Sandy plucked the cherry from it before he could drink. “I can always count on that sexy vision of you with that olive in your mouth seared into my brain. I'll never forget you.” Sandy held it up. “This is a cherry, Mark.” “I know... What did I say? A cherry! Of course it's a cherry! Who would put an olive into a mai tai? The barbarian!” “I don't like olives.” “Of course. It's darker than a Maraschino so I mistook it. Is it good?” “Best I've ever had.” He took her hand. “You’re so gorgeous. Couldn't live without you.” “Thanks, Mark. How I feel about you.” “But I'm not gorgeous.” “You are to me.” They grinned. The musical trio returned to their places and began to play. “You know your last show? That was a tough role.” “Very.” “Hard on everyone. Your hair was dark. Felt I didn’t know you. You weren't yourself. It took a toll.” “I didn't know. It was so draining. It was like three different parts at once. Incredible pressure.” “Wasn’t the character mentally ill?” “Schizophrenic.” He nodded. “Yeah... Wow. I missed you.” “Missed you too.” “Missed me? Where was I?” “Here. But I was in New Orleans, on location. Remember?” “Right!” “It was called 'Two Rivers.’” “And... There was only one river.” “Yes.” “Yeah, I'm talking about when you were prepping. I couldn't get close to you.” “I was working, Mark.” “I know Babe. But it was hard...” Zelda approached, “Hi guys. You won’t believe this, but remember that couple I thought was you?” Sandy sighed. “Yeah?” “They just showed up. Sorry I was such a dope. You’re right. You aren't them.” “Of course.” “I knew it.” Mark and Sandy high-fived. Zelda said, “I want to apologize, and give you the heads up... I swear they look - exactly - like - you. Oh my God! It's like a fun house mirror. Can you believe it?” Sandy tapped the table. “No.” Mark looked around. “Where are they?” “I’ll seat them in a minute. But don't freak out when you see yourselves walk onto the patio, okay? I don't need four lunatics here, on the loose.” “Scout's honor...” Mark whispered, “And that’s just the staff...” Sandy waved her hand to shush him. “I'll get them now, so sit tight. Okay?” She exited, and returned moments later, leading a well-dressed couple to a nearby table. They looked nothing like Mark and Sandy. Zelda turned to Mark and Sandy and mugged. They looked at their ‘doubles,’ and back to each other, in wonder. He said, “In what universe could anyone mistake us for Arnold Swarzenegger and Hillary Clinton?” Sandy said, “I almost feel like I know them. Should we introduce ourselves? Wish them a calm, relaxed evening?” “I’ll pass. Don’t want to chance mingling pixie dust and disrupt the time/space continuum.” Sandy laughed. “Right. What you said. Me too.” “Happy Anniversary...” They clinked glasses and drank.

You’ve done it. After weeks’ worth of late nights, unbridled fury, carpal tunnel, game restarts, and ragequits, you’ve...you’ve *done it.* You’ve beaten Matt from Wii Sports. His cartoonishly geometric form lies crumpled before you in the ring, as the announcer, with his crisp, cheerful voice that has become all too familiar to you, initiates the countdown. “DOWN! One! Two! Three!...” He stays down. He’s not coming back for a second wind. You don’t know for sure, but you just *know* somehow. This *has* to be it. “...Four! Five! Six!...” Ten seconds have never felt so long to you. Each ticking pulse in your temple as you stare at the television screen, daring the motherfucker to stand up again, feels like a drum concerto of eternity. “Seven!...” You think back to the furious round in the few minutes before. Spraining your wrist pumping the Wii Remote and Nunchuk. The rising pressure in that one spot in the side of your head. The muted, high-pitched curses uttered under your breath. Did you break a sweat? If so, that’s quite pathetic. But you don’t care. Matt is *down.* “Eight!...” You think about your skill level, and the prodigious boost it must receive after this fight. You’ve beaten the champ. It’s taken you weeks. Never in your life will the sight of a line graph fill you with such satisfaction. “Nine!...” And there’s a sudden stab of guilt - all the times you had to restart to avoid losing skill points, and getting demoted to squaring with lesser fighters. It was only necessary, you tell yourself. Restarting all those games was *necessary.* It was the only way you could stick with Matt, keep him in your sights, lock him in your dance. Now, there is no need to restart. The game is up. A winner is you. “...Ten! KNOCKOUT!” the announcer declares. The bell dings a double chime. The crowd of Miis cheers. Your heart balloons in your chest. Your limbs soften with relief. It’s official. It’s inscribed in data and code, sealed in a save file. The Wii Message Board might even receive a letter of congratulations. It’s all too much. As your face breaks into a smile, something changes. A sound effect plays from the television. The scene darkens and freezes. You must have accidentally paused the game. You make to click “Continue.” But something’s not right. Your pointer doesn’t register on the screen. The words are flipped, as if reflected off a mirror. How are you supposed to read them? What are you supposed to do? Then it hits you. It hits you like a flying virtual boxing glove. Another pointer appears, ghostlike and hazy. Slowly, almost mockingly, it drifts toward the center button. He’s been staring at you this whole time. “Start over.” The screen fades to black. You emit a scream. The match starts over. You vs. Matt. The latter of whom is fully recovered and ready to go at it again. And again. And again.

I'd taken that route a thousand times. Maybe even more. Every bend and curve became muscle memory to me. Every tree and every rock became recognizable. The view of the valley below, as you cling to the edge of the mountain peak, became as common a sight to me as my own home. Every day on my way back home, my bike and I would cling to the tarmac of that winding road, the cool mountain air and the hum of the engine below me becoming part of my routine. Brake here, swing hard there. Accelerate until there. Maybe I wasn't being as careful as I should have been. Maybe the darkness caused the irregularity, causing the all-recognizable treeline to become strange and menacing to me. Maybe the shadows stretched the road an extra inch that I wasn't used to. All I know is, I didn't brake in time. I could see it coming, but it was just too late. I slammed the brakes as hard as I could, my tires locking below me as they squealed and smoked in protest. But it wasn't enough. I slammed into the safety barrier, the impact jarring my bones as it traveled through my body. My bike came to a dead stop as the barrier crunched around it. I didn't stop. There was a moment of weightlessness. I felt calm as I rose in the air, my thoughts collecting themselves into a resounding 'oh fuck', as my situation sunk in. Then I fell, my stomach sinking into my gut as I realized what it meant. My moment of weightlessness was over as gravity swiftly re-affirmed its hold on me, reminding me sharply of what happens to those who defy it. I smashed into the first tree, the impact crashing through my frail body as I heard my own bones *crunch*. Momentum carried me onward, flipping me over as I flew through the trees at breakneck speed. After what felt like an eternity, I hit the bottom hard, the unrelenting ground coming up and forcing the air out of my lungs. I laid there for a moment, as my brain frantically assessed the damage. That was when I first screamed. My body burned, the skin over my leg stretching taut where bones lay broken under its surface. I pushed myself up, leaning myself against a fallen log, my vision going white as fresh pain seared through me. I took a few deep breaths in an attempt to force back the darkness of unconsciousness as I assessed the damage. My leg was bent at the wrong angle, in two places where it shouldn't be. It hurt to breathe. My arm felt like it had been smashed by a sledgehammer and my head felt cloudy, unfocused. My stomach felt warm, though. Wet. I lifted up my shirt, letting out a small cry as I saw the branch sticking through it. It was the width of my thumb, and there was no telling how deep it had gotten. I started to panic as blood slowly seeped out the wound, painting my stomach a violet color in the moonlight and drenching the soil beneath me in an endless stream. I needed help. I needed help badly. I pawed at my jacket pocket, forcing my shaking fingers to rip open the velcro holding it closed and fishing out my phone. I tapped the fingerprint scanner and it came to life, bathing me in its blissful LED light. It still worked. It survived the crash. Thank God. I clumsily opened its dialer, then typed those three numbers that were seared into my head since I was a kid. I put it on speaker and forcefully flipped up my helmets visor, as the call connected on the first ring. "Hello! Nine-triple-one here, how may I help you?" said a light, cheery voice through the speaker. "Gah, fuck, I need an ambulance!" I managed to croak out through clenched teeth. "Please, it's urgent! I fell off the side of I-40, and now I'm... I'm bleeding everywhere, and... And... Oh God, think I broke a few bones." Silence hung in the air for a moment, as the lady on the other line stayed silent. I took a few shallow breaths, trying not to agitate my chest any more than it already was. Suddenly, she laughed. It was sincere, almost apologetic, but with every passing moment I became more and more infuriated by it. "What the fuck? I need help!" I started screaming into the microphone, in an attempt to shut her up. "Why the fuck are you laughing?!" "Oh my, I'm sorry! It's just... Heh... Hoo boy... You must be looking for nine-one-one right?" she replied. "Yes! Fuck! I need serious help!" I shouted, as I watched my life drain from the hole in my stomach. "Oh my, I'm sorry, but it seems you called the wrong number!" she said, her voice straining as she tried to hold back further laughter. "A common mistake, but a mistake nonetheless! Sorry about that!" For a moment it didn't sink in. My mind, in its haze, just couldn't process this new information. I stared at the screen of my phone for a few moments, "**9111**" displaying in bold on its screen. My vision started to go dark, as the cold crept through my body. My head started to feel light. "Fuck, I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die here." I started to cry, my eyes burning as the first tear fell and I realized just what I had done to myself. It was stupid of me. Stupid to think that I was better at driving than I was. Stupid to think I could judge the distance the same at night as in day. Stupid to drive so fast in the first place. It was a stupid thing to do, and I'm going to die a stupid death because of it. "Alright. Sorry about that. Bye." I managed to say to the speaker, as I attempted to lift my hand and hang up. "Woah, hold your horses there Michael deary. If you hang up now you won't be able to contact anyone else." the lady said, her voice becoming serious for the first time. "You've lost a lot of blood, right? Try moving your fingers." For a moment I sat there, confused. I didn't remember giving her my name, but my head was so fuzzy, I couldn't be sure if that's true. I stared at my hands, I couldn't feel my fingers anymore, but I could still see them hanging there, limp. I tried wiggling them. I could barely get them to wiggle the way I wanted them to. I couldn't feel them. She was right. If I somehow managed to hang up, I wouldn't be able to manipulate my fingers into dialing the right number anyways. As it got even colder, I realized that this stranger will be the last person I'll ever speak to. "Fuck. I'm going to die." "Not necessarily, Michael my dear. See, we can still help you. It'll just cost a bit... More than usual." she replied, her voice washing over me as I struggled to keep my eyes open. "How much?" I slurred, as I barely kept my consciousness. "Don't worry about it for now. All I need is for you to say yes, and we'll work out the fine details another time. How about it?" she cooed, her voice dripping with honey. I didnt wanna die. I really didn't. If she could help, I wanted her to. "Yes." I managed to spit out, before I lost consciousness. My body was floating, the sound of the ocean waves washing over me and becoming louder and louder, roaring in my ears and drowning out all other sounds as I floated upwards, out of my broken body to somewhere better. Somewhere where it wasn't so cold. Before I reached the top, I heard a ladies voice. It cut through the rumbling waves and whispered clearly into my ear. "Perfect, Michael! See you in twenty years." I woke up a few days later in a hospital bed, attached to countless wires and drips. At first I had no clue where I was, what day it was, or even who I was. I had a severe concussion, three breaks in my left leg, a hairline fracture in my left arm and three broken ribs. On top of all that, I had severe open wounds in my abdomen thanks to the branch that lodged itself in there. The doctors told me it was a miracle it missed anything vital, and that if it was a millimeter out to any side, it would have hit major arteries and I would have likely bled out before help arrived. A family was driving home when they found my wreck of a bike on the side of the hill, still smoking, and stopped to investigate. When they saw that the barrier was smashed through, and that there was no driver in sight, they called for help. The rescue team found me at the base of the mountain, about a hundred meters down, crumpled over myself and passed out. They found my phone next to me, it's screen still on, the words "call disconnected" flashing across it. The recovery took months, the first few weeks spent in a confused daze as the concussion caused short-term memory loss. I didn't know where I was, or how I got there. I couldn't remember my girlfriend's name, or that we moved into town two years ago. But slowly I regained my memories. It started bit by bit and in no particular order. I'd remember my old managers retirement party, or a date with my girlfriend a year ago. After a few weeks, though, it all came back to me. I remembered the crash. The whistling of the wind flying past my helmet. The crack of the branches breaking against me. The shock I felt when I finally landed. The pain searing through me as the adrenaline wore off. I also remember the lady. How she laughed and laughed at me. How she offered me a deal, and that I took it. But worst of all, I remember what she said as the world slipped away from me and went dark. Her voice as smooth as butter, dripping with honey and venom.

“You have to face facts, the system was put in place to cope with the current state of national healthcare. Let’s not put any more stress on your children, Mrs. Andrews. This is better for everyone.” The insurance specialist was practically whispering into her ear, not wanting the others to hear. Stephanie spoke louder so that they could all hear. “I can’t have that many visits to the hospital, can I? We can’t just fudge the numbers a little to give me a little more time? The last time I visited the doctors was because of stress. Should that even count as a doctor’s visit?” The insurance specialist’s nametag, “Mr. Martin,” almost hit her in the face as he took Stephanie’s temperature by scanning her forehead. “That would be fraud. A medical visit is still a medical visit. There’s no way around it. We have to get you ready for the euthanasia.“ Her family sighed at the word and moved in closer but likely knew that there was nothing they could do either. Little Abbey was too young to be seeing this but Stephanie asked that she be here, as this might be the last time she saw her alive. Russ stepped in and waited for Mr. Martin to move out of the way so he could lean down and probably say something like “this is how it’s supposed to be” or “we’ll have to endure without you.” They had their troubles in the past but she never imagined he could be so casual about this. Instead, he said, “It’ll be OK. It’ll be over soon.” Abbey and Joann had the sour taste of vinegar on their faces and held each other closely, offering pitiful moans and nothing more. But how could they speak? Seeing their mother in a hospital bed, ready to be sent to the slaughter and knowing that her mandated death would greatly improve the gene pool of future generations. She watched her daughters’ faces and could have ripped the face off of Mr. Martin as he made check marks on his tablet. He saw this subtle ire and responded. “I know this isn’t easy but you know what happens when you meet your allotted medical expenditure. This situation is no different from the others who are waiting in the euthanasia room right now. They’re waiting for you to arrive to initiate the process. Once the process starts--” She turned away and stopped listening when her son appeared in the doorway. He had a furled brow and what she had always described as “angry lips” but she could have kissed him and held him all the same. It wasn’t her fault she was in this dire situation, or at least not completely. “Adam,” she said, her voice cracking. “Hi, mom.” he pushed in through his father and Mr. Martin and grabbed the hand railing of the medical bed. “You said you’d never leave us.” “There’s nothing I can do. I should have done more for my health. I should have...” “They’re going to kill you!” Adam started shouting. “You didn’t do anything wrong! You’re getting out of here. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I’ll stop anyone who tries.” Mr. Martin grabbed him by the arm. She saw the anger rooted deep within his eyes. “Don’t be like that. Don’t be like them. You believe they’re killers. Adam, I don’t want you to have any part of this. I don’t want you to end up like they are.” He wrenched his arm away, “Like them? Like killers? Fine, I won’t have any part of this.” and stormed out. Stephanie had her hands out, attempting to calm her fleeing son, but she couldn’t and she wept for it. Mr. Martin looked at his watch and tablet, making several more check motions. “It’s time to go. Say goodbye. You will be read your last will and rights in the sleeping room.” Everything became a blur in her last few moments. The lights that were overhead and the paintings on the walls were smudged with tears. She hasn’t even been given any drugs yet. In a few seconds, or it might have been minutes, she was led into a room, a room she never thought she’d see. Muffled patients lined the wall in columns but they weren’t gagged. They were muffled from sedation and their faces appeared numb and drooping. She wondered what they were trying to say, looking into the rows of subdued patients. She didn’t care to count them. Everything seemed so pointless. The nurse had a similarly placid face. Stephanie leaned forward and whispered, “You don’t have to do this. These people...will be on your conscience.” The nurse was preparing a syringe and appeared to contemplate her words but didn’t show any other reaction. “These people will help power this facility. Without your biofuel we would have to rely on public money and that would be wasteful spending.” Stephanie nodded. Of course, their bodies, once converted to simple biomass, would provide electricity but when she saw the chutes at the end of the room, she felt her throat tighten. She barely was given time to say goodbye to her family and even less time to cope with the end of her life. The sedation fluid entered her IV, along with several other chemicals that would help break down her body once the gas was pumped into the room. She found it odd that they had medical equipment at the ready, as if they would save anyone’s life today. She rested her head on the pillow and listened to the moaning. A man next to her was writhing, his mind not yet ready to lose his body. He turned to her, and with a glistening, empathetic stare told her that this was how it had to be. That this was the right thing to do. It was either this or die of medical bills and debt. She told herself this was a blessing. But as the insurance specialist entered the room all of the patients started moaning louder. She wanted to join in the chorus of groans but she didn’t know what for. It was a symphony of final pleas and pathetic whimpers. She fought against the sedative like the others were doing but it was too strong. Her vision became a milky haze as she leaned towards the specialist as he made his way around the patients, checking their state and swiping on a tablet. He was making the final preparations. The toxin that would dissolve her internal organs was slowly creeping down the IV tube. It was like watching a clock ticking down to midnight. A clock seeping with poisonous seconds. The specialist was behind them, making his way towards the chutes. He started unlocking them and opening their doors. She could no longer feel the nausea in her stomach and she was thankful for it because it eased her into a state of emptiness and coldness. He walked past her stretcher and turned only slightly before continuing towards the door. She was too numb to reach out. The chorus of moans continued, until the door was closed and they were shut in. The lights dimmed. They no longer needed it. But the patients didn’t stop. They were screaming in agony behind paralyzed throats. She imagined what it was like to be dead. She looked at the IV tube one more time before closing her eyes. And when she did, she was rocked alert by an explosion directly beneath her. The IV bag tipped over and pulled itself from her vein. Nurses and specialists were running by the window as the ceiling lights flickered. The door swung open and a figure came rushing in. When he came to her, he was panting, kneeling on shaky knees. “Mom. I came back...I came back for you.” “Adam.” She moaned. Her son’s hands tried to nudge her awake. “We have to get you out of here. I did what I had to do.” “Did you...?” She was energized by adrenaline, and a fear for her son’s mental state. The explosion likely had injured the workers, possibly even killing them. She had lost him. Even though he was dragging her stretcher out of the room and he was beside her he felt so far away. He was speaking frantically but she couldn’t hear. She almost didn’t want to hear, or witness her own child, a boy who had so much innocence, fall from grace. His gray eyes were now filled with such hatred and retribution. He would spend the rest of his life harboring her, running and hiding from the authorities. She let out a moan, a desperate, guttural moan that peaked when he took her into the elevator. The doors closed as she became trapped in a box with her own son, a murderer and an anarchist. She couldn’t comprehend what was worse, the death of others for the sake of a better, healthier society or the death of a few to fight the system that wanted to murder thousands more. She didn’t care to know and cursed humanity for authoring this paradox in the first place.

The clearing was dark as the new day sun had only just began to rise. This was a holy place, known to very few for it was surrounded by miles of dense woodland. The only sounds were that of a near by stream trickling and of two pairs of boots as they entered the hollow. “Wow can you believe it? Finally here! You did it!” said the younger of the two men. “No Kurt”, said the the older man, “We did it.” As the two adventurers entered, they continued toward the middle of the clearing where they came upon a large stone sitting perfectly in the center. Jutting out of the top of the stone appeared to be the handle of an ancient stone. On the handle was an engraving of a language long forgotten. “So this is it?” asked Kurt. “This is what you’ve been looking for?” “Yes son” began the old man “this is what I have been looking for my entire life. The sword in the stone. It’s said that this very sword is what inspired Arthurian legend. And just like the legend, only the most good and pure of heart can free it from its stony prison.” As he finished his explanation, the old man knelt down next the stone and placed his weathered hands on the hilt of the sword and began to pull. The sword did not yield. The man smiled as he looked back up at a surprised Kurt. “This doesn’t make any sense!” exclaimed the young man. “Who could be more worthy than the man who has used his wealth and influence for philanthropy? The man who took me in after my parents accident? You have more than proved yourself to be good!” “Kurt, it’s true that I have tried my best to do good, but I have made terrible decisions that just can’t be undone”, explained the old man. “ But, taking you in was the best thing I could have done. Finding the sword was not my only life’s work. It was raising you to become a good and decent man. I never had kids of my own but you are my son Kurt and we are here today so that you can fulfill my work.” Kurt looked back at his surrogate father stunned. “I... I don’t know” “I do, son” Kurt took a step forward to hug the old man, and then he took another step toward the sword. He placed his strong, youthful hands over the hilt and began to pull. The sword started to release! In just a few seconds the sword was free and in Kurt’s hands. He could not believe it as he stared at the ancient weapon in disbelief. Suddenly a power started to flow through him. The old man had said nothing about this! “How does it feel son?” “Incredible! I feel like I could anything” “The legend says that the sword grants its wielder with immense power, this is the reason I have sought after it. I believe that it could help me rid this world of evil.” “Do you really think think it could do that?” “Of course I do, if I didn’t I wouldn’t have wasted this much time.” Holding the sword Kurt’s strength, speed and reflexes were heightened to the level of a superhuman. But love can be blinding, and he didn’t see the gun the old man had pulled from his belt, and he did not see him fire it. “D-Dad?” The old man caught the sword as Kurt fell to the ground with a new hole in his chest. The old man now felt the same awesome power his adopted son felt moments ago. “Son, I wasn’t entirely honest with you. I’ve been here before and the sword has denied me before. It was back before your parents accident. On that day I lost hope that my dream would ever come true but then you came into my life. And I saw you for what you were. A young soul ready for molding. So I raised you into the good-hearted man you are today. And you have delivered me my ultimate tool to fix this world. I’ve made many mistakes in this life, but you were not one of them.” The old man affixed the sword to his belt and began to walk away. As Kurt’s world was going dark, the clearing was filled with the light of the new day sun. The only sounds were of the near by stream trickling, and of a single pair of boots exiting the clearing.

Rahul was about 30, was handsome, tall, slim and fair with a clean shaven face. Not very far from his house lived dancer Malaika. She was about 27 and was quite good looking. She had shifted from dancing to run a dance school. Rahul had been introduced to Malaika by one of his cousins and he had started moving closely with her. People who knew Rahul and Malaika would say they were sure to get married. Rahul was a chartered accountant and worked for the family firm his father headed. The firm had an important client - a large overseas conglomerate. It had been levied a hefty sum as penalty for some infringements of law and sought to file an appeal against it in the Supreme Court of India in New Delhi. Rahul’s father had chosen Geet who was a leading lawyer after passing out of the premier National Law School of India to be the legal counsel. Geet who was also nearing 30 started coming to Rahul’s firm for discussions. Geet was nice looking with a perpetual smile on her face due to which she would charm people with whom she dealt. Rahul was initially immune to her charm but during the regular inter action, he found himself drawn towards her. When the date of hearing in the court drew near, Geet said “Rahul, I would like you also to go to Delhi with us: There could be some points on which the judges could raise queries. If you’re there you could clarify. Of course 2 lawyers who are assisting me will be coming with me. I don’t know how long we would’ve to stay there. It all depends. The judges could adjourn after only a day.” Rahul agreed and the team went to Delhi where they stayed in a 5 star hotel. The hearing lasted only two days and the case was adjourned. Geet said “Rahul your coming with us was very useful. I’m sure the judges were really impressed with our arguments. There will be further hearings when you could again join our team.” Malaika called Rahul and said “You seem to have suddenly turned away from me. I sent you the invitation and reminded you also, but you were not present when the Chief Minister presided over the maiden dance performance by a talented girl trained by me.” “No. No! I couldn’t be present as there was an important case in a critical stage in the Supreme Court and I had to provide facts. I’ll come possibly next time.” “I hear you’re in close touch with Geet. I suspect that’s the reason you’re avoiding me. Someone who knows Geet told me. You should be careful as the same source told me that despite her perpetual smile she is over-bearing and ditches people.” He said “She is a gifted lawyer and there’re people who want to besmear her reputation saying such things about her. She is aware of such opinions about her. She told me so herself. I’m convinced she has the ability to fight off such rumours and emerge triumphant.” Malaika now realised that Rahul preferred Geet to herself. She was convinced that he was in love with Geet and decided to forget him. She said “Rahul, I with my team will be leaving this week end for performances at places ranging from Singapore to New Zealand. We’ll be back after about 10 weeks.” “Have a good time.” After 60 days, a newspaper carried the following news: ‘Noted dance teacher Malaika returned yesterday after a long tour. Music director Oberon had joined the team. Everywhere they went, the team received kudos. The Thai king had requested for an extra show which was met. The team was showered with praise and gifts. Malaika said that the success of the team was due to the efforts of Oberon who was helping and guiding the performers. It is known that Oberon’s wife had passed away a few days ago and he had opted to go on the tour with Malaika to come to terms with his sorrow. It is said that a cine producer in Bangkok has signed up to produce a film on an Indian opera show to be jointly produced by Oberon and Malaika. The group had to perform two extra shows in New Zealand due to popular demand.’ The article had two shots of Malaika with Oberon who was young and handsome. Rahul who had been following the columns about Oberon and Malaika was strangely perturbed. He immediately called up Malaika and said “First my congratulations at the acclaim your team has received. I wonder if we could get together somewhere. I’ve many matters to discuss with you.” She said “I’ll call you later as I’m now busy with Oberon.” Rahul was very unhappy. Oberon was a handsome young man with a lot of money and above all was now a widower. He said to himself: “She appears to have become close to Oberon.” She didn’t call Rahul and so he again spoke to her. He said “I’ll go to any place you specify to talk to you. There’re a lot to talk about.” He called her 6 times when she finally said “I don’t want to meet you in any public venue. Come to my little theatre Saturday night at about 8. The place would be empty since all students and staff would’ve left. However should Oberon need me I’ll inform you, and you can treat our meeting as cancelled.” “I’ll be there as I’m desperate to talk to you.” On Saturday, Rahul reached Malaika’s little theatre well ahead of time. He was finally let in by security on Malaika’s orders. When they were face to face he saw she was shining possibly because of her recent successes. He said “I’m glad to see you.” She was surprised to see him with a beard and sunk eyes. She said “I hope you weren’t ill.” “I was mentally ill which is reflected in my appearance.” “Geet must not have lavished her attention on you.” He was silent a few moments and then said “I’m depressed and have come to seek your help.” She got a phone call and said “I understand, Oberon. I’ll organize it positively on Monday.” She turned to Rahul and said “Oberon has been highly impressed with me. He is producing an opera on a mythological theme and wants me to not only get dancers but singers as well. I’ll be fully busy the next two months.” He said “I’ll first apologize for my having neglected you recently.” She laughed and said “It doesn’t matter as you were steeped in your job.” “You’re being sarcastic! A man can make mistakes.” “So can a woman in estimating a man.” “I can guess that you’re laughing at me within yourself about my contact with Geet.” “You’re free to think whatever you like.” He sighed and said “I can see you hate me. Is it because of Oberon?” “You’re free to speculate.” After a pause he said “I was carried away by Geet’s charm and intellectual ability. In spite of it our client lost the case with costs. I now regret having moved closely with her. She is marrying a member of parliament.” “I’m sorry for you. “Can’t we get together again?” There was a long silence after which she said “I need time to think. You’ve proved fickle by hastily getting attracted to Geet. You lack good judgment.” “Say anything about me but allow me to restore my feelings towards you. I admit it was a mistake to have fallen for Geet.” “Give me time to think it over. In case I accept you again, would you invite Geet to the wedding?” “That is a very difficult question to answer. She is a business associate. It wouldn’t be right to cut her out of the wedding list of invitees but I’ll accept whatever you say. Just let us get together again.” There was an interruption in the talk while somebody walked in. Malaika said “I had ordered food for two to be delivered here. Let us eat.” “I’ve no appetite. I’ll skip dinner.” “You’re being childish. Come on, let us eat.” He ate without relish and she said “I can see you’re really worried. Grow up. I’ll forgive you.” He brightened and said “That means you accept to become my wife.” “You’re again showing immaturity. And you’re dense. You can’t understand what a woman says. I feel sorry for you.” He got up and clasping her said “I thought you would never forgive me. I’m looking forward to settling the wedding date. You decide about the invitees.” “Geet must be invited.” END

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Coming of Age** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘Coming of Age’ in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week ###Crowd Favorites We had a tie this week! Well done, both of you! - - Submitted by u/katpoker666 - - Submitted by u/Lynx_Elia ###Bay’s Spotlights - - Submitted by u/merbaum - - Submitted by u/jimiflan   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **I accept nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or our discord.** You have until 1pm EST Monday to send them in. Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

The Conduit of the Storm was expiring. That was always dangerous. It was one of the most destructive primordial forces of the planet. Within the soul of a wizened old lady, hid the might of all storms that ever raged. Once she was gone, the Cabal would have to wait. Wait for years, until the next Conduit was matured, it's powers unleashed. And in the ensuing chaos, they'd contain it. The very first Cabal was held to withhold the Storm of their age, after he had almost destroyed the city of London in 1703. Ever since then, the whole organization had a single goal: to contain Storm, or any other forces that threatened existence. This Storm, however, was fading. Helena Gregory had lived in cloyster since her teens. After a close brush with death-by-vampire, the fury of the storm she had conjured had almost leveled her remote little village in the Highlands. She was swiftly taken in by the Cabal, kept fed, clothed and content for almost 70 years, learning and writing. She fled a few times of course, and rode the Storm across land and sea, fleeing her captors, but the Cabal has resources that sheer power can't take out. Ignorant of the finesse of her gift, Helena was always recaptured, taken back to her gilded cage. She now was old. And the Conduit inside of her readied it's departure. Helena lied in her bed. Around her were the faces of the Cabal's top soultrackers, scaled here, bearded there, slenderly elvish somewhere. She knew that her end was nigh, and that these stooges were there to better calculate where that power inside of her would move after she was gone. They thought that storm over. They were almost right. From deep within her soul, where the Conduit thrummed with energy, breaking free of it's perch, Helena knew how she wanted to go. It wasn't laying down on this septic bed surrounded by goons in labcoats. For one last, joyful, glorious time, she called the storm. And, like always, but also like never before, awnser, it did. The room erupted in wind, rain and hail suddenly falling from the ceiling, and it was that wind that plucked Helena from her bed and lifted her up. She met the eyes of the terrified lizardman that just seconds earlier jeered at her visage, and let out a hearty laugh. "You creeps won't find it next time. He'll be a great one." Helena raised a flabby arm and pointed at the wall. From her roomy storm rose lightning, and it blasted the wall to bits, revealing a daunting drop. Daunting to many. But not to the Conduit of the Storm. Helena flew out, and ever upward, her storm carrying her higher, higher, higher, to the upper echelons of the wordly dome. In the ascent she let go, of the life that she didn't get to live. And the Conduit carried her to space, out of gratitude for that one glorious moment, before it found itself hurtling back to earth. Towards the wailing cries of a newly born Arthur Sunderland, son of scholars, heir to books, and carrier of a sense of justice that the Conduit, as it fused itself with the boy's soul, could not help to be giddy about.

I remember the last time I saw muh’ daddy. He was ascared’ more ascared than ever i’d seed’. That was one of the day’s that seemed like it’d never end it just kept on getting longer and darker and it wasn’t the dark of night that came granny’d said the darkness of the soul is the greatest darkness there is and she was right to say it cuz that day I saw muh’ daddy might have been the darkest day I ever lived. It started like a lot of days do, half the house was still asleep on a Wednesday mornin’. That should tell you a little somethin’ about the Robert’s household. We weren’t early risers. Hell only one of us held down any kind of work and none of us were going to school, we couldn’t really. Me, I had just turned 10, and my sis, Erin, she was only 6, we had to take turns with the baby. Frank was my oldest brother and he was the only one that had a job to speak of, he was the evening part time manager at our local hardware store, this gained him no status in our family however, in fact it made Pa’ just hate him somethin’ fierce. Tammy my oldest sister she was 16 the last time I saw her, people round town said she had a job too but it wasn’t a very good job and they didn’t speak kindly of her, they called her all sorts of names that I wasn’t allowed to say. Then there was the baby, Maggie, she was 2 and just all over the place, me and Erin pretty much raised that youngin’ They was 5 of us youngin’s livin’ under the roof of that three room shack there was never a day I could say it was comfortable. Ma’ and Pa’ didn’t seem to care too much. Ma’ just barely ever moved out of her easy chair that was in the living room she didn’t say much neither, it was kind of like she was stuck someplace else, she would respond but it was always like she was someplace far away. Pa’ kept to himself in his room most of the time, he’d come out of there smelling like he worked at a bar. Neither one of em’ seemed too terribly bothered by the state of the house, it was filthy and Ma’ nor Pa’ was doin too much about it. It was always too hot, too cold and there was always the faint smell of rot in the air. We didn’t know where that was coming from for the longest time but I reckon’ we’d eventually figure it out. Frank was good to me, he was more my daddy than Pa’ was. I about hated to see Pa’ comin’. Frank, every now and then, when he had a little extra money from his job would slip me a pack of baseball cards. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I straight hated baseball, it was the idea he was doing something nice fer me. Under my bed was a shoe box full of unopened packages of baseball cards, I didn’t care about them but I’ll be dogoned if you could have ever took em’ from me, I’d have fought you for em for sure. I had Caleb and Caleb was all I really had, he cared about me and I cared about him. I kept Caleb in the basement of the house down where the furnace was. I don’t think anybody cept’ me even knew he was down there. He didn’t need much, he only ever asked for food when there was meat in the house, that’s how dog’s think I reckon. Caleb is a special kind of dog though, you know them dogs you see on television where the master had taught them how to speak a little, that was what Caleb is, he can kind of talk but he only ever says one or two things at a time mostly when he’s needin’ food. He would look at me with his big deep eyes and say K’lb Hngrt, I believe what he was trying to say was that Caleb is hungry, that’s when I’d bring him a little plate of food and we got along well because I fed him and he kept me company, he was all I truly had, I love my brother’s and sisters but I have to tell you there was just something special and unspoken between me and Caleb. That Wednesday would turn out to be the last day I’d ever see my Pa’ and it didn’t start to awful good. It was about 11:00 or so when we heard a knock at the door. Pa’ was still sleepin’ and Ma’, well I told you about Ma’. More often than not it was either me or Erin what got the door and deflected visitors. Pa did not like visitors. I went to the door and answered to a man who introduced himself to me as Mr. Bufford. He’d been here before, he was with child services and he had took one or two of us to go to foster care when we hadn’t been in school that much or sometimes he said it was the house and the state of it that made us get took. He said that he was there to do a follow up visit and I told him the lie that Pa told me to tell him about how they was out workin and wouldn’t be back until late. Pa knew that Mr. Bufford couldn’t come in unless at least one adult family member was there... who was of sound mind. Mr. Bufford after several previous visits had come to understand that my mother might well be catatonic. I’m not oversellin’ this to you, she literally almost never moved. Mr. Bufford leaned down and talked to me the same way that people talk to babies when they come out of the hospital, I don’t think he had kids of his own. Mr. Bufford said “Lil man I ain’t buying that story again I’m here to help you youngins, I’ll be back at 4:00pm and whether he here or not I’m comin in and this place better be up to snuff”. Had I not heard this speech about a thousand times before I’d have been a little nervous, plus going to foster care was sort of a vacation for us children. Pa’ must have heard cuz’ he came shambling out of his room with nasty look on his face. “That pin head Bufford ain’t leavin’ us alone for a second, is he youngin?” rhetorically enquired Pa. “No, sir” I replied while looking down at my feet. “When was the last time you and Erin made it to school?” Pa asked. “Hit was back before christmas I think pa.” I replied. Then without warning the back of Pa’s hand made a vicious impact across the left side of my jaw, I went to the ground hard. This was nothing new, but you still never new when Pa was going to hit you, it was random, some days you could tell what to say and what not to say but more often then not you could not tell when the man was going to blow up all over you. Today was one of those days. “I told you little bastards that you needed to go once a week at least to keep the heat offen us... shit now I gotta try to clean this place, unless you want to do it you old whore.” Pa replied as he looked at Ma’ with contempt. She’ made eye contact for a moment, did not say a word and then went to sleep. Didn’t say a word, didn’t try to defend us. Nowadays you’d say she checked out. Erin rushes into the room slapping Pa in the stomach and begging him to quit hitting me. This never worked out well for Erin because she would get the backhand too. She was a lot smaller than me, so Pa’s big rough, nasty hands would fall on her like a mountain, while the hit felt more like getting kicked by a horse. “I’m going to have to go out and get some supplies to get this place straight before that pencil neck comes back later.” Pa grumbled as he walked to the door. He had been wearing the same clothes for the last several days and I’m sure that he had not washed them. Pa was a man of about 50 years of age, he was balding in a very unattractive way. He had a perpetual three day beard no matter what day of the week it was. Pa was pretty much the idea you get in mind of what a slob must look like when you hear the word. Once Pa’ left to obtain “supplies” (by the way supplies was code for liquor, he might bring back a bottle of pine sol if he remembers to after he leaves the bar he would end up at moments after leaving) this was our directive to clean things up and try to conceal as much of the mess as possible. I helped Erin up from the floor and gave her a hug, brushing away the tears taht were racing down her reddened freckled cheeks, framed by the chaotically curly hair that spun round her head. She didn’t cry as much as she used to when this happened, there was still some sorrow in her heart for Pa’. Like most children they expect their parents to love them and cherish them, to us, all of us this had become a distant fairy tale. “It’s all going to be ok.” I lied to her, I knew it wouldn’t be, this would never get better no matter how hard we prayed we just couldn’t escape this hell. Erin cleaned the kitchen and started supper. We called supper anything you could stick in the microwave and eat pretty quick. This time though Erin took a notion to cook up a chicken that had been given to us through a church outreach a couple of weeks ago. A child’s idea of cooking is what they learn from cartoons, so what Erin did was take the chicken out of it’s plastic wrapping and netting and simply tossed it in a pot of water which was set to medium on the stove and just left it there. Erin kept walking about the house picking up loose trash and stuffing clutter into closets and bed rooms when and wherever she could. I was doing much the same, just trying to hide the mess that this family was both inside and out. Frank had woke up, I could hear him getting ready in his room. He was the bread winner for our family and it was a small piece of bread shared between seven people. He wore a look of calm on his face that was a mask for outrage and despair. “Hey squirt, you okay?” Frank inquired while rubbing my head a little harder than he should have been. “It won’t be like this forever ya know, it can change.” lamented Frank. He didn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth and neither did I. Frank reached into his back pocket to retrieve the pack of baseball cards he had gotten me the night before. “Listen kiddo, I may not be back for a while after tonight, I think I might have found us a way out, but I have to go away for a while.” Frank said. This utterly terrified me to hear, sometimes Frank was the only person in the house that would get between me and Pa when things got bad. “No you can’t leave Frank, what’ll I do if Pa comes home mad like he does sometimes, what then?” I said in a fearful tone. “Keep your head down, don’t give him a reason to deck you, hide if you have to. I will come back for you and the others”, replied Frank. Frank never came back, it was the last time I saw him right before he went into work. Last I had heard Frank was living with a group of college students and was working 3 jobs to keep the bills paid. I hated Frank for that but I understood it, everyone in the house understood what Frank done and at the end of the day no one could blame him for wanting to get out. The day dripped by. Soon the door to the kitchen would slam open and Pa’ would make his grand, despicable, drunken entrance. Erin had actually managed to cook that chicken and it had actually made the house smell somewhat like it might be a home. Pa gestured with his nose inhaling deeply the smell of real food being brought to life in the kitchen, “Looks like you little bastards might be good for something after all.” slurred Pa. He had been definitely drinking and he didn’t even bring the obligatory bottle of pine sol to make the place smell cleaner. Erin anxiously grabbed a plate from the dishwasher and dried it off as best she could on her shirt, she then took two forks and lifted the chicken out of the water she had placed it in hours ago. Erin had to grow up far faster than any child should have to. About the time the plate hit the table the baby started to cry in the next room. Without a moments hesitation Erin left the room to tend to our sister (she would never turn down a reason to be out of the presence of our Pa’). “Can’t even cut it yourself you worthless little shit. Fine, it’s not like I don’t do everything round this place by myself” bellowed Pa. “Where the hell is Tammy? She should be helping clean this damn place, that pencil neck will be here any minute now.” grumbled Pa. “She had a date last night Pa’, she probably be home later.” I said. “Who asked you, you little shit, I just want to know where my daughter is, she should be here.”, growled Pa. He spent a lot of time with Tammy, too much really, about a year ago Tammy started looking for any reason at all to stay out of the house and she was basically invisible in the Roberts family. All I knew back then is that Pa was hurting Tammy a lot more than he hurt the rest of us. I started to make a plate for Caleb, I wasn’t hungry, I’d just go ahead and give caleb my supper. Once I had my plate together I started for the basement door. “Where you goin’ boy?” Pa asked. “I’m taking Caleb somethin’ to eat, he’s muh dog and I love him.” I responded. I’m not totally sure why I said it like that it just came out, I had to declare that something or someone in that house gave a damn about me. “You have a fucking dog in this house? In my house, where is the little shit, you tell me now boy.” bellowed Pa. “He’s in the basement, please don’t hurt him pa please he’s all I got.” I begged. Pa then snatched the plate from my hand and made for the basement door, “I’ll feed your fuckin dog and then you can watch me throw him in the river with a bag of rocks.” Pa exclaimed. “You, son of a bitch I won’t let you!” those words vomited from my mouth I had no cognition of having even said them. Less than a moment would pass when I would feel the cold hard hand take the form of a fist and hit me, it was the first time I can remember almost being knocked out. Pa continued to the door as I try to regain my footing to get back up and pursue him he was not going to kill muh dog. Pa made it to the base of the stairs leading to the furnace area and saw Caleb for the first time. Caleb was a small dog, a mut no doubt but about the size of a mail box. “This Caleb? I think I might eat him after I take care of him and make you watch me do it you little shit.” Pa bellowed. Then he spoke I could hear him from the top of the stairs “K’lb Hngrt”, when he said it this time it was deeper like a person was saying it instead of a dog. When I made it down to the base of the stairs... what I saw is hard to describe. Caleb’s fur was melting away shedding from his skin to reveal a mix of fishlike and reptile scales, all the while his barking deepened and became less prominent as this change took place. A mass of tendrils spilled from what used to be Caleb’s mouth and he had grown to the size of a large man..... Much larger than Pa. I could feel the tingle of what I believe to be the flames of hell licking at my feet, I didn’t want to see what came next. Caleb told me so in my head, I turned and left yet before I did I saw the terrified look on my Pa’s face as I left and screaming that I never heard from a living soul before today and I haven’t heard since. Returning up the stairs, Erin was eating some of her chicken, she was very proud. You could hear muffled screams coming from down stairs but those eventually faded. I went to check on the baby to find Ma’ had gotten out of her chair and was talking to Mr. Bufford. He had asked where Mr. Roberts was to which Ma could only reply,”Caleb’s hungry.”

Raylyre - pronounced - Ray-Ly-Re Onyxixs - pronounced - Onyx-sis ----- The city was alive with the hustle and bustle of thousands of people and cars, going about their daily business. The shadow of the tree danced across the grass, the wind blowing softly, carrying the sound of the park. Chains rattled as wings stretched, the pristine white feathers glittering in the light drifting through the leaves. "It's far too bright out here for my liking," a deep voice grumbled, crouching back further into the tree trunk for shade. "I want to go back home." "Pipe down, Onyxixs," angel muttered, spinning his halo around his finger. "Just enjoy the moment." "Listen up, featherbrain," Onyxix growled, fangs reviled with a angry snarl. "You may have come from a bright and cheerful world, but where I came from was dark and, contrary to popular belief, rather quiet. So I hope your "Dear Lord" can forgive my annoyance of such matters I deem my own personal opinion." "Raylyre. Onyxixs. Stop fighting will you?" The human man muttered, the arm covering his eyes moved down so he could glare at the beings. "I have a headache enough as it is, and I don't need the two of you arguing to top it off." Raphael huffed, but complied. His long blonde hair was left loose to blow in the wind and caress his tanned skin, his red eyes staring off into space. The halo that hovered over his head glowing and faintly crackling with power. The large white wings that grew from his back fluttered in annoyance, the chains that were locked around their bases clinking against each other. His white dress slacks were paired with a tight black button up, silk ribbons laced up the bottom of the back his shirt allowing for easy changing. Onyxixs was less then cooperative. Shiny black hair styled with an undercut, cold gold eyes bled black blood down his pale cheeks. The two sets to sharp black horns were decorated with silver jewellery, some of which were studded with ruby's. His giant black feathered bat-like wings were equipped with deadly talons at the wrist, chain cuffs locked so tightly they crushed a few feather. Simple ripped black jeans and iron studded boots covered his lower half, a white muscle shirt was covered in a loose leather jacket with a hole ripped in the back to allow him to take if off over his wings. "Adam," Onyxixs growled, running his hand through his hair. "We have been bound to your immortal ass for over 5 thousand years! Unless your headache is from trying to find a way to set us free, I don't want to hear about it." "Be nice, Onyxixs." Raylyre sighed. "As much as what you say is true, I would advise you to use your words in a kinder manner." "Suck my horns, Raylyre," the demon spat, flicking his clawed middle finger at the angel. "I just say things in a way you are too afraid to." "Girls, girls." Adam said, his blind eye looking to hold a galaxy within. "You're both pretty. Now stop comparing bra sizes and let me rest." "Watch it, pretty boy." Onyxixs said, baring his fangs. "You may be immortal, but you still feel pain like everyone else." "And you are both my guardians," Adam said, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Meaning you are not aloud to hurt me." "This is why guardian angels and demons are no longer assigned to humanity." Raylyre muttered softly. "Not only do they no long believe in us truly anymore, but they either pass on to young or live forever." Sighing, Adam sat up and crossed his arms over his knees. His curly brown hair was tucked into a cap, the dark green t-shirt had small blades of grass stuck to itself from Adam's attempted nap. "How many times do I have to apologise?" Adam asked. "I never meant to become immortal. I never meant to keep you away from your homes. And I never meant to bind you to me for eternity." Looking at each other, the two guardians shared a silent conversation. 'Dear Satan, he is so pitiful.' 'Be nice, Onyxixs. He's truely sorry about what has happened.' 'Does he need to act so mopey though? It's really getting on my nerves.' 'He's trying his best. Just think about how you would feel in he place.' 'Thank your god that demons are nearly incapable of feeling human emotions then.' 'You are seriously missing out.' 'You angels suffer the same condition as us, don't act so high and mighty!' 'We're getting off topic! We need to help our friend.' 'Can we even call him a friend? He's more life a sulky kid.' 'He's our friend, Onyxixs. We've been stuck together for centuries now, that's the least we can call him.' 'Fine! But you're doing the talking.' 'Deal.' "Adam, listen." Raylyre said, sitting down next to the man. "We understand all that and you have apologised more then enough. We're all stuck under this curse, so you should not be the only one to try and find a way to break it." "Thank you, Raylyre." Adam said, the corner of his lips twitching into a smile. "But I still feel guilty." "Kid. You're our friend." Onyxixs said gruffly. "It's the least we can do to make us all happy." "We're friends?" "Obviously," the demon snorted, a cigarette in his mouth. "We have to be after all this time," the angel said, placing an arm around Adam's shoulders; the chains connecting his wings to the immortal human clattering. "We just need to see it as a part of a bigger plan." Looking up into the sky, the angel had a sad smile on his face; as he thought about his home in the silver city. The demon blew out a smoke ring, his boot absentmindedly scuffing into the ground as if trying to dig himself home. Adam clenched his fist tightly, determination filling him; as he dreamed of setting all of them free.

It was 4:44 on a swampy midsummer Tuesday morning, and a cruel storm had been assaulting the grounds of the Obsidian Springs Correctional Facility throughout the entire night. The sun hadn’t even begun to show its head from behind the horizon, but Daniel Jordan was wide awake. He sat on his twin sized bet with his knees tucked up to his chest and stared out the window of his cell, watching the rain and wind ravage the courtyard that sat 50 yards in front of him. A courtyard that, for the entirety of the 9 years he had been locked away, he never had the chance to visit. “It just had to be a Tuesday, didn’t it?” Daniel mumbled to himself. Tuesday’s had always played a significant role throughout Daniel’s family history. His grandparents met while vacationing in Rome on a Tuesday. His parents got married on a Tuesday. In fact, Daniel was born on a Tuesday. And now, on this typical, ordinary, stormy Tuesday, just as he was brought into the world, Daniel was scheduled to be taken out of it. He continued to stare out the window and tried to picture himself sitting out on one of the old, rusty courtyard benches. He tried his best to block the storm from his mind and imagined he was basking in a warm, cloudless day, with a full sun beaming down on his face and a light wind blowing to keep him cool. Inmates would surround him, calling out to him and asking if he wanted to join in on their game of pick up basketball, or wall ball, or chess. But Daniel would decline each offer that came his way. All he wanted to do was sit and enjoy the sunlight. Something he hadn’t done in almost a decade - and something he would never get to do again. A crack of thunder sounded off and caused Daniel to jump out of the daydream he had found himself immersed in. He let out a depressive sigh and turned his head towards the digital clock that hung directly above the door to his cell, which now read 4:45 AM. “Any minute now.” He whispered to himself, as he stood up and made his way over to a small plastic dresser on the opposite side of the room. He opened the middle drawer of the flimsily piece of furniture, pulled out a pair of extremely tattered and broken-in dark blue cargo pants, and put them on over the thigh gripping boxers he had been wearing for the past 48 hours. Another crack of thunder erupted above him as he knelt down to cuff each of his pant legs, and he felt the frigid tile floor of his cell rumble beneath his feet. The thunder was followed by an aggressive triple pounding on his cell room door, which flung open immediately after the pounding had stopped. “Jordan, you got a visitor.” Announced one of the prison’s many overly assertive security guards as he walked into the cell. Daniel stood up tall and placed his hands in his pockets, trying his best to look as calm and collected as he possibly could. A woman followed the guard into Daniel’s cell and stopped a few feet in front of him. She was a tall, pale woman, who wore a long medical robe that covered her entire body, and a pair of bulky, ocean blue glasses were placed firmly on her nose. Her hair sat modestly on her shoulders, sporting an onyx tone that challenged the likes of the deepest crater on the farthest point of the darkest side of the moon. Daniel’s pupils dilated at the sight of her, and his knees buckled in an embarrassingly quick fashion. It was impossible for him to hide the fact that he was infatuated with her. “Remember me, Daniel?” She asked. Of course he remembered her, and he knew exactly why she was there. “Doctor Bridgewell, of course. Good morning.” “Good morning, Daniel. How are you feeling today?” “Good, I think. Tired, but good.” “Well that’s good to hear. I know how stressful it can be for somebody in your situation, but we really don’t have much time to sit and chat like we usually do. Have you thought more about what we discussed the last time I was here?” “Yes ma’am.” Daniel said nervously. The back of his throat began to feel dry and scratchy, and he could feel his cheeks turning red. “And?” She said blankly. Daniel took a moment to turn his attention back towards his cell window. He hoped to finally get a glimpse of the sun rising, but all he could see was the rain continuing to flood the courtyard. “Daniel.” The doctor snapped. “Oh, sorry. Right. I, Uh.. Well I guess I’ve decided to do it your way.” “You guess?” “Sorry - I want to do it your way. Definitely.” “And you’re sure about that? There’s no going back once the procedure is complete.” “Yeah, well, it’s better than the chair, so..” Daniel took his right hand out of his pocket and extended it out towards the doctor, who in turn grabbed it and shook it confidently. The pair stood still for a moment and exchanged smiles, which eased Daniel’s worries. “Alrighty then, put your shoes on and follow me.” Instructed Doctor Bridgewell. The two of them walked out of the cell and turned right down a long, barren hallway. Armed guards stood about 20 feet apart on each side of the hallway, and they all shot menacing glances at Daniel as he walked past them. Although he couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of each guard's face as he walked by, Daniel tried his best to keep his eyes focused on the door they seemed to be walking towards. The door stood at the far end of the hallway, and a small sign reading “OPERATION LABORATORY” in big black bold letters was plastered next to it. Daniel’s breath’s grew stronger with each step he took, and his heart began to race uncontrollably. “Nervous?” Asked Doctor Bridgewell. “No way. Why would I be nervous? Like I said, it’s better than the-” “You’re breathing pretty hard. I can hear you.” “Well it’s a pretty long walk.” Joked Daniel. Doctor Bridgewell chuckled and placed her hand on his shoulder and kept it there for the remainder of their walk. Once they reached the laboratory door, the guard standing in front of it turned around and pounded on it 3 times - a sound that had grown to become all too familiar for Daniel. A dreary buzz sounded off from the inside of the door, and it opened swiftly. The laboratory was just as depressing and unsettling as Daniels cell. Dozens of people in lab coats were scattered throughout the all white four-walled room, and each of them held a clipboard and wore medical masks to hide their faces. Daniel expected to be greeted by big, beeping, blinking, buzzing machines, but there was nothing of the sort to be found. Instead, the only piece of equipment that was present in the room was the one thing he had been trying to avoid. A chair. Daniel’s muscles tensed and his eyes began to squint with anger. “Whoa, whoa, what’s the deal with-” “Relax, Daniel.” Doctor Bridgewell interrupted. “You didn’t think the procedure would take place with you standing upright, did you?” “No, but I-” “Daniel, It’s fine. I promise. Now please, have a seat.” Daniel stood motionlessly and clenched his fists together. He trusted Doctor Bridgewell, but that didn’t change the fact that sitting down in the chair would be the last thing he ever did. He stared at the chair and tried his best to hold back the tears that were trying to push themselves out from the corners of his eyes. It took a slight nudge on the back from one of the guards to finally convince him to make his way over to the chair. “So, how does this work exactly?” Daniel said as he hovered over the chair. “Well, first things first, you have to sit.” Replied Doctor Bridgewell. “Right, but I-” “Sit down now, or I’ll personally escort you to the other chair.” The back-bumping guard demanded. “Jerkoff..” Daniel said under his breath as he sat down in the chair. He glanced around the room and took notice of how many people were examining him. To his surprise, the thought of a dozen brains and eyes looming over his existence calmed him. “Well, it’s now or never, Doc. Let’s do this.” He exclaimed. “Ah, anxious now, are we?” Doctor Bridgewell shot back, with a smirk on her face. “I’ve waited forever for now. Let’s do this.” “You’re a convict, Daniel. And my patient, at that. We aren’t-” “Friends. I know. But maybe we could be? I mean, after all this.” “I don’t befriend patients.” “You don’t have to be Daniel Jordan’s last friend. You can be Jordan Daniel’s first.” Daniel smiled at Doctor Bridgewell and allowed the tears hiding in the corner of his eyes to fall. She smiled back at him and walked up to his chair. “It’s simpler than it seems..” She said, trying her best to change the emotional tone of the conversation into a professional one. “First, you take this.” “A red pill? Are you serious? Ha! You can’t be serious. My name’s Daniel, not Ne-“ “This isn’t a joke, Daniel. This is real. And there’s no blue pill in this reality. Sure, ironically enough the other chair is blue, but that-” “Alright, alright, I get it. I’ll take the pill.” Daniel said as he grabbed the red pill from her hand and swallowed it. “Now what?” “You put that on.” Doctor Bridgewell said as she pointed towards a metallic helmet sitting on the head of the chair. Multi Colored wires were wrapped around the base of the helmet, which made it look almost too silly to be real. “You can’t be serious.” Daniel said bluntly. “Daniel, if you aren’t going to take this seriously then maybe we should just-” “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’ll put it on.” He said as he grabbed the helmet from the chair. He placed it on his head and could hear a soft humming sound coming from the very top of it. It was cold, like it had been sitting in a freezer for hours beforehand, and a line of chills ran down his arms as it touched the tips of his ears. Doctor Bridgewell walked over to him calmly and sat next to him on the chair. “Last time I’m gonna ask you: Are you sure you want to do this?” “Yes.” “You won’t remember anything. And when I say that, I mean it literally. You won’t remember anything at all.” “I know.” “You won’t be Daniel Jordan anymore.” Daniel paused for a moment and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and envisioned himself sitting on the courtyard bench again, but this time the sun wasn’t shining, and there were no other inmates to invite him into their games. Grey clouds covered the skies completely, and there was no breeze to cool him off. He sat there alone, waiting for the sun to come out. A sun that would never come. “I don’t want to be.” He whispered as he opened his eyes. Doctor Bridgewell stood up from the chair and walked to the far side of the room, where a group of masked lab workers were standing. One of the workers handed her a small, black remote control, and then walked to the other side of the room to join a different group of workers. “Alright Daniel, this is how this is going to work.” Doctor Bridgewell said firmly. “You’re going to lean back in the chair, and when I tell you to, you’re going to close your eyes. Once you’re comfortable, I’ll activate the helmet by pushing this button on this device I’m holding. From there, I’ll begin to count backwards from twenty. While I’m counting, I’ll be turning this main dial here on my device. As the seconds go on, you’ll begin to feel pressure building on the top of your head. It is extremely crucial that you do not remove the helmet once the activation process has begun. Once I reach one, I’ll push the activation button one more time. You may feel a quick shocking sensation in your arms and legs, but after that, you’ll fall asleep. And from then on... Well, you won’t wake up. But Jordan Daniel will.” “That’s it?” “For the most part. Now remember: Not only will you wake up and forget your current life, but you will know an entirely new one. This technology doesn’t just erase memories - it forges new ones. You’ll remember a life you’ve never had. A family you never had. Birthday parties you never had. You’ll go home to a house that’s been provided for you, and tomorrow morning you’ll wake up and go to a job that’s been provided for you. The path to the rest of your life has been paved. All you’ll have to do is walk it.” Daniel sat still and stared intently at Doctor Bridgewell. He wasn’t sure what to say to her, or if there was really anything that needed to be said at all. He took another deep breath and swung his legs up onto the extended end up of the chair. “Alright. Let’s do this.” He said calmly. “Is there anything you’d like to say before we begin?” Daniel paused for a moment to think. He tried to come up with something to say, but the only thing sitting at the front of his mind was a still image of the sun shining brightly in a cloudless sky. He turned his head to face Doctor Bridgewell and smiled. “Thanks for getting me out of the storm.” He said. Daniel turned his head back to face forward and closed his eyes. He stuck his thumb up in Doctor Bridgewell’s direction and held it there until he heard a tiny beep, which indicated she had just pressed the activation button. The pressure around his head began to rise, as the seconds Doctor Bridgewell had been announcing continued to descend. 20 seconds turned to 15. 15 turned to 10. 10 turned to 5. No matter how painful the pressure was, the image of the sun never left Daniel’s mind. “5.. 4.. 3.. 2..” Daniel felt a lonesome teardrop run down his cheek the moment before his time expired. The corners of his lips rose subtly, and his chest felt warm. He listened intently for Doctor Bridgewell’s final proclamation. “1.” A jolt of electricity shot through Daniel's body in an instant. Although it only lasted for just one single millisecond, Daniel felt his entire life evacuate from his mind and body. All of the memories he had created, the good, the bad, and the awful, had vanished. All of the years of imprisonment completely disappeared. Every single thing that made him ‘Daniel Jordan” was completely gone. And then - Silence. And darkness. And loneliness. And then - Light. Fuzzy, blurry, unfocused light. And mumbles. “Jordan? Jordan, can you hear me?” A woman said calmly. Jordan Daniel sat up in his chair and looked around the room. It was completely white, and completely empty. A black haired woman in a long white coat sat next to him. “Come on, Jordan. Your massage is over. You fell asleep halfway through, but I didn’t want to wake you. You snore pretty loud!” The woman said as she giggled innocently. “Oh, right.” Jordan groaned, as he stood up from the chair. “I’ll show you out.” Said the woman, who was motioning him towards a green door at the far end of the room. They walked together to the door, which the woman opened. They walked through the door and entered a dimly lit lobby that seemed to be the waiting room of the massage parlor. There were dozens of windows lined up along the perimeter of the building, and the sun was shining brightly through all of them. “Ah, lucky you, you slept right through the storm. Not a cloud in the sky now!” “Oh, perfect!” Jordan said with a smile. “Well I’d better be off now. See you next time.” “Have a great day, Jordan.” The woman said as she returned a smile. Jordan waved his hand goodbye to the woman and turned around. He smiled brightly as he stared out the windows and made his way towards the door of the building. He finally reached the door, and without any hesitation, walked out into the sunlight.

You go into a bar, you order a drink, some people not part of your group are there with their groups, also ordering drinks. But you wonder why. Because all around you, through the mistiness of this bar with loud music of a genre you don’t listen to, there are a bunch of people crowded around wooden bar stools and a laminated counter top fetching drink after drink from an incognito punk-hipster with black-rimmed glasses, slicked back hair with shaved sides, a beard, gauges, and reeks of pot, then swimming away into the sea of randos. Smoke fills the air, the music gets louder, you get your fifth drink, because though you can’t find your friends in the sea of people milling about and you think that they’re going hard too. You call over the blaring music that you want a budlight, but the bartender gives you miller lite. Realizing it’s not the right drink, you call back to get a budlight instead, and in that moment, the friend of a friend tugs you on your shirt to say “Hey man! Music is great, right?”. You barely know this guy, but you nod your head in approval and say “Dude, it is!”, laughing hysterically for no apparent reason, other than to fill the void that your conversation with a guy you barely know was pretty pointless, you turn back to the bar. But where the hell is your drink? You could’ve swore you put it on the counter. Where the hell is it? You turn back to see if that friend is still there, he’s not. You walk away from the bar just for a second, peering into the smokey room, and then back to the counter. But God Damnit, there’s someone in front of you and now you have to wait in line. Some ass hat in a Jets jersey has cut you and HE has a miller lite! He must have stole it from you, what a dick. Just your night! You don’t even like the Jets, this guy is talking about Vince Papali, he was an Eagle and you hate Mark Wahlberg. What a douche. But you do like the colors white and green. The blend between the two in the dark musty room with booming music, now entrances you to think about Adidas, as the green turns into black and the white stripes remind you of your old pair of Sambas which still sit in the cellar of your parent's house that they have yet to sell at a garage sale. Man, those were sweet sneakers. “Hey...Hey...buddy...can I help you?” The bartender calls over the Jets man as he walks away from the bar with two more beers. You turn around. “Oh, shit, my bad man, here you go”, the bartender says handing you your budlight at last. Your eyes water with joy, hugging the budlight, you tip a fake-hat to hipster-punk-mcgee and carryon in your journey for ‘enjoying the night’. Suddenly, the music stops, a man comes over the intercom, “The bar will close in 1 hour, this is the last call”. Having just got a drink, you think ahead, what about your friends? Maybe they want drinks! You already have a drink and you feel charitable! Jets man cuts in front of you again, God damn you Jets Man! You shimmy through your pockets to find your wallet and one lone-5 dollar bill, and you know that can only afford one beer. Sorry, hipster no tip tonight! You wait in the line, turning back, seeing a man whose about 20 years older than you are - unaccompanied by anyone wearing a dirty hat that looks like he worked at chipotle with a crystal necklace; this guy means business. Smoking a cigarette obnoxiously close to you and wishing this guy would just go away, he leans in “Hey, do you know Sandra?” ... Sandra ... Sandra... the name echos through one ear and out the next, hoping that would be the end of that guy, suddenly Jets man turns around with a beer in his hands and says “I know a Sandra!” and BOOM, he spills the beer all over you. God DAMN YOU JETS MAN! You are super pissed, your budlight has been miller-lighted, and you HATE miller lite. Drenched in fury, you walk up to the bartender, asking for napkins but you stumble over your words and say “hapkins!”, the hipster bartender puts his hand to his ear as if he is trying to qualm you to say whatever you said again , you say “HAPKINS!”, he still doesn’t know what you mean. Then he sees you are drenched in beer. Your shirt is all wet, Jets guy is talking to dirty chipotle hat man, and they’re both smoking cigarettes, and your friends are no where to be found. Hipster-punk-mcgee pants returns with some napkins “Here you go man!”, so thoughtful, you finally approve of his glasses. You dry yourself off and over the intercom, you hear “LAST CALL, EVERYBODY LAST CALL!”, you run up to the bar in a hurry, drenched in beer praying that hipster-mcgee will spare you one last attempt at that beer. And surely, he comes through, thinking only of the best-case scenario, you think of your best friend with you at the moment. You know it’s not Alex, it’s not Dmitri, it’s not Sarah - ohhhp, you know, you’ll get a beer for Claire! You haven’t seen her in so long, it would mean the world! You order up a tall-one, the hipster leans in “What kind?”, you say “Surprise me”, he says “I gotchu”. Turning back to a smoke filled dance floor full of melodically confused drunk people slow dancing to EDM, and back to Jets man and dirty chipotle hat guy speaking now about the big game, and back to your friend who grabbed you earlier now drunkenly talking about his work as a database administrator to a homeless guy who looks like he just stabbed someone, you turn back to the bar. Hipster mcgee comes through again! “Here you are man!” And THEN, you just had to say it: “Hey, look man, you...you know? You know....you are just fucking phenomenal at your job! You are killing it right now. MVP right here” Making the hipster’s night, you plunge your way through the crowd of zombified drunk people getting down to an ll-cool J and Skrillex remix and the time is 1:00am, peace-signing your hands in the distance towards the bartender, he throws a towel over his shoulder shaking his head - another night. Moving past the randos - now fellow companions - raging through the night, you understand the culture. The artifacts of empty beer cans and spilled vodka drinks, wallets, and watches, trash, all over the ground it all makes sense to you; this is night life and all are one. These are your origins, a sort of native re-call hits you and you feel as though there’s something missing. Oh yeah, you’re trying to find your friend, Sadie? Charlie? Andrew? No, CLAIRE! Yes, yes, yes, it is Claire! And You have her beer! Aw, she will be so pleased, if only you could find them. Smoke fills the room, you try to make your way back into a room where you think the table is, and it is! And there she is, Claire, the glorious. The memorable. The legend. “Hey Claire, I got you something!” You put the drink down. Looking at her and your friends, half-of which are face down on the table totally shit faced, you can finally have a real conversation. Over the intercom, “Alright everyone! Time is up, the bar will be closing in 10 minutes!”. You hurry, “Come on Claire, you gotta drink your beer, I got it for you!” but quickly Ashley backs her best friend up - because no one tells her best friend what to do - “Joe, she doesn’t want to okay. She’s had a really bad night, I think she’s done”. Now looking like the asshole, realizing no one gives a fuck about your presents. And to think, this whole time Santa Claus was an image of good to you, a one true spirit to look up to for being jolly and so giving and now, this, this!?!? This is what you get for all that you have been through! All this nothingness and disrespect you can’t stand it and yet, you permit “alright”. You contemplate, will I have to drink this myself? Ewe, it’s a triple IPA. This will be hard for you. You should’ve known, god damn hipsters. He said ‘I gotchu’ and you trusted him like a brother. Of course, it’s a triple ipa. Well, bottoms up, but in that moment your friend’s friend runs over to you and your table. “Joe! Dude Joe! Man, dude that was crazy! Cool music, huh?” the friend's friend says. Contemplating on drinking that last beer before your last five bucks goes to waste, you pause to answer his question, placing the beer on a nearby table. “Yeah man, that last song was like something I heard in a movie once I think”, continuing the conversation because at the very least this friend of a friend seems to give a shit about you; good ole whatever his name is. Turning back toward your table, you see the beer you placed has gone missing again. Dirty chipotle hat man and Jets jersey have relocated near your table and are sitting with some girls and of course, fucking Jets guy has a triple IPA now. You walk over to him and finally stand up for yourself, “Hey man, what the fuck is your problem?” And the intercom interrupts, “Alright, it’s 2:00am the bar is closed. Everybody out” The night ends.

Joe was a man of few words, but the ones he spoke were more valuable than anyone else’s. His speech was in bold, swaying in italics, in constant capitalization and always underlined. To me, at least. It was hard to even hear him sometimes. I was used to leaning in, getting closer to his dark, ever-changing hair and the juniper smell he stole from the woods. The extra effort was worth it time and time again. In groups, sometimes he would duck his head to mine and mutter something only meant for me, and I would laugh, drawing attention to us that made his hands plunge into his pockets. He smiled nonchalantly until everyone looked away, then he’d always cast a look at me. Really? My lack of subtlety was always cause for admonishment. Joe and I have always been that way. He’s quiet, I’m too loud, and that doesn’t seem to bother him. Our friendship has lasted years; different towns, a different state once, and far through the boyfriends I’ve had. His eyes have even stayed the same--brown, intense, and like a pair of hands that hold everything they can until it hurts. They make me forget what I’m about to say next, more times than I could count. He’s tall, a bit nerdy, built himself a little cabin in the woods and is cleverer than I’ll ever be. I just wonder if he looks at everyone like that, if he speaks to everyone the same. My friends tell me I have him in the bag. “He clearly likes you!” “Guys don’t [have inside jokes, give you those looks, put up with rambling] unless they like you.” I can hardly let myself believe them. And yet, I do. The way he watches me in a room brimming with friends or even in a subway full of strangers--I don’t think it’s platonic. He’s never seemed to notice the parts of me men gravitate to, instead I catch him looking at my hair, my lips, my neck, my hands. Always with the grasping, absorbing look I’ve only ever seen in him. I’m meeting him today for dinner, at his cabin. It’s small, but clean and remarkably well-decorated for a man that rotates through the same five flannels and two pairs of jeans. He works from his computer, designing bridges and gates on a program that makes my head hurt to look at. Joe’s never hidden his view on my job. Ethics and Compliance at a major retailer, talking on the phone for most of my work day. He physically recoils when I bring it up, grinning when he asks how I still manage to speak as much as I do. I counter by asking how he isn’t miserably lonely, living in a remote area without anything but virtual bridges to look at. He’d shrug, pursing his lips. I decided to dress casually, opting for warmth over style like Joe did. I brought a bottle of wine and a deck of cards, hoping he would be up for some sort of game though I didn’t know any myself. I liked being there after the sun went down, when his cabin got even cozier and where I hoped his hand might linger on my shoulder or close over mine. The drive was long, but always worth it. I walked on his carved pathway in the snow, the gusting Maine wind making me nearly sprint to his door. I let myself in, stamping the snow off my shoes. A golden warmth greeted me, and it didn’t just come from the fire. “Joe!” I called, not seeing him perched by the fireplace as usual. “What?” he barked back from the loft. “I’m here!” I smiled, heading for the fireplace. His footsteps bounded down the wooden stairs, and I inhaled the familiar piney scent of his cabin. “Amy, what a surprise. Help yourself to the fire, I guess,” he glanced away, grinning. I watched his back as he peered into his oven. “I brought wine. What’re you making?” “Lasagna?” he was bent into a crouch, palms on the oven glass. The concern on his face made me laugh. He turned around, confused. “What?” “Nothing. How’re your bridges?” I smiled, sitting on the lip of the stone hearth. Joe sighed and sat next to me, glancing back at the oven before speaking. “Not structurally sound,” he said, turning to me, “but that’s a problem for tomorrow.” He grinned, making his cheeks dimple. My heart crumpled and every word I’d ever known was momentarily erased from my memory. I smiled. “How’re your...assault cases?” he asked, grimacing. His eyes held mine, curious, genuine and possessing a focus my brain could never compete with. I felt my cheeks warm. “Good!” I immediately blushed, faltering. “Not good , but I mean I’m getting them sorted. Talking to managers and CEO’s, all day, on the phone, getting tough cases sorted out, it’s very rewarding--” I paused when his lips twitch into a suppressed smile. “Lots of talking, every day,” I continued, making him groan. “And then I leave and go out, with more people, who talk a lot, and we have fun, and then I wake up and go to work--” Joe cowered away, throwing his hands out to protect himself. “Stop! I will faint,” he lurched from the hearth, circling back to his oven. I giggled menacingly, the fire warm and comforting at my back. This was what I wanted. Here, with Joe, just us and the woods. He turned and gave me another grin, making my heart implode again. I wanted it so desperately. Him, today, tomorrow and every single day after that until death do us part. I saw it all with him almost two years ago. No one really believed me, so I stopped bringing it up. My friends tease, but they don’t really know the truth. Quiet, strong, wholesome Joe was very far from what anyone expected of me. They assume fire goes with fire, and that I’ll forever want someone to explode with. I may burn bright, but Joe is like coals, silently smoldering with a ferocity I can’t explain. He crouched by the oven again, worry crossing his face. His hair was getting long and brushing at the nape of his neck in coffee-colored waves. “Amy,” he said, his back to me, “come look at the lasagna.” I did as I was told, forcing down giggles at his expense. Only taxes made me that nervous. I crouched next to him, our socked feet nearly touching. My shoulder was pressed to his, and I wondered if he noticed. Did he smell my perfume? “I think it looks okay,” I said, not sure what to look for. I saw a pan full of something with cheese on it, cheese that was nearing a burnt shade of brown. “Maybe take it out? Don’t want the cheese burning.” “Amen to that,” Joe stood, pulling oven mitts out of a drawer. He opened the oven with a flourish, making me laugh again. He managed to keep the lasagna un-burnt and I was surprised at his first attempt turning out so well. I told him so, and his eyes skittered away from mine when he smiled. He sucked at taking compliments. We broke out the wine and sat by his fireplace, cross-legged on the carpet. He gave me one of his blankets to wrap around my shoulders, and I was elated to see that the sun had long since sank under the horizon. The urge to scoot closer to him was getting stronger with every minute. I set my wine glass to the side, not wanting to make a fool of myself if I paired the urge with an alcohol-induced lack of impulse control. I grabbed the cards from my purse instead, brandishing the deck in my hand. “Cards?” Joe said, his wine glass balancing precariously on his knee. He had just finished a story involving a rowdy group of civil engineers and breaking his rare streak of talking was something I didn’t do often. “Yeah, you know any games?” Joe shrugged, taking them from me. “Not really,” he said slowly, “I might know Uno.” “Too bad those aren’t Uno cards,” I said, my idea of a fun, potentially flirty evening fading. Joe nodded, scowling sarcastically. “Why didn’t you just bring bocce ball?” I rolled my eyes, tucking the cards back into my purse. “I know a game we could play. A game that takes nothing but our brains.” Joe raised his brows, taking a sip from his glass before setting it on the hearth. He gazed at me, and I nearly stumbled over what I was going to say. “Truth or Dare,” I smiled coyly, laughing when he groaned. “Amy, we’re twenty-six,” he laughed, but threw his hands up. “Whatever. Let’s go. You first.” I was surprised he agreed. Surprised and encouraged. He knew what this game could entail and he agreed anyway; maybe I was right. I felt another strong urge to squeeze him, sit closer to him, or just touch his hair. “Okay. Truth or Dare,” I grinned, pulling the blanket around my head. “Dare,” he said immediately. I was caught off guard. I blew air out of my cheeks, looking around at his tiny cabin. There weren’t many dare-able activities to conjure up. I dare you to go sit at your desk and spin in the chair. Not very threatening. Joe watched me think, seeming to enjoy the time it was taking me. Before I could start blushing I thought of something. “I dare you to go get me a scoop of snow.” “No,” he said, scoffing. “No?” “Absolutely not, it’s too cold,” he gave me a dimpled grin, but I was disappointed. That’s not how the game worked. “Okay...truth, then?” I laughed, pulling at the tassels of the blanket. Joe groaned. “Fine.” “Hmm,” I put my hands over my eyes, feigning deep concentration though the question was on the tip of my tongue. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” He looked surprised. “I dunno. I just don’t,” he reached for his glass, casually shrugging before taking a sip. “Truth or Dare.” “Joe. That was an awful explanation.” “I just...” he started, looking progressively more uncomfortable. “I guess I’m unlikable?” I laughed. “You’re very likeable. And I pick Truth, too.” Joe looked away, clearing his throat. I loved how easy it was to make him turn pink and become uncomfortable. He was so bad at hiding it. “Okay, um...” he looked up at the ceiling, squinting. He had a nice side profile. A strong jaw, cute nose and a short beard that always melded perfectly with his features. I looked away into the fire before he could catch me looking. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” I gave him a look. He wasn’t being very original. “Come on. Haven’t you had, like, five in the past two years? Not that that’s a bad thing,” he rushed, seeing my face warm. “I just mean, someone like you, it’s gotta be easy to get who you want, right? So why no boy?” “Someone like me?” I repeated, putting my hand to my chest. He froze, and I could see his face go another shade paler. “Amy, seriously, I meant that in a good way, it came out bad but I didn’t--” “It’s okay,” I laughed, watching confusion spread over his face. “Joe. I know what you meant.” His whole body relaxed. “Thank God. Okay, so then why?” It was my turn to shrug. Those guys weren’t you. No one is. “They aren’t...” I started, my eyes staring off into nothing. “Rich enough? Hot enough?” Joe deadpanned, finishing off his glass. He poured himself another one while I scoffed. I loved when he let this side of himself show. No one realized how funny he could be. You, they aren’t you. I wanted to say it, and if I hadn’t stopped myself earlier the wine may have pulled the answer off my tongue. “Not up to my standards,” I finished, sniffing prissily. He laughed. “Your turn.” “That wasn’t a very good answer--” he started, but stopped after I gave him a look. “Alright, fine. Truth.” He perched his chin on his knee, watching me. The fire flickered in his eyes in amber sparks, and his cheeks had a warm, wine-induced glow. I wanted to sit here with him forever. He was safety, joy, and he was home. The very cabin we sat in he built from nothing, never saying a word about it to anyone. Every guy I knew would be eagerly spouting that story for years. Joe wasn’t like that. He built cabins, held open doors, tipped generously and never made me feel like anything less than a person with value. And I loved him for it. I couldn’t take not knowing anymore. In one impulsive moment, I blurted it out. “Do you love me?” His eyes creased as his smile dimpled. He laughed, and I smiled, not sure what he was thinking. I felt like my heartbeat was audible, banging in my chest as panic swept through me. I shouldn’t have said it. I had a very strong urge to vomit. “Amy,” he started, before breaking into laughter again. I kept grinning, waiting. Wanting to throw up. “Do I love you? Sure, yeah. We’ve been friends for a long time. And I appreciate that,” he grinned again, taking another sip from his glass. “Why’d you word it so dramatically?” he laughed, getting to his knees to stack another log on the fire. I felt the vomit rise in my throat. I swallowed it down, focusing on the shattering waves in my chest and the bleary confusion in my head. So this was heartbreak. I didn’t know if I could conceal it. I knew I should laugh, continue with the game, make it nonchalant, but I couldn’t speak. Luckily he was focused on his fire, attentively prodding the logs with a poker and sending showers of sparks up the chimney. Could I come back from this? Would Joe ever feel the same, with the possibility of the feelings ever being returned dashed into irreparable pieces? I knew things wouldn’t go back. They couldn’t, not ever. Joe would have to just be Joe, not my Joe, the one I created in my head, the one that loved me back but was too shy to say it. I felt shamefully stupid, thinking he would ever like me back. Love me back. I wasn’t good enough for him, or maybe not smart enough, not kind enough, not pretty enough. Something about me wasn’t good enough for him. I forced a laugh before the silence became too awkward. “You know me, always gotta be unreasonably dramatic.” Joe turned from the fire, settling comfortably in his own blanket. “Yeah you are.” He grinned, like my heart hadn’t just shattered. Like he hadn’t just proven every doubt I’d ever had about myself. I tried to return the smile, tried to think of another joke to keep things casual. I couldn’t. I felt tears prick my eyes, and I quickly turned to fiddle with my purse. “Your turn again. Truth or Dare,” Joe said. I could hear him swishing the wine around in his cup. I turned around, pulling out my phone with me. “Oh shoot. I didn’t realize the time, I have to get to work an hour early to go over something with a client.” Joe’s expression remained nearly the same. He looked a little sad, but probably equally as happy to have the cabin to himself again. He wouldn’t miss me anymore than any other friend of his. “Really? That sucks,” he stood with me, taking the blanket from my shoulder. His hand brushed over my collar bone and I fought back a shiver. I felt the tears threaten again. “Well, thanks for coming. Drive safe.” Joe handed me my purse and ducked to peer out of his kitchen window. “Looks like more snow.” I nodded, gathering myself one last time. “Thanks for dinner. Bye, Joe.” I hurried to his door, a huge part of me still wanting to linger and force time to move slower. The lasagna pan clattered in the sink and Joe started to whistle something off tune. “Bye!” he turned as I opened the door, giving me a wave and a smile. I returned it, struggling to make my body comply. I started to sob the moment I closed his door. I hurried to my car, sharp flakes of snow whizzing across my face and bare hands. The drive home was a dark, tearful blur, and the ache steadily got worse. I tried to be angry, even offended, but the hurt didn’t want to be replaced. I could only be angry at myself, and that wasn’t enough. A month went by. Then two, then three. I saw Joe off and on, but it never felt the same. I knew it never could. I think he sensed something was off--there was a new confused look in his eyes that I had to ignore, even when his gaze lingered. I even tried to replace him, but like I’d always known, there was no other Joe. No one could compare to that. Surrounded by pain and embarrassment, I got a job in a different city. I left Joe and his cabin and all I ever felt for him back in the woods. With the distance it became easier, and the ache started to dull. I thought about him every night, but not for as long. I wondered if he ever thought about me, if he would ever come to realize, regret, or ache for me like I did for him. I doubted it. But I like to wonder.

The drumming of the rain against the sails increased its rhythm with each passing minute. The growing sea undulated under the boat and the thunder grew louder as we tried to beat the storm. I squinted my eyes, trying to see through the water dripping from my brow. To the North, I could see Alessia’s boat battling against the swell. She had already left an hour earlier, deciding the ocean would be too violent to risk towing an empty ship. The islanders of Deer Drum would have to face this one without an experienced guide. After two weeks of sailing, the boat was now truly theirs. I watched Xander as he walked down the steps from the raised quarterdeck treading the length of the ship. I followed him down, sensing an urgency in his walk. “Sirad,” he shouted out. Sirad turned and noticed him. “Get the kids and anyone not on duty beneath deck. This gets worse before it gets better.” “Good idea,” Sirad said before turning. “Lachlann, be ready on that front sail.” Lachlann nodded in return. There was another crack of thunder, the sea briefly illuminated by a lick of lightning “What do you need me to do?” I asked. Xander stopped and laughed. “I thought you're supposed to be the knowledgeable one.” “Not anymore,” I called back, shaking my face as clumps of rain fell to the floor. Xander looked off to our starboard side. “What do you think of those waves?” “They’re going to keep getting worse.” He nodded. “We can’t go around the storm. If we don’t turn we’re gonna get smacked on the sides till we capsize.” “I’d agree.” “Tell Eir to turn into the waves,” he said. I ran back up the boat, climbed the steps and relayed the message to the helmswoman. “I was just thinking the same thing,” Eir said. She took a deep breath in and shouted at the top of her lungs. “Heads up. Beam coming round.” She steered the boat to the right, heading towards the eye of the storm. As the angle of the wind changed, the two giant gaff sails began swinging round. I ducked as the rear sail flew across at head height and out to the port side. We crashed into a wave at a three-quarter angle, spray flying up into the night sky, touching the top of the mast. The water landed on the deck, creating a wash across the surface of the boat; ropes, fabric, anything not nailed down was dragged a few metres before the water poured out the other side. “Everyone okay?” Xander called out. There were a few murmurs of agreement or a raised thumb in response. Eir leaned forward, peering into the darkness ahead. It was pitch black; the line between sea and sky indistinguishable. The lightless void was broken by another crack from the sky. A white fork rode down from the sky and in a brief moment lit up the sea in front. Eir gasped. I tried to follow her line of sight. Out in front of us was a wall; a rolling surge of water across the horizon almost the height of the ship. “We’re not getting past that at this pace.” Eir’s eyes flicked around the ship, checking the sails in front of us. “The foresail,” she said through gritted teeth. With the wind mostly behind us, the square sail at the front of the ship helped propel us forward. But now we had turned, the angle of the wind shifted, and the sheet was acting as a brake. “Lachlann,” Eir called out, “Loosen the foresail, it’s slowing us down.” “What?” came the reply. I shook my head. “I’ll go tell him.” I ran down the steps once more, my feet slipping against the wet wooden planks. I charged to the front of the ship. “Loosen the foresail. The wind’s pushing against it. We need more speed. Now.” Lachlann’s eyes widened as he understood the instruction. He bent down and began turning a large winch as fast as he could. The sail loosened, going from taut to a loose flapping, until the beam across the top began lowering down the mast. Almost as soon as the sail had lowered enough to no longer be catch the wind, we hit the foot of the rogue wave. The boat dipped as we reached the through, before lurching sharply upwards into the climb. I could see the lanterns flickering on Alessia’s ship alongside us. She was dwarfed by the giant swell, the boat reduced to looking like a man climbing a hill. But I watched as she reached the summit, the boat levelling at the top. I turned my eyes forward just as our boat reached the crest. The boat creaked forward, clinging to the tip of the rise, before charging down the other side, punching against the water at the bottom. A huge plume shot up from either side of the vessel, another projectile of sea foam added to our already waterlogged skin. But we had passed the threat. While the storm refused to ease, that one moment seemed to send a communal calmness through the crew. They had survived a moment that may have killed an amateur sailor. And they had done it with relative ease. As morning broke, the storm had gone and we were left with a flat blue sea that gave no sign of its former wrath. We dropped anchor. The islanders from Deer Drum were soaked, but otherwise fine. Alessia sailed over and rejoined us. “That looked like some pretty good sailing last night,” she said as she climbed up the ship and hoisted herself over onto the deck. “Pretty much perfect,” Xander said proudly, a grin on his face. “Ah, you should’ve beaten me through it by a good hour. But you’ll get used to the speed.” “What?” Xander asked. “Bigger boat. Bigger sails. This thing when it wants to go can tear through the water twice the pace of my boat. Perfect sail and I shouldn’t have been able to see you after the first half hour.” Xander dropped his arms by his side. Alessia chuckled. “You did good. All of you. You’ve come a hell of a long way in the past couple of weeks. You won’t need us anymore.” She looked off the front of the ship. “Besides, we’ve got a visit to make.” I raised an eyebrow. She waved for us to follow her to the thin aft of the ship, and pointed out ahead to the south. “You see that thin bit of land on the horizon?” I squinted hard. In the low morning light, the sun shone brightly off the water’s surface, and it was hard to be certain of what I was seeing. But as I watched for the movement of the water, I could see it, the bit of still land that didn’t move with the sea. “Tima Voreef,” she said. “We’ll sail a bit closer to land, but they won’t want us mooring a boat this big just to say hello. Best if we take mine and go as just the two of us.” She pointed between herself and me. “What about us?” Xander asked. “Right now, just stay and rest. You decided where you want to head yet?” “Not yet. We at least want to know who attacked us before we head anywhere,” said Kurbani. Alessia nodded. “I hope not to be here long. So with any luck, you’ll get your answers soon. So, stay, have a discussion and choose where you want to head. You’ll have decide sooner than you think.” We sailed side-by-side for an hour or two, until leaving the Deer Drum refugees behind and headed towards Tima Voreef. Even a couple of kilometers away, it already looked like the largest settlement I’d seen. Buildings some four or five storeys tall hugged the wide bay. Where there were gaps between the structures, I could see similar homes and offices stretching back into the island. “How’d they do last night? Really?” Alessia said, looking back at the ship. “Really well,” I said with a wide smile. “Better than I expected.” “They’re smart,” Alessia smiled. “We’ve done what we can for them. We’ll get these answers for them, and then they should be fine to sail on to wherever they want.” “Agreed,” I said, taking a couple of paces to the side to get a clearer view of the island. “What do you know of Tima Voreef?” “I’ve done one or two trade runs there. Long way out though. They hate the next island over, a place called Ruthogrey Landfall. They’ve been waiting for war with each other since before anyone can remember. All anyone here cares about is preparing for Ruthgrey to attack. But they make more than any war could ever need. And anything they don’t use, they sell.” “But they’ve never gone to war?” Alessia shook her head. “They’re both just staring across the strait, sitting on mountains of gunpowder, wondering who’s gonna light the match first.” “And Ruthogrey Landfall.” “From what I know, but I’ve never traded with them. Tima Voreef is pretty much a barrier between them and everywhere else. Who knows who they’re trading with. Maybe even people to the south of the Archipelago.” “South of the Archipelago?” I furrowed my brow. “I’ve heard there’s some small islands down that way. Not as populous as the Archipelago. But something.” “Never been?” Alessia twitched her nose. “Nah.” While I had always known that the Archipelago didn’t cover the entire globe, it seemed strange to think there were lands beyond what I had heard. My map of the Archipelago was never complete, but now I was learning just how small and pitiful my attempt to map the new world really was. “Why have you never been?” I asked. “Because I’m a trader. Not gonna risk actual business to go explore places no one knows anything about.” Alessia turned the wheel gently in her hand, her eyes fixed on the port. “You could have found new goods to trade though...” “Nothing good comes from long-shot ocean voyages. Trust me,” Alessia interrupted. Her face didn’t move, but her eyes briefly lost their focus, staring off into an unknown place. She shook her head. “Anyway, we’ve got this place to deal with.” We were close enough now to make out the details of the island - the throngs of people moving about on the wall, the carts loaded with goods being pulled to waiting ships, the wide glass windows, and the electricity wires strung from building to building. While previous harbours I had seen were made of wood or brick, Tima Voreef’s was made of smooth concrete that cut like a knife into the sea. The sheer grey face curved around the bay in a large semi-circle big enough to house a good sixty or seventy boats. On top of the quay’s edge, I could see a wide promenade filled with people hurriedly making their way along the waterfront, intersecting streams of citizens and traders marching to their destinations. My eye traced the promenade, taking in the buildings and people, until my view was blocked. A giant ship blotted out the landscape. The boat that housed the refugees was a good five times the size of Alessia’s. This ship was at least five times as big as that. Perhaps just as surprising though; the ship was made from metal, not wood. Smooth sheets of steel glistened from the hull that bulged from the water, rising higher than the walkway beside it. Four rows of portholes stretched the length of the ship. On deck, five tall masts rose to the sky with more than a dozen sails tied to them. “You ever seen a boat that big?” I scoffed, pointing. Alessia shrugged her shoulders. “Once or twice. Don’t know what you’d do with it anyway.” “Jealous?” I chuckled. “I’ll have you know my little boat’s just fine.” She patted and stroked the wheel with a tender smile. “That will be made by Tima Voreef. They’ve probably more on the other side of the island pointing guns across the strait. That one’ll be for sale though if you got another couple of bags of artefacts hidden away somewhere.” I frowned at her. “Let’s just moor up, get our answers and get out of here.” Alessia loosened the sails, and we drifted towards the quay. We found a small slip by the large concrete wall, tied up the boat, and climbed up a ladder to the street above. Straight ahead of me, there was a posted painted onto the wall. We’re working to prevent this. The words stood above a large image of a ruined town. I looked around. The town on the poster matched where I stood. Turning left, I could see another image on the next building. A dark figure of a man stood, leaning over, looking down on the reader. In Ruthogrey Landfall, someone is doing the same job as you. BEAT HIM! The tall ships, the tall buildings, the tall harbour - all of it was a sign of success and grandeur. But I began to realize the entire island was like a scared animal stretching out its muscles or rearing to its hind legs. It was all to appear as big as possible. To scare off the predator wondering if it could take you. Tima Voreef was the grandest island I had seen, but it all existed in the hopes of staving further away from the precipice of war. Part two published 12th August.

Angelique grabbed the bar mop and wiped up the excess latte she’d spilled making up her last order. Hands on hips, she sighed loudly. It had been a stressful morning already, and it was only 8:30. The front door banged shut again, and she looked up in time to see five college girls blow in, all giggles, long blonde hair, and sunglasses. They’ll be wanting some fancy foo-foo drink no one ever heard of, and they’ll change their minds a dozen times between them, then someone will have forgotten their wallet. Wait and see. Angelique knew their type. A cough sounded close in front of her, and Angelique jumped. She looked down. Johnny Draw. “Hey, Johnny, sorry, I didn’t see you there. You want your usual?” Johnny nodded and muttered something unintelligible as his big dirty hand pulled a sealed, crumpled envelope from his army-green canvas jacket. On the front was written, “$4.92 for Johnny’s large coffee with cream.” Angelique knew there would be exactly $4.92 in the envelope. Johnny came into Perk-Up every day at exactly 8:30, and every day someone had taken the time to write on and fill a small white envelope with $4.92. She carefully grasped the envelope between her forefinger and her thumb, bubbling effervescently to Johnny to fill the time while he sat in his wheelchair in front of her. “Did you see the sunrise today, Johnny? I’ve been awake since 4:00 a.m., so it’s already been a long morning, but the sunrise made it almost worth it. I’m not a huge fan of Daylight Savings Time, really, but I do love when the days get long like this. Cool in the morning, hot in the afternoon. That’s just one of the reasons I love Indiana.” If she filled every second with chatter, he wouldn’t have time to talk, and she wouldn’t have to feel awkward asking him, “Excuse me? What was that? Can you please repeat that, Johnny?” The problem, though, was that the line behind Johnny was getting long, and the college blondes were giggling at ear-splitting decibels. Angelique could feel the anxiety rising as she attempted to wind things down with Johnny. She’d been running short-staffed for the last two months. It seemed no one wanted to work for their paycheck these days. Regardless, she had several interviews set up over the next three days. She pushed a receipt across the counter to Johnny, avoiding direct eye contact, still chattering like a magpie, but to no avail. Johnny spoke, his words tumbling out sloppy and indistinct, “I need napkins please,” and spittle drooled out the corner of his mouth as if from the sheer effort of pushing his words out of his lips. Out of options now, and without excuse, Angelique looked Johnny in the eye and said, “Did you say you needed another napkin, Johnny?” Johnny nodded vehemently and smiled the smile of a much younger man. Every time Angelique looked at him, she was surprised. His cornflower blue eyes twinkled and crinkled around the edges and reminded her of a red-haired neighbor boy she’d known in the fourth grade. Poor Albert, with his freckled arms and face and legs. All he’d ever asked for in life was for his classmates to call him Al...and for Angelique to wear the bracelet he’d made or found or bought or stolen for her. Every time she looked at Johnny Draw, she remembered Albert and her cheeks flushed. Why couldn’t she have done just that much for him? They’d moved away the next year before she got to tell Al she’d worn his bracelet once. But, as Al always used to tell her, “Things have a way of working out.” In retrospect, as an adult looking back, she thought that seemed an awfully grown-up thing for a fourth grader to say. But she’d found it to be true time and again. Things have a way of working out. That, they did. Angelique tried hard to ignore Johnny’s spittle, and, looking at him directly in his Albert-blue eyes now, smiled her very best, most convincing smile. For Al, she thought, placing three additional napkins directly into Johnny’s grimy hand. Her fingers touched his for a moment, and she willed her hand to stay put, not to pull away. She wanted to tell Johnny he had nice eyes, but she couldn’t. Instead, she said, “You go ahead, Johnny. I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.” She looked away but heard his guttural voice piecing together a sentence, “Thanks. You’s an angel.” Involuntarily, her head jerked around toward Johnny again. He was still smiling. The remainder of the rush cleared out quickly, and the college girls only changed drink orders three times, so the timing was good when Johnny’s coffee came up. Angelique stirred in creamer, and carried the coffee out to him, along with three extra-extra napkins. That big blue-eyed smile engulfed him again, as he said once more, “Thanks, Angel.” No one had called her Angel since fourth grade. That last year at Monte Bravard Elementary, her friends had called her Angel. Al called her that too, but the thing was, he called her that because he was of the honest opinion that Angelique was, indeed, truly and actually an angel. Angelique chuckled dryly. If only he knew how far from the truth that was. Angelique had no idea where Johnny lived or how he got to and from Perk-Up every day, and, until today, she’d never thought to wonder. But today she wondered. Each time she was ready to ask him, another customer came in or her attention was diverted. But when Johnny had been there almost an hour, the most remarkable thing happened. A very young woman carrying a toddler on one hip strode through the front door and approached the counter with the decisive air of one chained to a hurried schedule. Angelique could tell the young woman intended to look business-like, but the little fellow clinging tight to her wasn’t having any of it. The young woman’s top was coming untucked from her slacks, and wrinkles were imprinting themselves into her cotton suit faster than she could smooth them out. The buttons on her top ascended at a precarious angle until Angelique wondered if they were evenly buttoned. The young woman, Yvette, gave her name to the barista in a stilted, hurried, French accent. Angelique had thought this young woman might be her next interview, but the name didn’t sound familiar. Her small black coffee order underway and paid for, Yvette plopped right down at Johnny’s table and began a visible summation of the patrons in the coffee shop, as if looking for someone. Apparently not finding them, she grabbed her phone out of her purse and texted. She wasn’t sharing the table with Johnny as much as she was pirating it. She wasn’t minimizing Johnny as much as she was simply unaware he was there. But the toddler was immediately smitten, smiling and reaching for Johnny. It only took seconds for Peter to land squarely and smoothly in Johnny’s lap. It was clear for everyone to see that a love affair was beginning. Some seconds into this love affair, Yvette looked up to see her little boy reaching, and her eyes met Johnny’s, ever so briefly. Unable to meet his gaze, she looked away, but her eyes kept returning to Johnny’s face, the drool slipping from the corner of his lips, his grayish curly hair and sideburns, his hands, and his army-green canvas jacket and pants. “Peter,” she whispered to the little tyke, “leave this man alone.” Peter’s blue eyes were merry, and he giggled and turned back to reach again for something shiny on Johnny’s lapel. “Peter,” his mother spoke more firmly this time, but still the little boy paid no attention. Johnny looked at Peter’s mother, and spoke quietly, “Sorry. I can leave now.” He reached down to Peter, still on his lap, and gave him a quick squeeze before attempting to boost him back up on the table. He whispered in Peter’s ear, “Youse got to git up now.” But Peter clung to Johnny, and when Johnny pried himself away, Peter’s tears started in earnest. Johnny leaned close to Peter’s face and whispered, “Ole Johnny be back tomorry. See Peter then,” and to Peter’s great delight, and Yvette’s great chagrin, Johnny kissed the top of Peter’s curly red head. If Johnny drooled on Peter, neither of them noticed or cared. “Bye-bye, Johnny, bye-bye,” Peter was waving furiously with one hand, the other tightly grasping something tiny. The door banged after Johnny when he left. “Peter, what is it? What’s in your hand?” Yvette asked, prying open the little fist. “No, Mommy. Mine,” Peter whimpered, to no avail, “mine, Mommy! No, mine!” Yvette pulled the object from her son’s tiny hand and looked closely at it. It was a medal. A Gulf War Desert Storm medal, about an inch in diameter, in which an eagle, wings fully extended, was set against an American flag shield, and backed in a mother-of-pearl material. “Oh, Peter! We must give this back to Johnny right away!” “Johnny...” Peter repeated, “Johnny.” “I’ll be right back,” Yvette told the barista, scooping up Peter, and running to the door Johnny had just exited. She stood and looked, but Johnny was nowhere to be found. Yvette stepped back into the coffee shop, looking as if the weight of all the world were laid at her doorstep for her to carry. She reached out to give Angelique the pin but something inside Angelique restrained her from accepting the pin for safekeeping. She looked at Peter’s blue eyes and red hair and thought she might well have been looking at Albert reincarnated. How many people in this world could have eyes like those eyes? Eyes that crinkled and twinkled and smiled? Eyes that summed you up and encouraged you to feel successful and empowered and appreciated? “He’ll be back here tomorrow at this time. He comes here every day. Why don’t you just meet him here tomorrow and give it to him yourself?” Angelique said. Then more softly, “What’s your name, dear?” Yvette was rocking Peter, who was holding Johnny’s medal tightly to his chest. “I’m Yvette.” “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you looked like you were headed somewhere important. I hope we didn’t hold you up?” Angelique said. “No. It was nothing.” That beautiful French accent. “Now, I’ve been around long enough to know when something is nothing or when it is something. This something was something, I’m pretty sure.” Angelique normally wasn’t this pushy but something compelled her to speak, to keep Yvette engaged. “Yes, the bank, they were having open interviews today, and my friend was supposed to meet me here to take Peter so I could go. But I’m afraid she is often forgetful, and she did not show up.” “You never know, things have a way of working out,” Angelique said. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow and see Johnny?” But Yvette seemed hesitant to go. Finally, she spoke again, “This man, Johnny. Do you know him?” she asked. “Not so much, I guess. He’s been coming here for years, and I always have just known him as Johnny Draw. I didn’t even know for sure he was in the service until this,” Angelique said, motioning toward the medal Peter still held. “He...Johnny’s eyes. They remind me of my husband’s,” Yvette said, “I’ll show you. My husband was an artist. That’s how he came to be in Paris, and how we met. This is my favorite picture of him, a self-portrait in pencil.” And Yvette pulled out a folded 9X13 page bearing the likeness of a young man. “You’re right - his eyes,” Angelique remarked, studying the sketch, “They are amazing. I can see why Johnny’s eyes reminded you of him. And little Peter looks like them both.” “Peter will never know his family. My husband and his father died in a crash last year. My husband’s grandfather served in the war and came home, but he never returned to his family.” Angelique stood and put her arms around Yvette quickly and said, “I’ll be right back.” Thirty seconds later, she returned from the employee lounge with $45. She tucked it into Yvette’s hand, and said simply, “Get yourself some dinner. You owe me nothing. Come back and see us tomorrow." Yvette nodded amid tears, packed up Peter and his precious medal, and paused to wave to Angelique from the door. Angelique opened Perk-Up at 6 a.m. the next day, the same as every other day, but today she had a spring in her step and a light in her eyes. Something good was going to happen today, she was sure of it. Things usually did have a way of working out. The big clock over the register showed 8:40 a.m., and Angelique felt a stab of worry. Was he going to show? Would this be the first time in years that he hadn’t shown up? And what about Yvette? Surely she would come back with Johnny’s medal. 9:00 a.m. came, bringing Yvette and Peter with it, Peter beaming ear to ear, and calling out, “Hey, Johnny! John-ny! Hey!” Angelique looked again at the clock, then at Yvette and Peter. The clock read 9:35, and Peter had settled quietly into his mother’s lap. For her part, Yvette had a sad and settled air about her, as she drank the last of her black coffee. The door opened just after she swallowed her last sip, and it was a good thing because she might have choked on it. Johnny Draw sat on his wheelchair, piloting it through the door frame and coming to a stop at Yvette’s table. Was it really Johnny? This man with the cleanly washed and trimmed hair, and the clean hands? This man with a cleanly shaven face and a crisp black shirt? This man with medals upon medals displayed on his shirt? “Johnny?” Yvette asked as Angelique watched in rapt attention. “Yez ma’am, at your service,” and Johnny gave a snappy salute and wiped the corner of his mouth with a clean handkerchief peeking from the corner of his breast pocket. “Johnny,” Yvette said again. Meantime, Peter had snuggled onto Johnny’s lap. “I got sumpin’ for the boy here,” Johnny said to Yvette. Turning his attention to Peter, he said, “youse go sit right there and hold real still for a while, and I got you a surprise. Cain’t you do that for me, young’un?” Peter nodded and sat where Johnny indicated he should. Johnny pulled a 9x13 sketch pad and a pencil from the pocket in the side of his wheelchair and began to sketch. “This gonna be you in a bit, boy. They didn’t call me Johnny Draw fer nothin’ now, did they?” “Things sure do have a way of working out,” Angelique thought once more.

# Matters of Solace ## Chapter 1: A Choice Sometimes we pay terrible prices for proving ourselves correct. But I must begin at the beginning, for fragments fail to get us anywhere. I must grasp back to before my apprenticeship, before I was discovered by the Fellowship. When I was very small, I had the habit of wandering off. I followed the blades of grass as they bent away from me in the gentle breeze of late lazy Summer. I did not seek for where the grassland gave way to forest, or broke upon the banks of the river. I thought to wander where the wind went. Perhaps, I thought, if I could approach the wind, find where it came to pause, I could find what drove its restlessness. My mother would find me puzzling over the wind's indecision half-way between our village and the next. Fearless, she proclaimed to others, even while I was offered chastisement or weeping. Five year olds are bound not to get too far. But far enough to alarm my mother and father. When I was older still, my father found me in the foothills of the mountains. I wondered who it might be that had sorrow so deep their tears caused the river to flow on and on. I recall my father's words to me still. "Jolan, you look on the world and see not the same world we live in. It is dangerous. You must come to see what we see. How else can you find your way? How else can you become a man?" I know now he asked that of me from love, from misery, from fright. It is where words go and where they begin. But I answered as a child of eight harvests would, merely at the surface. "I made my way here," I said. "When I'm a man it will be the same." My father reddened a bit. He seemed ready to scold me, yet he merely took a deep breath, looked away and let it out with a barked laugh. "Come along, son. We must stay at the inn tonight." I imagine he would have had many more questions if he had realized I had not set out in the morning as he had thought. He had been riding for the better part of the day. I had already been wandering in the foothills for much of that same day. I was but a youth on foot, but had traveled faster than he on horseback. I suppose I could have sought for home and found myself there but that did not occur to me. I was with my father, trying earnestly to absorb his lectures about duty, his explanations of responsibility, his frustrations over the meddling and prying of the villagers. I understood little of the things he spoke, and even less of his motivations for saying them. I desired to understand, but the world didn't seem to fit his words. The only thing that came clearly to me was it had begun to bother others in the village and in the towns up the road or down-river. They could not countenance that what I beheld of the world was not what they took from it. Their eyes and my eyes, cast upon the same grass, the same river, the same plate of food, perceived so vastly different a conception that our words failed to mean the same, though they rang identically in our ears. When the cries of the young lambs in the yard came to their ears, they could not see what attention would come to them; the feeding, the shearing, or the sacrifice and evening meal. In the smell of the fresh rain they could not see the birth of the cloud from the mists and foam of the sea, or from the steam of a cow's breath. I would catch glimpses of what the raindrop had been, and would be, as I tasted it on my tongue. My mother would find me swaying in the rain and call me back to myself. To my parents, I was damaged. They needed to find a way to fix me. They appealed to wise elders, they asked a letter be sent to the healers in the capitol beseeching them for some remedy to my condition. Tinctures and poultices were administered. Many did nothing. Many made me ill. My father beat away a priest who, going beyond the purview of his order, attempted to burn me as one ought those who are possessed. That was the worst, for the priest had nearly succeeded. After driving him away, my father yelled in anger at me to ask why I did not flee or resist. I remarked only of the tree the kindling had once been. It had, in better days, sheltered a family of finches now gone from our land. They were exquisite yellows and blues. I tried to explain how remarkable they had been, the cheer in their song, though no one now alive had ever seen or heard them. My father despaired that day that I was mad. A letter arrived from the capitol, though it was not from the healers there. It was, instead, addressed to me. It said simply, "Seek." My hand fell upon the letter and I saw the slender fingers that curled and swayed applying the script to page. I saw the ink and the wasp's gall that had been crushed to make it. Too far... wrong way... I returned to the slender hand turning the quill through each stroke. I saw where the hand had been and where it was going. I saw the fingers open and I reached out and grasped them. I fell to the ground at once, dazed, letting go of the hand of the stranger that had sent for me with that single word. She bent over me with mild curiosity. "You are younger than I expected," she said. "Seekers don't often come in to their abilities at so early an age." She reached down, her slim fingers, the same that had pulled me leagues from my family, my home, and extended her hand offering to help me to my feet. Instead of taking her hand I could only say, "You were not here." A lilting laugh followed, causing my face to redden. She smiled down and said, "Oh no, you have it quite backward. You were not here." This time I took her offered hand. I stood up, and swayed once more. For a moment, I knew her entirely, but I could not fit her into places that were mine to keep. "You are Lily," I said. "Pleased to meet you, and I can see we'll be getting you some gloves as soon as we have attended to some other matters." She turned away and bade me follow, and only then did I become aware of my surroundings. I was in the market quarter of the central square of the capitol. I had some knowledge that I was not as others were. Yet I assumed it merely to be a singular, intense delight at the wonders of the world around me. That, so distracted, I simply didn't realize how long my legs had been carrying me. For the first time I saw something that even I could not fail to recognize as out of the ordinary. I had taken Lily's hand and come to her from across the span of a week's travel by wagon. I was too full. Questions came all at once and struggled to burst from my mouth so that none could issue forth. I stopped following Lily, dumbfounded. She turned back to see me transfixed in front of an old woman's stall. The old woman was trying to sell me squashes but could not get my attention. Lily laughed again. "All your questions, and some you don't yet realize you have will be answered. Come." She turned and slowly began to walk again. I followed. So many of the questions I had then were of the same variety of those of any child that craves acceptance. They open themselves to the painful possibility they may not get that acceptance, even from those they most love. From the simple and superficial, like whether my impending failure as an adult was an inevitability as my parents feared, to questions of whether they would bear the sight of me once they had proof I was different. That last was the least worthy, or, of so little importance to need never be asked. In later years my thoughts would turn to that moment, and the only regrets I have now are my doubts, for a time, of their love for me. But that is not part of this tale, so I hope you'll forgive the digression. Lily had led me through the various parts of the city into the corridors of the citadel. We wound our way past dining halls, past large rooms filled with men and women gesturing wildly with their hands. Lily counseled me to touch nothing, lest I lose myself and undo her work of having recovered me. We passed rooms filled with scribes copying manuscripts, up stairs, past closed chambers and open studies. I scarcely noticed for I could feel myself becoming part of the pattern of the place. I had always been here. I smile now at Lily's thought that gloves would provide insulation. They cannot. They provide diversion, at will, but all things are connected. Lily was to be among my teachers, but she was not a Seeker, like me. We stopped in the study of a small robed man with curly brown hair and dark eyes. He was seated behind a desk littered with books and dusty objects of uncertain provenance. He was a Seeker. Of those who would become my teachers, he would be the one to provide me the most directly relevant insights, and the least patience with my lack thereof. His gaze turned to Lily, ignoring me for the moment, and asked, "How was the transition?" Rather than speak, Lily opened her hands. A small version of Lily hung in the air over the man's desk. She was walking through the market when her hand seem to become blurry. Her miniature first showed mild surprise. She flexed her blurring hand before her face. Then the confused look relaxed into a smile. As I watched, I flexed my own fingers, knowing the echoes of what skills she was now employing. She was weaving a seeming from her memories, using her own expert abilities. I knew, for example, that she was not making a construct of light in front of us. Had anyone else come in the room, they would merely have seen Lily stretching out her hand and the two of us staring at a vague space above the man's desk. She made each of our minds perceive what she wanted us to perceive. I knew it was not a simple weaving, and I also knew, that it was not among my talents but of hers. Yet I understood it. The figure she projected continued to reach out. A small hand, my own from just a short while ago, reached out to hers. As the hands clasped I was suddenly there, whole, and falling to the ground. Some in market ran away, others stood shouting and pointing. Some clapped as though it was a stunt. I recalled none of this, but knew its truth. The figures faded and Lily closed her hands, taking a breath. "That's all? No additional energies? No other manifestations?" the man asked. Lily looked at me, and back to the robed figure. "It was as you saw. There was nothing else." The robed man gave her a look of consternation, but Lily merely returned his challenge with an expressionless face. The gleam in her eyes suggested she was enjoying his discomfiture. Not understanding, but as ever desperate to, I broke the momentary silences. "Should there have been something else?" The man blinked. "Ah. I'm forgetting myself. I am Renfro, Master Seeker. You may call me Master Renfro. I'll be your teacher here, at least in matters of our specific art. You are one of us now, Jolan." "Pleased to meet you Master Renfro," I said, responding as I had been taught. "One of who?" "Have you not heard of the Fellowship of Orianthus?" Master Renfro asked. As he spoke some of the fading recollections from my fleeting contact with Lily danced through my head, just beyond my conscious grasp. Realizing these glimpses to be hers I answered simply in the negative. Master Renfro's explanations and expoundings were those you may find in many of the common tales of the deeds of Orianthus all those centuries ago. How he organized practitioners of wide and varied arts to serve the crown and the people of the kingdom. Nothing of particular import in our tale here. At some point in his monologue, Lily had excused herself to attend to other duties. The discussion turned to practicalities of my living arrangements and the beginning of my studies. I would room with another apprentice in the citadel. Meals came at the third, fifth, and seventh bells, and were to be taken in company. In none of these instructions was there question of what I was to become. For Master Renfro, at least, the notion was settled. I was an apprentice of the Fellowship. My life was to take the shape of those who had walked these halls before me. "One final item, then, Jolan," Master Renfro intoned. "Use of your abilities, except as prescribed by your instructors is forbidden. You are not to leave these grounds except as is required of you, or in company of one of the Fellowship. Do you understand?" In all my life I had never gone or left. I had not ever thought of myself moving along the pattern. I simply was. That to which my musings turned was part of me, and me part of it. Even the language was strange to my ears. What Master Renfro was saying was that I was not to be me. "I don't know how. How do you not?" Master Renfro seemed surprised. His face held a brittle smile of one not expecting contradiction, and wanting nothing so much as to not be in the same room as me. I'd seen that look on the faces of other villagers, but this was different somehow. He strode the few paces from behind his desk, reached for my hand and gripped it tightly. The experience was very different from my grasping Lily's hand. I felt him walk through the threads of my life. I saw the point of connection, began to feel his doubts, but then the impression dissolved into so many embers blown upon the wind. He had stopped me from knowing him the way I had comprehended Lily. His eyes were wide, sweat breaking out on his brow. His effort continued. I could feel traces of the glimpses he was able to pull from my life, as wisps of silk running through my fingers before I could grasp them tight. He was struggling to see them. He could feel the wind on the grass, the river, the rain. When I peered too close to the connection I'd see the embers flee from my gaze into the dark of night, campfire sparks disappearing in heat eddies. Master Renfro gasped a bit with the effort and muttered, "What are you?" He released my hand and swayed twice before shaking his head. The gesture reminded me of the hound licking its nose to clear the scents it had taken in. I wanted to ask what he'd meant. It would have been another question he'd have been bound to ignore, but at the time I was too anxious at the thought I might shatter from hearing the answer. I let the question lie, and the moment for voicing it passed. For a few breaths he kept his eyes closed, muttering to himself the while. At the time I wondered if he were also able to wield words of command, that he was uttering an incantation of some kind. That is not what Seekers do, though I didn't realize it then. He blinked and said, "Ah yes. Ah... You... You will be given a..." He paused, sunk into his chair, and began rummaging through his desk. He drew out a spool of twine. Measuring off a length, he cut it with a dull stationery knife and handed it to me. "Keep that around your wrist, or your finger. When you feel your attention begin to focus, to carry you, touch that. It will bring you here, or better, remind you of the rule." I took the twine and turned it between my fingertips. I saw the work of pulling and twisting the fibers, of dyeing the cloth. I saw the harvest of the plants and the earth they grew in. Surely this was not meant to bring me only to the spool, only to this study, only to this Master. It was not the strength of the twine's connection to the spool that kept me in the chamber at that moment. It was not even the reminder of the rule the twine was intended to be. Rather, it was the absurdity of the idea that the associations this piece of twine held were as simple as those Master Renfro intended. It was the absurdity that his Master before him had cut him a length from the same spool, and that he carried it still. Ten year olds do not appreciate tradition. I laughed. I understand now I was likely slapping Master Renfro in the face, rejecting him, in a way, and all of his experiences, again without understanding the challenge I unintentionally offered his role with my laughter. Perhaps if I had been older, as Lily implied most students were, things would have started differently. The possibilities are too many to consider now. His eyes flashed briefly and he said, "Compliance is expected." He stared at a space just behind my eyes for a moment, then looked to his papers implying they were of far more significance than a small, vigorous fish plucked from a pond and flipped into the fisherman's basket. I began to ask a question, but a low bell tolled, followed by a bell several tones higher. "Tonic and dominant," said Master Refro, "midday meal." Without further word he moved past me into the hallway. I was left alone, in his study, the abrupt conclusion to a whirlwind of change. It had only been a few hours since I had left home. I imagined my parents searching frantically for me. What must they be thinking? How could I let them know? Would they understand? I also took in the fact that I could go to them now if I chose. My mother's hand on the threads in my shirt, homespun from the wool shorn by my father's hand would carry me right to them. I could hear the wheel spin, twisting the wool as my mother fed it into the spindle. I could see her foot rocking up and down on the pedal as she softly hummed to herself. The smell of the wool was as much a comfort as the smells of the cooking from the next room had been. As much as those impressions let me dwell in the past, savoring the warm happiness of those moments, they brought me to the here and now, reminding me how terribly hungry I was all of a sudden. If I was to fit somewhere, it must be in this place. I must understand these people, live this life. I could not go home. I swayed and it felt as if the ground beneath me had torn asunder and part of the world had fallen away. Fleetingly, I grasped at that world for a moment, but I had chosen, and I clasped at wisps of smoke. I curled and uncurled my fists and set out from Master Renfro's study into the hallway. This was my world. I had walked these paths... would walk these paths. I saw myself carrying messages to the other masters. I saw my shoes pound around many turns, as I jostled past other students. I saw the citadel unfold in many shapes, in the scents of autumn, the cool dampness of winter, lamp light playing through corridors at night, back to shafts of sunlight in midday. I came back to myself, back to now. I stumbled, staggering to the wall. What had just happened? Was it this place that had caused this? It must be me. I shook my head. This was my world now. I must walk to the dining hall. Simple. I knew the way. I shouldn't know the way, but I did. "You're going to miss the meal, and so am I. Come on!" An older boy turned away and began walking off. I followed. "You came looking for me?" I asked. "Yah. Master Renfro sent me. Said you might not be there. You Seekers are always popping off here and there. Good you didn't. Spares you the punishment." He kept walking, turning down a right fork at one of the intersections. "Punishment?" I kept pace. "You'd be washing dishes and peeling potatoes for a month. Cooks'd be happy." He spoke from first-hand knowledge, I learned later. "My name is Jolan." "Right," he said. "I'm Ander. I get to watch you for a bit, until you get assigned." I took this in and began to ask the obvious question, but we were approaching the dining hall. The sounds of chatter, the clatter of utensils on bowls, the shuffle of feet, and the smells of food stole our attention. We walked through the archway into the hall. Ander waved me to one side where bowls of porridge and various dishes of cooked vegetables had been laid out for the taking. Boys and girls, young men and women, and some of the masters looked up at the late arrivals. All of them were older than me. All of them were bigger than me. Master Renfro sat among other masters at one of the far tables. Lily was at the other end of that table. She looked up and smiled. Master Renfro looked also, blinked once, and turned his attention back to his meal. Ander shoved a bowl and plate into my hands. "Come on," he said. We sat at a table with other boys and girls. They were already nearly finished so conversation had become their focus. "What is he, then, Ander?" asked a stocky boy with a cracking voice. "That's not polite," said the slim girl to the boy's left. "You should introduce yourself, first. I am Delia, and the rude one is Ben." Ben looked to Delia to begin objection, but Ander spoke up instead. "Jolan here is a Seeker, seems like." Ben fixed his gaze back on me, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "So you can poof off to everywhere and *see* stuff?" he asked, still chewing his crust of bread. Delia answered before I could open my mouth. "Well of course he can't yet. He has to be trained. You couldn't do more than shake the dinner table until you were taught properly." I began to answer, but Ander cautioned me to eat while we could. Delia and Ben began to argue about what Seekers could and could not do. Ben claimed they could read minds. Delia lectured that they just knew where you were or where you'd been from something that had touched you. Others joined the discussion. I watched and chewed. Ben could move things, shape them, but was not a Seeker. Delia was Lily's student. Ander could direct creatures with his will. Still others could bring things into existence from nothing, it seemed. A tall, gangly boy with dark skin could send his voice to anywhere he chose it to be heard. But none were Seekers. Only Master Renfro. I ate, nodding at the assertions of some, shaking my head at others. A few asked where I was from, only to seem disappointed when it was not some exotic location they'd only read of in books. I wanted to tell them of the wind, to share with them the story of the finches, to explain the rain's journey, but the conversation bent away from those things. There were more questions but they were interrupted by the same low bell, followed by the higher-toned bell, followed by the low bell once again. Midday meal was over. "Come on," Ander said. "I have to see Master Beddick, then get you settled.

Log #3 Fear That's what I felt when the power cut off. Since there was no natural light, it was pitch black. I had seen backup lights in the halls. Why weren't they on? I turned my phone flashlight on and looked around. Some others did the same. I asked Fin why there weren't on. He said the backup generator had to be started. I said I'd go and Fin came with me. He showed me the generator room and told me to start the backup generator. It had a pull motor. I thought how long it would be until I was back up there, mowing the lawn. I tried to pull it and it made a thud. I looked at Fin and he shrugged. I tried a few more times with no luck. I thought of the worst and looked in the gas chamber, it was empty. I asked him where more gas was. He thought for a second then looked at me with dread in his eyes. I realized what that meant. They were up there. I then tried the backup and even the backup to the backup. No gas. I asked him where the gas would be up there. He looked at me, confused, then said his shed. I walked out of the generator room and looked at the latch. Then at him. Dammit, someone had to go up there. I told him I'd be right back, and started up the ladder. He yelled at me and told me I couldn't go. We then argued for a minute and he said the least I could do would be to wear a protective suit. I asked him where it was and he showed me to his room. In his closet there was a cheap, white suit. Kind of like a hazmat suit. I then put it on and went to the hatch again. I started up and he wished me luck. I thought about what I thought when I first came in here. I wonder when I'll see the sun again. I guess I'll see it now. As I put my hand on the hatch, I gulped. Do I really want to do this. Do I have to do this. I do. My hands turned the hatch. I put my hands on the hatch and pushed. It was bright at first, then it slowly got darker. It took me a minute to realize that the sky was completely covered by clouds. These weren't normal clouds though. They were ash clouds. I looked around and saw his shed. I wondered if the whole world was under a nuclear winter. I opened the shed and saw it was cluttered and full of stuff. I sorted around and, in the corner, there was two canisters. I smiled and grabbed them, and stopped. They were too light. They were empty. I tried to think about where the nearest gas station was and realized that we were in the middle of nowhere. I stepped out of the shed, and looked at my surroundings truly. All I could see was dark skies, craters, and fires. And if I want to live, I'm going to have to travel in this.

‘Ah, silence! Finally!’ she thought as she flipped through the pages of a Charles Dickens’ novel she had randomly picked up from the fiction section. It was late! Probably around two in the morning, and yet she wasn’t sleepy at all. She read for a while, disinterestedly, before going back to pick up another book. Then another! And then another again! Putting her nose to the book, she sniffed the first page. ‘Fresh as an oak!’ she thought; the strong scent momentarily transporting her to a different world altogether. A déjà vu perhaps! A few tables down the row a florescent tube light flickered; the buzzing sound prompting her back to the present. ‘Why was she even in the library at this odd hour?!’ she wondered. Ah, the silence! She explored some more sections - finding nothing even remotely interesting - before returning to the fiction section. She randomly picked up two more books, and attempted to read them side-by-side. After a while she got bored again! ‘No wonder she had been such a poor student’ she contemplated. She was born as the third child in a middleclass family of eleven, and lived in a two room house with them. Since the time immemorial, all she had heard was ‘noise’! Utterly disgusting constant noise! Parents arguing, doors banging, music blasting from the house next door, an old TV spewing news nonstop, her siblings laughing, strangers talking... to her and about her! There had been no respite! She had fared poorly in the school. So after turning 16, she had found a low-paying job in the ticketing department at the Railway Station; the wage barely enough to cover her daily lunches. Household ‘noises’ had been replaced by the whistling engines, clickety-clacky carriages and crowded platforms. Indeed, there had been no respite! It wasn’t long before she had forgotten all about quietness. Even when she tried to sleep at night, there was always a constant humming sound... that is, on nights when the strangers didn’t show up! And those nights were the most peaceful ones! Leaning forward onto the table, she rested her head on top of the open book. The utter quietness made her fall asleep instantly! “Wake up! Wake up!” someone whispered in her ear. She felt disoriented at first, not knowing where she was. Only after looking at the open book, all drenched in her drool, did she realize that she was at the library. Feeling groggy she looked up to find an old man, probably in his eighties, with a pointed nose and strangely rounded, gold-rimmed glasses looking at her. She was terrified! “Who... who are you?” she inquired. “I am the librarian!” he grinned. “You are in the library and you wish to spend your time sleeping instead of benefiting from all the knowledge around you?!” he continued disappointedly. She was speechless, and didn’t know how to respond. “What time is it?” she ventured, trying to fill the awkward silence. “Does it really matter what time is it?” the old man responded with a solemn face. Once again, she was left speechless. “What do you want from me?” she asked directly. “Oh! I don’t want anything from you!” he replied. “But look at all these books... they seem offended that you are sleeping your ass off in a library instead of taking this opportunity to learn about new things!” he continued. For a moment, she felt all books staring at her with angry little faces. She shivered! “But there are so many of them! I don’t know which one to read!” she responded, trying to justify her behavior. “Ah, the paradox of choice!” the old man smiled. “Err, the what... of what?!” she was totally lost. “The paradox of choice means that when you have a lot of options to choose from, you end up overcomplicating the process and unnecessarily delaying it” he explained excitedly. “Instead of encouraging you to take action, these many choices push you towards complete inaction” he continued. His eyes sparkling behind the gold rimmed glasses. She was baffled, but at the same time curious to know more! “So, you are saying having so many books around can make someone read fewer books?” she asked while scratching her head. “Indeed, it can!” he responded. “Then, what is the purpose of building a library?” she inquired innocently. “Ah, that is a smart question!” the old man sighed. Although he kept a straight face, she could tell he was quite happy inwardly with her question! “Perhaps the purpose of building a library is to allow curious souls to satisfy their lust for knowledge about specific topics” he attempted, trying to provide a convincing answer. “Anyone could walk in through that door knowing they could read all about... let’s say... ‘Trains’ in here!” he continued. “But what if someone wants to know about everything?” she asked curiously. “Then, they can spend their whole life visiting libraries around the world and getting their hands on as many books as possible” the old man responded with a smile. She was satisfied with the answer! ‘I want to learn about everything in the world’ she affirmed to herself. As if magically reading her thoughts, the old man said, “You can start from here, and read about as many things as you want”. *** It was around midday when a stern looking woman with grey hair woke her up from a deep slumber. She had pale cheeks and her hair was tied into a high bun “Get up, young lady!” the old woman barked loudly. “This isn’t a place for you to sleep at” she continued. “But who... who are you?” she asked reluctantly. “I am Ms. Shakila, the librarian here, and responsible for keeping the books safe” the old lady responded with a sneer while pointing to the messy pile of open books around them. ‘If she is the librarian, who was that old man last night’ she thought as she slowly rose up and walked towards the door. She had no recollection of what had happened after the old man had asked her to start from here. ‘Maybe he was one of the strangers!’ a chill went down her spine at the thought. She found her mother waiting at the library door, pacing worriedly. She was relieved upon seeing her daughter fine and safe. Turning around, she asked the librarian “How can I read books at the library, Ms Shakila?” “For that, you must purchase a subscription” the librarian replied nonchalantly. “Mom, I want a subscription for the library” she said turning back to her mother. “Sweetheart, let’s get back home and discuss it with your father” her mother replied while smiling sadly. Seeing a confused look on her daughter’s face, she explained “library subscription requires money you see!” “Surely, we can’t be that poor to not be able to afford a library subscription fee” she responded curtly. Her mother smiled as her face turned red in front of the librarian. “Not at all, sweetheart! Just that one cannot fund everything. You eldest sister wants to go to college, your brother wants to join the football academy, you want a library subscription, not to mention all the medical bills, and what the younger ones want!” the mother responded sadly, hoping that her daughter would understand and stop pestering her in front of the librarian. “So, which one is it going to be?” the girl asked plainly. “The sister going to college, the brother joining the academy, my medical bills or the library subscription, or what the younger ones want?” she continued. “Of course one cannot decide just like that with so many options!” her mother snapped, irritated at her daughter’s questions. “Ah, the paradox of choice” she smiled as her eyes sparkled. “The ‘what’...?” the librarian who had been standing quietly till now asked curiously. “Please forgive her, Ms Shakila” the mother responded feeling embarrassed. “My daughter has recently been diagnosed with Schizophrenia, and has little control over forming coherent thoughts and sentences” she whispered. The mother daughter duo walked out of the library, one feeling sad and defeated, meanwhile the other one feeling happy and triumphant. Of the two, who felt how, no one could tell!

It had taken everything else from him. His feelings began to fade in August of the previous year. Tiredness bled into torpor, torpor bled into apathy, apathy made him seek help that wasn’t helping. He was leaking. It had taken his wife from him. She left in March of this year. She couldn’t deal with the lack of emotion and energy that her husband used to be full of. He was running on fumes. It had taken his friends from him. He couldn’t deal with them anymore. Being around people so full of life began to take its toll on him. He gave them up shortly before his wife left him. He was empty. It had taken his career from him. He didn’t have the energy to show up anymore. He didn’t have anything left. Depression had taken a vibrant life and drained it of everything that had made it worthwhile. He was good as dead. At this point, it was only a formality that it should be the death of him. And since it couldn’t kill him in the literal sense of the word, he would have to do that himself. He’d been contemplating it for the past few months now. The question now was not a matter of do or do not, but the execution of it, ironically enough. He didn’t trust himself enough with knots to hang himself. He hadn’t the drive to go purchase a gun. Poison was too cliché. He couldn’t cut himself, he hated blood. He would jump, but he couldn’t stand heights. A train would do it, though. The thundering of steel at high noon, the shrill shriek of the steam horn, the raw power of ungodly machine, it all seemed morbidly attractive. He would have described it as a type of romantic if he had the feelings to find the words. He had found his end. And so it was settled: he would sacrifice the last of himself to the condition that had taken the rest of him. He put on his Sunday best for his final hurrah. When they found his body he wanted it to look good. At least, that’s what the real him would have wanted. If he could have watched himself, would the real him have been happy, though? Two years ago, the real him never would have imagined that he would go down like this, a prisoner of his own life, a victim of his own mind. If he was really going to do this, he had to stop thinking like that. Conviction was what he needed of himself right now. He was going to pull the trigger. The rails were surprisingly cold for early September. The trees on either side of the tracks had just begun to shed their leafy vestiges in a snow of orange and red. Perhaps it was appropriate that the forest around him was accompanying him in his demise. As they slowly died, so would he. In the spring, they would come back. What had really brought him so low? In the days before his demise, he would have said that he began to feel numb in August of last year. In the hours before his demise, he wasn’t so sure. Had he always been this cold on the inside? His life wasn’t flashing before his eyes like in the overly dramatized stories he liked to read. It melted before his eyes. His first memory of youth was inseparable from his memory of last night’s dinner. The first sign of the incoming train was the buzz he felt on his head. A light vibration that might have been pleasant if he remembered what pleasant was. The light vibration slowly and methodically became an incessant rattle. His heart fluttered with the frequency of pulsating rails. If he remembered what to call it, he would have recognized this feeling as anxiety. His stomach churned like the bouncing gravel under the tracks. His thoughts were brought to a rolling boil as his blood pressure shot through the roof. He was nervous. What came after the train hit him? He didn’t let himself believe in a god. Would it be blackness? Would it be peaceful? Painful? Immediate? Eternal? He lacked the answers to the questions he had; this wasn’t the best location to ponder life’s mysteries. Or was it? He hadn’t felt this alive in his whole life. His whole body was quaking with an unnatural tension that frightened him. How could he let himself die when he felt so far from death? He had doubts. Was this actually what he wanted to do? The rattle from moments before became a thunder in less time than he would have liked. The train was fast approaching and he was frozen in place, his head stuck to the frigid rails, cold sweat pouring from his burning being as his death charged down upon him. Something from within him screamed. He was afraid. He was scared to die. A last thought before impact, a deathbed confession to eternity: He didn’t want to die.

“What!” she screamed, pushing back her chair, causing it topple with the momentum. “How can you even say that? Get rid of i t ? It’s not a piece of furniture, Silvio!” Jen couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. The man standing before her suddenly seemed like a stranger. “How could you even think I would want this?” he snapped back. “This was supposed to be our treasure!” she yelled back, incredulously. “It would add to our beautiful life and make us.....whole.” Her flustered mind was trying to clutch at straws of reasoning but was drawing a blank. Silvio paced across the room, his eyes burning with rage. Jen couldn’t believe this was happening. Her life was falling apart. Just that morning, she’d bounced all over the doctor’s room in excitement when she’d heard the news. His outburst was completely unsettling. She watched his face, expectantly, trying to calm herself down. “Jen, tell me this isn’t serious,” he said, a steely edge in his voice. “I thought you were on the pill.” She saw the accusation in his eyes. “... I am serious...I don’t know what happened.” She walked over to his side and took his hand in hers. She wasn’t sure why he was reacting this way. He let go of her hand and took a step back. “I can’t ...I don’t want a baby,” he formed the words decisively. She felt like the breath had been knocked out of her. “Honey, we’re married now. Why wouldn’t you want kids?” she asked, as if breaking things down would make it easier to discuss. “I’ve never wanted kids,” he snapped, “How could you think I wanted this?” “You never told me!” She was yelling again. With every word he uttered, she felt the fragile fabric of their lives crack. She didn’t know how many more cracks it could take. “You never asked!” Jen was shocked at his tone. Running her hand through her auburn hair, she took a deep breath, walked back to the abandoned dining table and forced herself to sit. In a placating voice, she murmured, “How about we finish dinner and talk about this later?” She was trying to be the bigger person. She looked at him, the dim light from the street throwing shadows across his kind face which suddenly seemed unfamiliar to her. This was the man she’d fallen in love with. Six years! Her best friend since college and now her life partner. How did this fissure even happen? “No! There is nothing to talk about. I will not have kids...ever!” His ominous response to her olive branch left her speechless. He grabbed his jacket from the couch and headed for the door. “Silvio, wait!” Jen pleaded before he could leave. “I just.... I can’t be here right now,” he called over his shoulder. As the door slammed, Jen felt her perfect life come crashing down. She stood there, staring helplessly at the retreating back of the man who suddenly seemed like a stranger to her. Unsure how long she’d been standing there, she snapped out of her reverie and looked outside. The street was empty. A villainous stray cat ambled towards the trash can in the yard, but Jen didn’t have the energy to chase it away. The argument had drained her - physically and emotionally- and she was no closer to solving the issue. She didn’t know what this incident meant. Or how they would move on from it. Pulling herself together, she headed for a hot shower hoping it would shake off the numbness that had gripped her. Once done, she came out and looked at the antique clock her grandmother had gifted them for their engagement. It was midnight. She moved to the window and peered outside, still nobody in sight. Changing into her nightgown, she walked to her bed and lay down. Sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned, memories of the evening burning through her mind. What had just happened? Where had it all gone wrong? She remembered standing in the kitchen, excited as she’d waited for Silvio to return. It was all she could do to keep from calling him the moment she’d got the news knowing he was in a meeting. She’d heard the key turn in the front door. Silvio had walked towards her and wrapped his arms around her waist, his lips finding their way to her neck causing waves of pleasure to roll down her spine. “Mmm.....how do you still do this to me?” she’d asked, half-jokingly, turning into his arms and moving in for a kiss. “You mean you thought the romance would die after 8 months of marriage?” he’d asked, feigning surprise. She remembered him teasing her as he’d nuzzled her neck, his arms holding her tight. She’d laughed. It had been 8 months already! To her, it still seemed like the first time they’d met six years ago. Silvio had convinced a classmate to drop out of Jen’s dissertation group so that he could work with her, and do a lot more than work, whenever time permitted. Even now, the effort he’d put in made her smile, a warm fuzzy feeling spreading in her stomach. She sighed. Life had been a whirlwind since then. They’d spent days together, balancing studies and later work, but always finding time to roll back into each other’s arms at the end of the night. A habit that hadn’t changed one bit .... until today , she thought despondently. They had then sat down to eat. She’d grabbed a bottle of wine, it was something they always took recourse to, either to celebrate major wins or to drown out excruciatingly disappointing days. It was the one item they religiously replenished. “You read my mind,” Silvio had said, smiling tiredly, as she poured the wine. “The meeting didn’t go as planned,” he’d continued, digging into the lasagna. “They said the pitch needed work and that they are currently unable to provide any increments due to the pandemic.” His disappointment was apparent. “I’m sorry,” Jen had whispered, knowing how much he’d been looking forward to the promotion. They’d been discussing buying a house of their own soon and he was working really hard to move up the ladder so they could do that. “But I’ve got news that will make you feel better,” she’d said, taking his hand across the table. Till then, things had been fine, she realised. He’d looked at her, catching the excitement in her voice and laughed. “I don’t know how you do it but you always have a way of brightening the bad days,” he’d murmured affectionately, planting a light kiss on her cheek. Jen had drawn in a deep breath and with excitement pumping through her, she’d blurted, “We’re pregnant!” That’s when everything began to go downhill. She felt a lump rise in her throat now. Could he really not want a baby? The sound of footsteps on the pavement outside dragged her away from her thoughts. It was him! She recognised that easy-going gait anywhere. He walked in. Jen remained in bed, unmoving. Silvio stood silently at the doorway his shadow reflecting his every move. A slight hesitation in his step, he entered the room, picked up a blanket lying on the bed and left. Jen strained her ears to catch his movements. She heard him walk into the adjacent guest room. The bed creaked as he got into it. She let out her breath. Her stomach was knotted to the point of being painful. He’d not even said goodnight ! Sitting up in bed, she tried to gather her thoughts. She walked out into the living room, grabbed a glass of water to calm her jittery nerves and moved to the guest room. Silvio sat at the writing desk, his head in his hands. The sheets on the bed lay ruffled. She realised he couldn’t sleep either. This thought brought her some comfort. “Hey,” she said, quietly. “Hey,” he replied, unmoving. She walked over to his desk and took his face in her hands. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she apologised, pleading, looking for some sign of a truce. His blank gaze disconcerted her. “I know,” he said, “that went out of hand,” he mumbled. “Could we... maybe...?” she ventured, not sure how to broach the subject. “Listen Jen,” he said, finally looking up. She saw the pain that lay behind his eyes. He moved his hand and wrapped it round her waist, pulling her onto his lap. “I won’t change my stand on kids...” he started. The finality in his voice was like a slap to her face. She got up in surprise. “No! Please, listen.” He begged, pulling her close again. She relented. “I did not have a great childhood, Jen,” he began, sighing. This was harder than he’d expected. “Dad left at an early age and I don’t know what he was like. Maybe he was bad, maybe mom drove him away.” He looked straight at her. “All I had was my mom.” “I know,” Jen whispered, aware that his mom had been his only support till he turned fifteen and decided to make a life for himself. “My mom abused me, Jen, every single day,” he revealed, tears stinging his eyes. “She’d come home drunk most nights....and yell if the day hadn’t been good.” His voice had begun to choke. “She’d first hit me but not where you’d notice. She’d make me drop my pants and...use a belt.” Jen gasped. Why hadn’t he told her any of this before? She didn’t know how to respond. Now the tears were silently pouring down his cheeks. “But that’s not even the worst part.” “Silvio, I didn’t know,” she whispered, pulling him close. “But...” “The worst part,” he interrupted, “was what came after. Every time she hit me, she’d do it until I cried but once I did, she’d feel bad and would begin to ....to make it up. She’d start fondling me, pull me to her room and abuse me...sexually,” he whispered, his voice breaking at the last word. Jen’s eyes widened. This was a revelation she had not expected. “Oh Silvio..” she cried, tears stinging her own eyes as she buried her face in his. “Why didn’t you leave?” “Where could I go?” he asked crassly. “I had no dad, we were in a locality away from any of dad’s family. All I had was her.” He brushed the tears off his face with the back of his hand. The room had turned dark as the moon slipped behind the clouds. The darkness and the revelation added an eeriness to the whole thing. Jen waited for it all to sink in. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead, knowing it was now or never. “Babe, I didn’t know any of this and I’m sorry,” she said, looking straight into his eyes. “But you are not your mom or your dad. You will be a great father. I know it,” she said encouragingly, running a hand through his hair. He stood abruptly, almost throwing her off. She felt the hostility that exuded from him. “Do you not understand what I just said?” he yelled, a maniacal edge to his voice. His calm demeanour had disappeared. “I do...but.” “No buts!” I am not going to bring a child into this world. You need to get rid of it. I will not tolerate this bullshit anymore,” he roared, slamming his fist on the table. Before she knew what was happening, Jen raised her hand and hit him across the face. They both stood stunned. “I will not ‘get rid’ of our baby, Silvio,” Jen said, in a quiet voice. “You don’t understand....it was...horrible...,” he cried, almost begging, his anger swerving to desperation. “Oh baby, I know,” she interrupted, moving towards him. He looked helpless. Shattered. She held him tight in her arms, his body shuddering as the sobs erupted. She placed gentle kisses all over his face trying to wipe away his tears. “Baby, I’m here,” she cooed softly, realising how traumatizing his childhood must’ve been. She decided their discussion could wait another day. She held him close, kissing him soothingly on the lips as her fingers ran through his hair. As his sobs subsided, he started kissing her back, a desperate fervour in his actions. He slowly took her clothes off, carrying her into the bedroom as she held him tight, wanting him to know that she was there. As they climaxed and the tears subsided, she wrapped her arms around him and drifted off. The last words she heard before her exhausted mind gave in was Silvio whispering, “I love you, Jen. I’ll always love you.” A contented smile on her lips, she dozed off knowing everything would be alright. The next morning, Jen arose feeling much better. The sense of gloom and foreboding that had haunted her the previous night had lifted. She turned in bed and saw the empty sheets. She decided to get up and see how her husband was doing before catching a few more minutes of rest. She walked into the living room. He wasn’t there. “Honey,” she called, too sleepy to check every room. The silence struck her as odd. She walked into the kitchen. The coffee hadn’t been heated yet. She moved to the balcony. It was empty. A slight panic began at the back of her mind but she pushed it away. Her steps became frantic. She moved to the last room - the guest room. The crumpled sheets lay there just like yesterday. She noticed Silvio’s jacket and shoes were gone. Jen stood trembling, knowing intuitively that something was wrong. Had he gone out to grab something? Had something happened? She took in the empty room, an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She slowly walked to the tabletop and ran her hand over its surface, the memories of last night coming back to her. Him, sitting there, head in his hands as she slithered towards him, an apology playing in her head. Then it had spiralled and now here she was, his scent, their scent all over the room, heated memories tucked into every corner - it was all that remained. She dropped into the rosewood chair. It had been a recent splurge during an impromptu shopping spree they’d gone on two weeks ago. Her eyes settled on a small piece of paper tucked beneath a picture of them on the table. The five words scribbled there hit her with the force of a blow. I can’t do this anymore . Clutching the piece of paper to her chest, she let the sobs take over.

The year; 66 Million B.C. September 23rd. Just after lunch, central standard time. Three Neanderthals- Ogg, Grunk, and Louie were hunting mammoths and discussing the new sport that was taking the caves by storm. Ogg was filling the other two in on the details of the game, as they did not have DVR at the time, and in those days, most folks didn't know how to set their VCRs to record at a specific time. Ogg - "...so Nuknuk snap the egg and pass to Krodd. Krodd make break for endzone, but great winged monster come down from sky and carry him away, and him drop it before he can score." Grunk - "Mmm. What happen, then?" Ogg - "What mean? He fumble. It turnover." Louie, known to be sort of the tribe grump, was thoroughly unimpressed with the game Ogg described. Louie - "Hmm. Sound stupid. That never catch o- *AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH^HHHHHHHHHHH^^HHHHHHHHHHHH^^^HHHHHHH^^^^HHHHHHHHH^^^^^HHHHHHHH..!*" *[Thud]* Ogg and Grunk turned around and realized that Louie had simply vanished into thin air. Grunk - "Hey, where he go?" Ogg rolled his eyes. Ogg - "Typical. Him owe me five rocks. Now him nowhere to be found." Grunk peered down into the gorge next to where they had been walking. Grunk - "Nah. Me found him. Louie down there." He gestured towards the bottom of the ravine, where Louie's crumpled, mangled corpse lay, silent and motionless on the jagged rocks below. Ogg - "Oh. Him okay?" Grunk threw a large stone down towards the body, which caved-in what was left of Louie's skull. He did not appear responsive. Grunk - "Hmm... Me not think so. Him having blood, like woman." Ogg grunted in dissaproval. Ogg - "That sexist, Grunk." Grunk rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Grunk - "Sorry, that my father talking. How hell Louie down there, when he just up here second ago?" For several minutes, Ogg, deep in thought, stroked his beard- which had long ago coalesced into a single matted, casteroides tail-like dreadlock. There was an audible dial-up noise as he attempted to piece together the facts of this most perplexing mystery. Suddenly, he had an epiphany: Ogg - "Eureka! Me have theory." His curiosity piqued, Grunk inquired; Grunk - "What theory?" Ogg continued; Ogg - "Bear with Ogg on this- Big rock under feet very big, right?" Grunk considered this for a moment. The big rock they lived on was indeed quite large. Grunk - "Me suppose so. What point?" Ogg did his best to articulate his new, ground-breaking notion: Ogg - "Okay: Suppose big rock have great mass. Much bigger than Louie. Since big rock have big mass, it somehow attract objects with small mass through sort of physical force, make objects go down, like when sky cries, and *voilà*- Now Louie down *there*." Grunk furrowed his monobrow, though it was obscured by his bulbous, super-Saiyan 3-like forehead. Grunk - "Hmm... That novel concept, but you not follow scientific method, so is not *really* theory, technically speaking." Ogg scoffed, indignant at this preposterous accusation. How dare Grunk, *a college drop-out*, call his flawless methodology into question? Ogg - "What you *mean* me not follow scientific method?" Grunk elaborated: Grunk - "Well... To have theory, must peform experiments. Take measurements. Record and analyze data to reach conclusion. *Then* it theory. What you have *hypothesis*." Ogg stared blankly at Grunk for several moments. His eyes narrowed. Then, without any warning at all, Ogg whacked Grunk in the back with his club, knocking him into the canyon to meet with his terrible doom. Grunk - "AAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEE! OGG YOU BUTTHOOOOOOOOO^OOOOOOOO^^OOOOO^^^OOOOOOOO^^^^OOOOOOOOO^^^^^OOOOOOOLE..! " *[Thud]* Ogg peered downward into the chasm and grunted once more. Ogg - "Hmm. **Now** it theory... *Bitch.

**Year: 1929** I was coming inside my home after a long day’s work at the port office, when I heard something from inside my kitchen. I quickly reached into my purse and drew my FN Model 1910 semi automatic pistol. And then, out of nowhere, this creature that looked and smelled like an undead human came stumbling towards me. I fired at its torso, but my shots appeared to be doing nothing. The strange man-like creature kept coming towards me, and it looked hungry. But then, right as I thought I was going to die, someone or something dropped down from my ceiling, and landed on top of the walking corpse. It pulled the corpse’s head off its shoulders, and then threw it against the wall. Then, it started smelling the air. “Who are you?” I asked, but it didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to shoot it or not; it just saved my life, but I had no idea what it was or what it wanted. I turned on a light, and what I saw shocked me. It looked kind of like a man, but its skin was pale as snow, and it had almost dog-like fangs protruding from its mouth. It turned to face me as it continued sniffing the air, and once I got a look at his face, I recognized him. “Charles.” I said. Moments later, Charles transformed into a bat and flew out of my window. I watched it leave, and it flew onto the arm of someone else I knew; Reverend Hayes. The bat landed on Revered Hayes’s arm, and together, the Reverend started walking away. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The most surprising part of the whole incident wasn't that a vampire was in my house; it was that I recognized him. My younger brother Charles went blind and deaf as an infant due to a bad fever. Once he was like, two years old, my parents decided that he was too much work, and sent him to be taken care of by nuns at a children's asylum, and we never saw him again. Five years later, we found out he had died in a fire. That was all fifteen years ago, and I had long come to terms with my brother's passing. I never forgave my parents for giving up on him, but I had accepted what happened. Until that night. \_\_\_\_\_ The next day, I went to the church. The door was closed, but I started banging on the doors. "Welcome." Reverend Hayes said as he opened the door. I could tell he was coming even before he spoke; his cologne was as strong as ever. We often joked that we could smell him from all the way around the block. "Susan, it's so good to see you here again, I don't think you've attended service since..." "Where's Charles?" I asked. "I'm sorry?" "My brother, Charles." I said. "I know he was in my house last night, and I know you carried him off." For just a moment, just a very brief moment, there was a look of surprise on his face. But he quickly went back to normal. "I'm sorry Susan, but you must be mistaken. Your brother died in a fire years ago. I officiated his funeral myself." "You're lying!" I said. "You know where he is and what he's become, I know it." "I'm sorry, but I truly don't. If you'd like to discuss your grief, I'm happy to walk you through some Biblical passages on dealing with loss. But otherwise, I'm afraid I have a sermon to prepare." \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I knew he was lying to me, so that night, I snuck into the church. I broke in my prying open the backdoor. Then, I made my way to the top. “WHO’S THERE?” Reverend Hayes screamed, but I didn’t let him stop me, I kept pressing on. I could hear Revered Hayes coming down the stairs, along with someone else. I looked up to see that he was escorting my brother. My brother sniffed the air, and then came running towards me. He stopped when the Reverend tapped the floor three times. “Charles!” I said as I shed a tear. I went to give him a hug, but Reverend Hayes motioned for me to stop. “He doesn’t recognize you.” He said. Then, he held Charles’s hand and appeared to rub his fingers across his palm. “This is how we communicate.” Reverend Hayes explained. “It’s called tactile sign language. I’m telling him that you’re his sister.” “What’s he doing here?” I asked. “And how’d he end up like this?” “I might as well put on a pot of tea.” Reverend Hayes said. “This is going to take a while.” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ “There was no fire at the asylum.” He said. “My organization made that up to cover what really happened. The truth is that on that night, a vampire broke in and committed a massacre; killed eight children and drank their blood before we stopped it. Only one of its victims survived; Charles, your younger brother.” “He’s still deafblind, but when the vampire virus took over his system, his other senses sharpened greatly. His sense of smell makes a bloodhound’s look weak by comparison; we know because we’ve tested him against bloodhounds, and he won every time.” “We didn’t make him work for us. We gave him the chance to simply be transferred to one of our safe houses, a place where he’d have fit in nicely. But he chose to become one of us, and aid us in our mission.” “I’m sorry, ‘us?’” I asked. “Who’s ‘us?’” “A secret organization known as the Protectors of Humanity.” He said. “Ever since the Middle Ages, we’ve been working behind the scenes, protecting the world from the paranormal. We’ve stopped everything from vampires like Dracula and Carmilla, to mad scientists like Dr. Frankenstein, Dr. Jekyll, and The Invisible Man.” “But, those are all fictional?” I asked. Reverend Hayes laughed. “Not as fictional as you might believe. Those authors borrowed a lot more from our adventures than you’d like to believe.” “Anyway, this church has been a front for the Savannah branch of the Protectors of Humanity for over a hundred years. Most people don’t realize it, but under the surface, this city is crawling with supernatural threats, including a recent series of zombie attacks. You know, like the one you almost died in last night.” “We don’t know who is responsible for these attacks, or what their motive is. Our only advantage is his sense of smell; if there’s a single zombie in all of Savannah, he can track it down.” And then, we heard the whistle of his tea kettle. "Tea's ready." He said. "You take anything with it? Sugar? Honey? Milk?" \_\_\_\_\_\_\_ We continued talking until Charles started sniffing the air and pounding his feet on the ground. "Something's wrong!" Reverend Hayes exclaimed. "There must be a zombie." “What are we going to do?” I asked. “I’m sorry, we?” Reverend Hayes asked. “Charles and I are going to resolve this.” He explained as he reached into a cabinet to grab a sawed off shotgun and two knives. “You are going home.” He continued. I stood up and said “No. I haven’t seen my brother in fifteen years, and I’m not leaving him now.” Charles was getting more agitated, so the minister quickly realized that he didn’t have time to argue with me. “Fine, you can tag along.” He said. “But you will not engage with any zombies we find. You will stay back and allow Charles & me to handle them. Understood?” “Yes, understood.” “Good, now get your shoes on.” Charles transformed into a bat and held onto the Reverend’s arm. Together, the three of us walked in the direction he was pointing with his wings. Ultimately, we knew we were close when we heard a woman scream. The Reverend tapped Charles's wing, which made Charles take flight and fly in the direction of the scream. “STAY HERE! Reverend Hayes ordered me, and I remained on the sidewalk while he followed Charles towards the house that contained a zombie. While I was waiting for them, I felt something on my leg. I looked down to see a python crawling onto me. Before I could even start fighting it, it had wrapped itself around me and had started to squeeze. Moments later, a carriage pulled up beside me. “Good evening, ma’am.” A man said from inside. “No worries, Emmauel will not kill you. Only make you, how you say, fall asleep.” He then picked me up and loaded me into the back of his carriage. “HEY, STOP!” Revered Hayes shouted as he started firing at the carriage, but it was too little too late. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I woke up with my legs chained tightly to a chair. To my surprise my arms were free, and I was in front of a table with a full set of silverware, and even a glass of wine. It was a small room; just a dining room table, two chairs, and a window; a window whose blinds were all the way down, preventing me from seeing anything outside. My kidnapper was sitting on the opposite end of the table. “I hope you’re hungry.” He said. “My chef should be ready with the fried catfish in just a few minutes.” “Who are you?” I asked. “Heavens, where are my manners?” The sharply dressed stranger said. “I’ve gone by many names over the past century. I currently go by Papa Brown.” “Papa?” I asked. “Bit of an unusual suffix.” “Not for a voodoo priest.” He said. Moments later, a zombie emerged from another room, carrying a tray with two plates of food. “Excellent.” He said as he started eating. “Go on, eat.” I had no intention of eating my catfish. The smell of his chef alone spoiled any appetite I may have had; but even if he smelled right, I was certainly not going to eat anything prepared by a corpse. “You might as well have some.” Papa Brown said after taking a sip of wine. “It might be your last meal.” Hearing him say that made my heart sink. “What do you mean?” “I mean, after I have no use for you, I’ll probably just feed you to my horde.” The stranger said. “Only reason I kidnapped you is because I want information on the vampire who keeps foiling my plots, and the man who always accompanies him.” “I don’t know anything.” I said. “I just happened to run into them in the street, thought I’d watch them.” “Really?” He asked. “So it’s just a coincidence that a day after one of my zombies almost kills you, you’re at the scene of my next random attack.” “Yes.” I said. “I know it’s unbelievable, but strange things happen.” “I think that’s nonsense.” He said. He then stepped aside to take the blinds out of a window. Even in the dim light, I could see a whole horde of zombies, at least twenty of them or so. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” Papa Bown asked. “And these are just my personal guard. I have more stashed in other places outside of the city.” “That must be why Charles hasn’t found him.” I said to myself. Reverend Hayes said he can only smell zombies within the city; he said nothing about the surrounding areas. “I’ve spent years planning to takeover Savannah.” He continued. “The attacks, like the one that almost killed you, are simply my trial runs. Soon, I will have this whole city under my control.” “And right now, the only thing standing in the way of that is a vampire and an old man.” Just then, I felt a snake slither up my leg and wrap itself around my torso. “Emmanuel doesn’t have to make this quick.” Papa Brown said. “He can make this last as long as he has to. Believe me ma’am, we are literally squeezin’ everything we need out of you, and no matter how long it takes.” I was so scared that for a brief moment, I was almost tempted to tell him what he wanted to know. But then, moments before I might have caved and given him the information he wanted, there was a loud crashing sound coming from the ceiling. “Emmanuel, come.” he said as his skeletal serpent slithered back to him. He turned on a lightswitch, and I saw my brother fall to the floor. “The vampire appears to have found us.” Papa Brown said. “No matter, he should be no match for my horde.” He was wrong. Two zombies stumbled towards Charles; Charles started sniffing the air, and once he had a clear sense of where the zombies were, he struck. He raised his hand and slapped a zombie’s head right off its shoulders. The other zombie tried to grab onto him, but Charles kicked it away. Moments later, Reverend Hayse barged in with a Thompson submachine gun. The moment he ran in, he started opening fire on the zombies, hitting their heads with surprising accuracy. He ran up to Charles, and used their tactical sign language to say something to him. I obviously couldn’t tell what it was, but it appeared to be something along the lines of “I’ll finish off the zombies, save Susan,” because after sniffing the air one more time, Charles started running in my direction. He burst through the window, landing on the ground in front of me. Meanwhile, I took advantage of the commotion to take the steak knife off my table and start breaking at my ties. “Leave, or you will die!” Papa Brown shouted. I was tempted to tell him that Charles was deaf, but I figured that he’d catch on soon enough. “Emmanuel, attack!” He ordered. His snake launched itself at Charles, latching onto his arm and trying to get to his torso. But Charles simply grabbed it, pulled it off of him, and then pulled it in half. “Ma’am, hold my coat.” He said as he took off his jacket and threw it towards me. I simply tossed it on the ground and continued sawing at my ropes, but I don’t think he even noticed. Only then, once his jacket was off, did I see that he was also a zombie. He had rotting flesh, some even to the point where bones were sticking out of him. Nonetheless, he looked ready to fight. “He seems to rely on his sense of smell.” Papa Brown said. “Let’s take that out of the equation.” He then waved his arms, and all of a sudden, the room started filling with thick fog that smelled like rotting corpses. “There, that should keep him distracted.” He then approached Charles, who had no way of knowing where he was coming from. Papa Brown then pulled a vial of water out of his pocket, uncorked it, and threw it towards Charles, who immediately started to burn. “Holy water.” He said. “I’m never without it. If only I had more, so I could finish you off. Guess I’m gonna have to do this the old fashioned way.” He then grabbed Charles and threw him against a wall. Charles tried to fight back, but there wasn’t much he could do about an enemy he could barely even sense. Once he had him against a wall, he started to beat him. Charles continued to throw out strikes of his own, but Papa Brown was blocking all of his strikes. He didn’t stop until Charles was virtually immobilized from his injuries. When he was reasonably sure that Charles couldn’t do much to fight back anymore, he went over to his cabinet, and pulled out a wooden stake. “Goodnight, vampire.” I then finally burst free from my ropes and charged into action. I ran at him with my knife, and before he could even react, I had already stabbed him in the back and pushed him down. What happened next was nothing short of incredible. Charles appeared to feel the vibration of his fall on the ground, and finally had a sense of where he was. Once he had a lock on him, he jumped forward, landing right in front of Papa Brown. Papa Brown tried to repel him with magic, but Charles fought back, and was able to grab ahold of him. One his hand was wrapped tightly around Papa Brown’s neck, he simply pulled it off, and threw it against the wall. Moments later, Reverend Hayes burst into the room. He was covered in blood and brain bits, but he didn’t care. The first thing he said was “Are you two alright?” “I am.” I said. “Charles looks hurt though.” Reverend Hayes took a look at his injuries and said “Nothing a few nights of rest can’t heal. Surprisingly, this isn’t even close to the worst he’s been through.” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reverend Hayes drove me home. I told him I was fine, but he insisted. As we approached my house, he had a conversation with me that changed my life. “Susan, I want to offer you a place within our organization.” Reverend Hayes said. “Are you serious?” I asked. “Yes, I am.” He explained. “You showed real strength back there, when you saved Charles. We need people like you working with us.” “I’m not going to lie to you, it will be difficult.” He continued. “I will personally facilitate your training, and I can guarantee you right now that I will go out of my way to push you to your limits. I’ll understand if you don’t want to do it, but if you’d like, I’ll gladly make you a Protector.” I said “Sir, there’s nothing I’d like more than to join you and Charles in protecting this city.” “That’s what I was hoping to hear.” He replied. “Now, unless you have any plans today, I suggest we begin your training.

​ “Playing God has its consequences,” Nina said to Maggie. They were sitting at the kitchen table. “Name one.” “I’m not having this argument with you.” Maggie got up and went towards the refrigerator. “Told you,” she said. “I win.” “Me not wanting to go into an existential argument with you is not the same as you winning...” “Of course not... I’m out of soda... I think I have some in the garage. Do you want any?” Nina nodded. “Coke please.” Maggie went into the garage and after stepping over the massive amounts of clutter piled up, grabbed the soda and returned to the kitchen. To her surprise, a middle aged woman and her two children were sitting at the table eating soup. “Hello... Who are you? Where is Nina?” The woman looked up at Maggie confused. “Nina? Who is Nina? Do you not remember letting us in? It’s pouring rain outside and we had no place to stay.” “How is it pouring rain? I was outside not twenty minutes ago and it was bright and sunny.” “Momma what is she talking about?” one of the little girls said. “I don’t know baby. Just eat your soup...” “But I don’t like potatoes,” the other one said. “You don’t have to like it to eat it. It’s gunna make you big and strong,” the mother said. “Who made you soup?” Maggie asked. “What are you playing at? You are scaring my children.” “Woman. Listen. I’m sorry you don’t have a place to stay, but you can’t stay here.” “Momma...” “Go outside babies. I’ll call you back in soon.” The two children ran out the front door. “I don’t know who you are and why you are here? Where is Nina? Who let you in? And where the hell did you get soup from?” “You must have the memory of a mayfly. I came to your door soaking wet. You rushed me inside and handed me and the girls towels to dry off,” the woman said. She pointed to the couch behind her, where there were indeed three towels. “You were home alone. There was no one named Nina here. Then you asked us if we were hungry, so you made us soup. You left the rest of the soup on the stove. It’s obvious we are no longer welcome, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish my soup, then be on my way.” Maggie stared at the woman then slowly turned around to check the stove. Her big red pot sat on the back burner, full of potato soup. “This is not happening...” she said. She ran up the stairs and fell into her bed. “This is just a bad dream... If I go back downstairs Nina will be there and...Nina... Do I know a Nina?... Of course I know Nina...maybe...” Maggie tried convincing herself. She ran down the stairs in hopes of jogging her memory. The same woman sat at the table. “I’m sorry I yelled at you...” Maggie said to her. The woman looked at her confused. “I’m just very confused by what’s happening,” Maggie continued. “One minute I’m talking to... Suzy? Sarah? No. That doesn’t sound right.” “Are you alright? You don’t need to apologize. You never yelled at me.” “Mommy! What’s for dinner?” a little boy squealed, running from the bathroom. “And who is this little fella? Is this a friend of your daughters?” Maggie asked. She had accepted the situation as reality already, so questioning it was pointless. “Daughters? Have you lost your mind? I don’t have daughters,” she said. She got up from the table and took her son by the arm. “We aren’t having dinner here Nicky. Let’s go.” “But it’s so cold outside... I don’t like the snow.” Maggie pushed past the mother and son and ran through the front door. It was sunny outside. She stood on the balcony overlooking New York City. She took a deep breath of tobacco smoke and came back inside through the side door. “You good?” Trevor, Maggie’s boyfriend said. “I haven’t tripped that hard in years.

With nervous excitement, John had taken his seat and according to his ticket assignment. He purposefully reserved a window seat to occupy his mind on the journey. He gazed out of the window, as the remaining passengers boarded, and the crew performed their pre-departure routines. It had been many years since he had travelled, and he thought back to the days when his parents - now deceased - had taken him on vacations. They never drove more than a few hours from their home, but John had great memories of the places they had taken him. He had travelled by plane a handful of times during his career and by vehicle but something about the clickety-clack appealed to him. He'd never married and never had kids. In fact, during his career he hadn’t made any friends and pretty much kept to himself. He’d saved up most of his salary for the past twenty-five years and had decided to retire and move on to something else - something unknown and new and fresh. He had nothing holding him back and decided to embrace the uncertainty of travelling and visiting some national landmarks. As he continued gazing at the station from his seat, he began wondering if he’d lost his mind and contemplated if it was a good idea to leave. He reminded himself that it was too late, as all his belongings were packed in his suitcases and everything else had already been sold off or donated. His apartment lease had expired, and he had nowhere to go but forward. His trip was predetermined and would begin with a two-day trip to South Dakota then to Montana and on to Colorado - visiting all the landmarks along the way. These were places he’d never been such as Mount Rushmore, Glacier National Park, Yosemite, and etcetera. As the whistle blew, a gentleman had taken the seat just across the aisle from him. He was about John’s age and immediately engaged in small talk. He was on his way to visit his sister in South Dakota for the summer. John explained to him that he was embarking on a longer journey and would be visiting Mount Rushmore as his first stop. Stephen, as he introduced himself, then explained that his sister didn’t live too far from there. For the better part of the following two hours, they talked about their lives - something John didn’t normally share with anyone. Stephen explained that his sister had lived alone for her entire life and was about to embark on her own journey and move to Alaska. That’s why he was spending the summer with her. He went on to say that she worked in the station where he was to end his journey. Coincidentally, John was also going to the same station and from there he’d planned to rent a car to visit Mount Rushmore and then return to the station to continue his journey. They talked on and off for the two days and had become comfortable with each other - knowing they’d soon be parting ways. And that’s when Stephen asked, “Hey, how about I take you to see Mount Rushmore?” John stammered, “Um, I guess I could. I have a couple days to burn.” “Great,” Stephen returned. “You’ll like my sister. She’s very hospitable.” Soon after their conversation, the conductor indicated that they were approaching the station. Everyone was disembarking, at least for the night. John’s plan was to stay the night and then drive the next day to Mount Rushmore. He wasn’t sure how Stephen’s sister fit into the equation, but Stephen did elude that he’d be meeting her. They both exited and walked through the exit gate and into a waiting area where other passengers were being picked up by relatives and some were boarding buses. John asked Stephen where he was going from there and indicated he needed to check into the motel. Stephen replied, “My sister is picking me up. You can come with us. We’ll drop you at your motel, which is only a few miles from my sister’s place.” John began to feel uncomfortable with the whole situation. He had just met the guy and had grown more and more anxious the more they talked. Within a few minutes, a car pulled up - it was her. She waved and Stephen waved back. She got out and they hugged each other. Stephen yelled over to John, “we haven’t seen each other in a year.” They seemed to be privately catching up when John noticed Stephen point back at him. His sister looked John’s way and smiled. “Get in,” she yelled. They drove about ten minutes when John noticed his motel, but she kept driving. “Whoa, that’s my motel,” he blurted out. “Nonsense,” she replied. “You can stay at my place.” “No,” he insisted. “I don’t want to bother you. I already have arrangements.” “It’s fine, really it is,” she replied. Within a few minutes, they arrived at her home. From the outside, it seemed quaint and well kept. They all exited the car and made their way in the front door. John couldn’t help thinking about what he was walking into. They all took a seat around the kitchen table. “My name is Clara,” she offered. “You’ve already met Stephen.” “Yes,” John laughed. “My name is John.” “Nice to meet you. Anyone like something to drink?” “I’ll have an iced tea, if you have it.” “Sure thing. Stephen?” “Same.” They spent the next few hours talking and sharing stories. Nearing midnight, Stephen excused himself for bed. John was also going to excuse myself, but Clara kept talking to him. She was very personable, and they seemingly had made a connection, at least in John’s mind. They talked for another hour or so as she explained her move to Alaska. By that point, John had become comfortable with staying for the night. Early the following morning, Clara was up making coffee and breakfast. Stephen and John crossed paths in the hallway, on their way to the kitchen. The three discussed the day’s itinerary and that they’d all be visiting Mount Rushmore together, which was fine with John. At least he’d have some company - it beat going alone. By the end of the day and during the drive back to Clara’s, John had become saddened knowing that he had to leave the next day. As they arrived home, everyone decided to get to bed because they were all feeling tired. The next morning, John awakened to Stephen yelling out, “We need to leave now if you’re to make the next leg of your journey.” John threw his stuff together and thanked Stephen for everything. Clara was already headed out to the car. Stephen waved and yelled from the door, “Bon voyage, it was a pleasure.” John waved back. “Thank you. Till we meet again.” They raced to the station, but they were too late. John was somewhat disappointed yet not. The car ride back to Clara’s house was comical because both thought the idea of missing check-in time was funny and worth poking fun. John felt they had made an even deeper connection, considering they barely knew each other. When they arrived back at Clara’s, John did his best to rearrange his plans and according to the station’s schedule, but it seemed that he wouldn’t be able to continue his journey until Friday - some three days away. Over the course of the following days, John learned that while Stephen was slated to stay the summer, it was really only two months and not the three months he had assumed. He also learned that Clara had sold her house and would be forced to relocate, temporarily, prior to her move to Alaska. Clara had also arranged for all her furniture and fixtures to be included in the sale. So, she essentially had nothing to move except clothes and personal items - making her journey easier. Clara had already resigned her position at the station, where she’d worked for some twenty years. John began to wonder why Clara hadn’t already moved because she’d seemingly had everything in order and could leave at moment’s notice. He also wondered why Stephen was there except to see her off. There was nothing for him to do. Leading into Friday afternoon, when John was due to leave, Stephen received a call that his son had been hospitalized with a rare heart condition. Stephen immediately made plans to leave but needed a ride to the airport. Everything seemed to be turned upside down, quickly. John realized he’d need to find his own way to the station because Clara would be taking Stephen to the airport. Everyone said their quick goodbyes and John stood and watched Clara and Stephen pull out of the driveway and disappear. John did his best to make arrangements to get to the station, but to no avail. It just wasn’t in the cards. He made the call to the station to inform them that he was unable to make it. They informed him that he’d have to wait another week before being able to continue his journey. While he was disappointed, a part of him was okay with spending another week with Clara. Clara returned later and was completely surprised to see John still at her house. However, there was a part of her that was happy. Clara insisted that John stay with her for the coming week and he eventually accepted her invitation. They became emotionally attached to each other in that week. During their dinner on Wednesday evening, Clara had asked when he was scheduled to leave. John shyly replied, “Well, honestly I never scheduled my departure.” Clara looked at him puzzled, “What? Why not? You have your planned trip.” “I know, but...I just can’t convince myself to leave.” “We’ve made a connection, yes. But I’m still leaving for Alaska in a handful of weeks.” “Yes, I’m aware and I don’t want to interrupt that. So, how about if I stay till you leave?” “I would like that very much.” “I mean, neither of us needs to work and you’re pretty much ready.” “That is true. What would we do?” “We’ve seen Mount Rushmore. How about we take the scenic drive to Devils Tower?” “We could. Sadly, I’ve never been there in all my years here.” “So, we’ll go, yes?” “Sure.” With that, they spent the next two weeks planning the trip. Their time together was enjoyed by both, but John especially. He’d never opened up to anyone in his life like he had with Clara. She enjoyed the time as well, but she was less needy than John. She was alone by choice and John was alone because it was the only life he knew. On the night before their trip, Clara and John prepared some food and put together a basket. They packed sufficient water and extra clothes, just in case. They hugged in the hallway and parted ways to their separate bedrooms. In the morning, they ate a light breakfast, packed the car, and headed out. They had a short drive to get to the highway, which would lead them to the main highway into Wyoming. The weather forecast was not favorable, at least for the morning, but they pushed forward. As they got into the second hour, heavy rain began to fall causing traffic slowdowns. A storm had formed and was barreling right at the traffic. At several points, visibility was poor, at best. Causing major slowdowns and near accidents. As they were deciding whether to pull off and wait out the storm, they were struck from behind by a large truck. The truck pushed them into the truck in front of them. Their car was pushed up and under the trailer and tore off a portion of the roof. Both John and Clara were knocked unconscious and were pinned in the mangled steel. Neither of the truck drivers were injured. Each attempted to rescue John and Clara, but it was a near impossible task. Fire and Rescue Services arrived within approximately twenty minutes from the time of the accident. They worked diligently for an hour just to get Clara out. She began to regain consciousness as they placed her in the ambulance. Extricating John was much more difficult. In fact, he was pronounced dead and remained in the car. Clara was taken to the nearest hospital where she began asking about John. Eventually, she was informed of his death. At first, she remained silent, but shortly was overcome with emotion. Clara was cleared to go home after about seven days. She had many lacerations, a concussion, and a broken arm. During her stay, she was forced to arrange for John’s transport and services back in town. She knew that John had no family, at least that he ever mentioned. He left behind no contacts and no living will. She was on her own. Sadly, there was no service for John and his body was cremated - and a marker was placed in the local cemetery. Clara had agreed to pay the fees, which was nothing to her. More painful for her was the fact that the services were held while she remained in the hospital. She thought John deserved better. When Clara arrived home, she did her best to settle in and get adjusted to the arm cast, but she knew life for her would be physically challenging in the coming weeks. She couldn’t imagine the emotional challenges that would soon follow. There was a bag of personal items that the hospital staff had indicated were collected from the accident. It contained the extra clothes they had packed for the trip, John’s wallet, and his wristwatch. Also in the bag was a card. She pulled it out and removed the envelope. She read the card and cried uncontrollably. The note read that their time together was a blessing, and she should follow her dream for Alaska, and he would not stand in her way. It was signed, “Bon voyage. I love you, John.” Clara grieved in the days remaining and leading up to her planned departure. On the morning she was leaving, she stopped at the cemetery to pay her last respects and to say her goodbyes. She mustered up the courage to tell John, “I love you too. Bon voyage, John. Bon voyage.”

Today is no ordinary day, but a day I was sent to a boarding school, far away from where I was born and raised. At this young age, I was scared, and I missed my parents. I missed the girly barbies, I missed Lucy, my lovely Shepperd dog, I missed my nanny, my childhood friends, my favourite piano, violin, and my ukulele. I missed the wonderful kitchen where there are so many food I could eat, I miss the mango tree in the front yard of my house where I can taste the most juicy mangos. All of a sudden, I was sent to this institution, where all the horrible things seem to about to happen. I went to the school to sign in, and I met two girls who were so nice to me and they invited me to join their little gang. Although I was a super shy girl, but I accepted their invitation. I was surprised that they were nice because this strange place was like an origin of nightmare to me. I was taught so many brainless tricks like buying snacks from behind the high walls, using cellphones by bribing the dorm manager and paying the bookstore owner to get them illegal stuffs from the outside. I came from a little village where people are genuinely pure and don’t have many cunning thoughts, so I was kind of scared and surprised at first with these city people. Soon enough they found that I was a poor little girl whose parents sent me to this school against my will, they abandoned me and looked for other interesting people to play with. In this school, I didn’t get a lot of disappointments actually, because I didn’t even expect this experience to be good. None of my parents are well-educated, they sent me to this elite school with the hope that I could be different from them. As people in their age always say, education is a good way to escape from the lower class and advance to higher class in the society. As a child, I honestly didn’t have a concept about social class and I was not smart enough to deal with people with political mind. They tell too many lies as my grandpa said, who was a soldier fought in many countries like Afghanistan, Israel, Egypt and Cyprus. He said, he never like politics and being a politician, although himself was a high-ranked Military Officer. I was a very quiet and shy girl who didn’t like presenting myself and felt very reluctant about strange things. I constantly felt being bullied by my classmates even though I think they didn’t mean to be. They were mostly from well-off families with a lot of pocket money. Their lavish lifestyle were things that I could never comprehend. Some students like me were happy as long as the food they offered from the canteen were excellent, the bedtime were promised, and we were safe and weren’t getting any hurt. We were told that we had to follow a very strict daily schedule, including getting up at six o’clock, followed by running, breakfast by seven thirty to start our first lesson, then followed by classes and homework time until eleven o’clock in the evening. I didn’t really feel like having a life in this school, except the moments when we had some chances to dress up to perform, sometime there would be some sport competitions for our class. That’s pretty much it. I didn’t even know there was a big library where students could borrow with our student card until the last semester. Luckily, I was a true bookworm and I liked studying. The school used to have a long corridor for posting higher level students’ articles which I enjoyed reading them as I finished my breakfast and lunch. This is when I developed a personality that I liked to be alone when no one can interrupt me while thinking. I feel kind of sad for myself when I could have been a totally optimistic girl and well-rounded person if I didn’t go to a boarding school like this away from my parents and hometown. However, there is something good in this school, which is the time they gave me to develop my brain and learn new knowledge was abundant while most of my peers were just dating and doing a lot of mindless stuffs. I had been through so much in this school, I used to be a very carefree person in my little village where there were not many temptations and desires corrupted in it. People loved their jobs and their families, and they helped each other. In this school, people were selfish and always thinking about themselves and what they could obtain from the other people. There were so many messy things going on in this school like briberies, student federation corruptions and discrimination from teachers. Some teachers even ranked their students by asking what career their parents worked for a living, what cars they were driving to school and how much pocket money they got from their parents each month. This was a totally sick environment and I felt so pity for those people who paid so much money to just get into this political private school. The only one thing I appreciate from this school was that, I greatly appreciate my parents’ love for me to go to this expensive school. With their great hope and love, I developed a lot of good discipline which deviate myself from the others such as getting up early to read, and developed a habit in reading and trying to learn in my own pace. However, I would confess that went to this school was a mistake they made because being away from parents were the worst childhood one could get in life and without parents’ unconditional love but the bullying from strangers were very scary. I was trying to cry but never have the energy, as I was too exhausted trying to survive.

PROS AND CONS OF PUSHING THE BUTTON By the One Who Pushes PRO: The world has never (not even once!) ended. Neither as a direct result of your having pushed the Button, nor in any other way. This is optimal. CON: The world ( your world, that is) has indeed never, not once, ended (nor even changed in the slightest) as a direct result of your having pushed the Button. And not to be too down on yourself and your sad life and everything, but let’s be honest: This is suboptimal. (You need friends.) PRO: The people you pass on the street, on those rare occasions you dare to go out, may well have you , and no one else but you, to thank for their entire worldly, spatiotemporal existences. Good on you. CON: Those same people may in fact have you, and no one else but you, to thank for their every waking misery and toil. And the non-waking ones, too. Maybe the Button isn’t what you think it is. He never told you for sure. PRO: Pizza. There’s pizza. And there’s also a direct correlation. You’ve never pushed the Button and not had pizza afterward. Causal effect? This, more than anything else, feels like magic. Except for Him. He was pretty magical. (You think.) CON: But what if there’s something better than pizza out there? Impossible to think (obviously), but still, it bears asking: What if, much like the unintended causing of all sorts of misery, the pushing of the Button is also the very one-and-only thing that tethers your taste buds to this reality where pizza is the ultimate bliss? What if there exist higher peaks--truer peaks--among the universe of possibilities? Peaks that are simply unimaginable in this Button-fixed world of pizza? Holy crap. What if there’s one where kale actually tastes good? PRO: The doubt. Or, more specifically, the total lack of it. Because when you push the button--and you’ve never not pushed the button--there’s none of it. And as long as you keep pushing the button, there’s no reason to start. The world is here, the world is the world, and there’s no reason to doubt any of it. CON: Except you’ve never not pushed the button, and yet here you are . And what to call this entire exercise, really, but one big snowball of doubt? You should probably stop now. Get it together. Go back to your life. Because, like... PRO: How about this little thing called existential security? Because seriously, how could you be so selfish as to even think about forgoing the one and only action that may or may not be the only thing holding the entirety of space and time together? You know what He told you. You can’t even begin to disprove it. And even if you could... Is it really that important, to know more than this? Are you really that important? CON: Squanderance. You’re not sure it’s a word (in fact, you’re pretty sure it isn’t), but you can’t rightly think of any better one for the entire world of alternative possibilities you’re leaving on the table, each and every time you push that Button. Even if the one and only alternative is the immediate and irrevocable annihilation of everything... Is that truly so bad? I mean, of course it is. But yet you wonder. Yet you toil. He never should’ve placed this burden on you. PRO: He told you to do it. And seeing as He is the closest thing you can fathom to Truth and Wisdom incarnate--and possibly even to Justice--it seems like folly to disobey. To even question. And still. CON: It’s killing you. And if He is Truth, if He is Wisdom, then He could not have possibly hung the balance of time, space, and reality itself on your shoulders for any reason other than for you to do with it exactly as you will do. This has to end. CONCLUSION & PARTING NOTES And so, I’m building a box. A box unlike any other. The details of this box are perhaps irrelevant, but I feel you should know them anyway--for posterity, let’s say, even though it seems a near mathematical certainty that you will never see these words. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Perhaps none of this does. Regardless, I have decided to do this thing, and so here follow the details and reasons why. The costs to me in undertaking this project have been considerable--both financially and spiritually. To the former point, I’ve sold my home and crappy car, and cashed out on every bit of retirement savings I had. To the latter, I don’t even know what to say, except that I’ve prayed each and every day for Him to appear to me once again--to tell me if I am acting in error. To tell me anything at all. But there’s been no word, save for those of my skeptical construction crew. The box itself... The box is a miracle. A space age capsule of filters and shielding. Or the equivalent of one, at least. Mostly, in reality, it’s one dense chunk of a subterranean bunker. Cinder blocked and double Faraday caged. Lead paneled on the exterior. That didn’t come cheap. Suffice it to say, though: not even the Man of Steel himself (if he were real) would be able to see what’s happening in the box, once it’s closed. At times, I wonder if maybe even He--the He that is real, and way more omnipotent than Supes--will be unable to see what happens in there. I don’t know. And I’m pretty sure I never will. The water and air filtration systems have been an interesting challenge. All of it rather interesting , the construction foreman points out one day, in lieu of what he’s really thinking--which is namely, no doubt, that if any single part of this weirdo bunker fails in any unforeseen way, this stupendously expensive box of mine will almost certainly be rendered a stupendously expensive coffin, posthaste. But I see no other way. I just hope to the Gods of Pizza-flavored MREs that I’ve stocked enough supplies to last... well, however long it lasts. You see, the only certainty left in my mind is that I must push the Button. And the only certainty left in my mind is that I also mustn’t. And so, I’m taking the Button with me. Into the box, we go. In there, with my Button and without my world, I pray I might finally do as I may. In there, I pray it will not matter--though to whom I pray all of this, I can no longer say. Regardless, from here on out, you may consider the Button to be both pushed and also not pushed, for that will be the truth as far as anyone but me should ever know. And if it should come to pass that this truth should also happen to coincide with your untimely annihilation--and indeed the untimely annihilation of everything--then know (though I suppose it’s impossible for anyone to know anything, in that case) that I am sorry. Or that I would be, at least, were there any existence left within which to be sorry. But at the end of the day... at the end of it all... Well, what business is it of yours, really, what I do with my own Button?

On a cold autumn morning, camera in hand, I set out to the park near my home in an attempt to capture the grandeur of the changing foliage. Clouds overhead dampened the spectacle of mother nature's display. The red, gold and amber hue of leaves shone ashy and dull under overcast skies. A low mist hung to the ground as if the spirits of all that had ever lived in my city were coming back to walk the earth. I had my camera at the ready to capture the hauntingly beautiful landscape around me. I snapped photos as I walked, and checked each on the digital display to ensure the lighting and framing was just right. As I looked at my last photo, a ghostly figure sat on the park bench underneath a maple tree that I had photographed. She was not there when I framed the photo in my viewfinder, but when I looked up, there she was--a beautiful, young woman in a flowing, laced white dress. Her dark hair was done up, but falling out as if from a long night. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her lips were gray. She had black make-up streaking down her cheek, stark against her porcelain white skin. As I approached I could see her face wrenched in agony. She cried, dropping her face in her hands and her body shuddering with sadness. I walked up beside her. "Do you mind if I sit?" I said. She shook her head, wiping tears away. She crumpled her face, trying to hold back tears. "No, not at all," she said, sniffling. After I sat, she put her face back in her hands to cry more loudly. I looked upon her with pity, wishing there was some way I could help this poor girl. But what advice did I have to give? I was an old man, she was a young woman, obviously suffering some kind of heartache. I could never know what it was like to be a scorned bride. But she looked like she needed someone, so I offered her my ear. "Do you want to talk about it?" I asked, shiftly on the bench uncomfortably. This poor girl. I couldn’t just sit here in silence. She didn't respond, she just kept crying. But by the way she was dressed, it was clear to me that her wedding day didn’t turn out as she had planned. "Is it your wedding?" I asked, unsure how to bring up the topic delicately. "No," she said, looking directly into my eyes. "Today is my funeral." My heart began to pound and I straightened, taken aback. Surely, she was joking, but I could not help but notice her lifeless, black eyes when she looked at me. "Your funeral?" I asked incredulously. "Yes," she said, nodding and sniffling and wiping her tears away with her gray fingers. I decided to play along, perhaps this girl was sick and needed psychiatric care. Perhaps I could gain her trust and bring her into the nearest hospital. "Then why are you in your wedding dress?" I asked. "This is what I was wearing the day I died," she said. Her crying had paused for a moment. "I had just been married that morning love of my life. The wedding could not have gone more perfectly. We danced and sang and our families were all there, having a great time. It was the greatest day of my life." She paused. "But that night, I fell asleep in my dress and I never woke up," she said. "I don't know what happened. The next thing I knew, I was watching my poor husband struggle to wake me up. He started to yell and scream and shake and cry. He called an ambulance. The whole time I was in the corner trying to calm him, but he didn't see me. 'Jake,' I said. 'Jake, it's okay, I'm right over here.' But he didn't hear me. Then, I watched as my mother and father cried over my lifeless body. They said it was an aneurysm, and there was nothing anyone could have done for me." My stomach flipped and I felt my jaw slacken. "How did you end up here?" I asked. She pointed her finger far across the park, where I saw a huddling of bodies all dressed in black. I spotted a man crying over a casket, and an older couple weeping together. The booming voice of a preacher echoed across the misty plain. "I have been following my husband around," she said. "I want him to know that I love him. I want my parents to know that I love them too. That's why I'm here. I was at the funeral before, and I was shouting at my husband, saying 'Jake, it's ok! I love you, I'm right here! Jake! Mom! Dad! I'm right here.' But they didn't turn around, they just kept crying--and I kept crying too." I nodded. It was all so strange, I could hardly believe it. But what I did believe was that this woman was sick, and she definitely needed help, so I did the best I could. "Well, you can tell just by how sad they are, that they loved you very much,” I said. “And they must have known you loved them too. I remember when my wife died, I worried that I didn't tell her I loved her enough, but I never worried about how much she loved me. That was apparent in every day we spent together. One day, you and your husband and your parents will be reunited and you'll know for sure. But for now, take comfort in knowing that they know, just based on they way they miss you." For the first time since I met this young woman, she smiled. It was a beautiful smile that anyone could fall in love with. "I guess you're right, but it's so hard to be in this...this...purgatory right now. How do you deal with it? Why aren't you with your wife right now?" Confused, I furrowed my brow. "Well, like I said, she's passed away." "Yes, but so have you." She pointed down the path and I saw my body face down on the concrete--the camera shattered on the ground beside me.

I'm new to writing and I've been writing short stories if anyone could give me tips and feedback much appreciated, here it goes. Perry: The Sports Teacher. Perry's day started just like any other day, he would wake up, go for a 2-kilometer jog, then he would come back home and cook himself up some eggs and bacon. Today was different though something felt off to Perry, was he gaining weight? Was his hair not perfectly gelled back? He brushed it off and continued with his morning routine. As he was putting on his Adidas tracksuit getting ready for work, he heard his neighbors fighting again. “All that kid fucking does is play his goddam video games in his room all fucking day!”. Perry peeked through his curtains to see their faces, but they were blurry, he rubbed his eyes and though ‘dam, at least I'm not that kid’ and brushed off the fact the neighbors faces appeared blurry and quickly left for work. As Peery sped through traffic on his *Honda Motor,* he took time to appreciate the world around him, looking at all the other people in this small unforgiving world going about their day with not a care insight. He loved his morning commute, he always made his stop at a coffee shop, to get a glimpse at a girl he has been in love with for a while now. She was beautiful tall but not too tall, long curly blonde hair that she put up in a bun. She was everything to Perry ‘alright today is the day I finally talk to her and ask her name’ he thought as he was taking off his helmet to go inside to get his morning coffee. As he entered the coffee shop, his nose was overwhelmed by the strong aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and of course he singled out the perfume, She, was wearing. It gave Perry a warm sensation, a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time, nervous, why was he feeling nervous ‘I'm not one to get nervous, why now, why, I have the perfect chance.’ he wondered, but nothing was stopping him today. He walked over and introduced himself to her “Hi ip merry.” “excuse me?” “uh nothing, never mind.” His cheeks turned red with embarrassment, turning to run back out the door he knocked over an old man making him drop his freshly brewed soy latte. He got on his bike and buckled his helmet as fast as could before taking off on his *Honda Motor.* The only thing that could make Perry forgot the atrocity that just took place as if he was to pop the biggest wheelie he has ever done. He succeeded no doubt and continued his way to work. Perry parked his *Honda Motor* in his spot, “The Sports teacher” it read in its fading black paint. He grabbed all stuff and proceeded to make his way inside to the teachers' lounge greeting students as he walked past. When he walked through the big mahogany door to the teachers' lounge he heard a familiar voice saying “Hi ip merry”. Chad was playing a video from his holophone, the video was of course Perry and his awful performance on trying to talk to a woman. “Hey Perry, you fucking beta.” “What do you want chad.” sighed Perry “Is this you, you fucking dweeb.” “Yes Chad, you know dam well it's me, ha-ha look at Perry, the idiot that doesn’t know how to talk to females.” “Alright you two that’s enough.” The principal walked in, elegantly as always. She proceeded to inform all the teachers that it was a new school year and that they are expected a lot of new kids this year. Perry was excited because he was the sports teacher, that meant all he has to do is make the kids play dodgeball, so he could sit back and watch his TV shows on his holophone. The First-period bell rang, Perry was up for his first class with the new little kids. “alright every, my name Perry Perryson and I will be your sports teacher for this year. Now I don’t care much for what you guys do as long as you don’t hurt each other and at least run around for the hour.” They all shouted “yay” in unison and violently engaged in a game of dodgeball. This was great for Perry, with no one objected like last year and making him run a ‘Proper’ class, he was able to catch up on all his favorite Tv shows like The Florpsons and Space Wars XIX. Perry was very pleased with how this day was turning out, he gets to watch his favorite TV shows all morning and he has another sports class after lunch. Nothing could ruin Perry's day again, or so he thought. It was nearing the end of Perry's workday, with having caught up on his TV shows and getting to relax all day, he enjoyed himself feeling accomplished. Even though no work was actually done he was content with life again, forgetting all about what ensued this morning. Now it was time for his favorite time of day again, his commute home, on his *Honda Motor.* Perry decided to take the longer route home today, driving along the beach and taking in all the fresh air, traces of the sweet ocean scent that reminded him of his youth playing in the sand with his friend Noel. Perry was finally home after enjoyed a scenic ride along the ocean side enjoying the view and all that came with it. Perry entered his wonderful home, upon a hill in the mountains he felt a sense of pride in his accomplishments today. He went to his gel fridge and pulled out a beer, sat down of his couch, and booted up his Square Box 10, a gaming console that much needed and upgrade bad, but that didn’t bother Perry. He logged on to his social server with his friends and they all played their favorite shooter game together “Shoot Those Aliens 5”. After gaming for what felt all night only five hours has passed, Perry thought this was enough time because he had to wake up early and watch kids pelt each other with dodgeballs again. Perry said goodnight to his friends and logged off, he walked to his bed like a zombie reaching for brains. As he lay in his bed, he put his hands to his temples and pulled, a VR headset peeled off his crusty face. He blinked twice and for the first time in a while he looked around his real room, moldy and a gross stench seeped from the carpet, ‘gross’ he thought as he struggled to get up from his stiff mattress and walk to the kitchen. “AH look who it finally fucking is, you done playing your dumb VR games all day?” “uhhh” ‘Perry’ rubbed his eyes and looked at his stepdad. “When are you going to do something real Jack?” A name ‘Perry’ hasn't heard in a real-time, Jack was his real name and he was a 17-year-old, living in a trailer park high rise. Jack grabbed a can of mountain juice and returned to his room. He lay back in his bed, shedding a tear of sadness as he wished he could be Perry in the real world, he looked at his window and opened it. “time to log off for real.” As he sat in the window sill tears coming from his eyes, he looked at his VR headset one last time before pushing himself out into the open air and falling 10 stories to his demise...

Fuzzy Image By: Joseph A. Monachino George’s grandfather’s house has comfortable surroundings. George has just moved in after his grandfather, Bill, passed away one month earlier. He feels that when he gets married and has kids, this is the perfect place to live and raise kids. He goes to the bedroom to lie back on the bed to read a book. What is this he sees in the corner of the bedroom? It is a roll of undeveloped film. He wonders what could be on the 12 pictures of the roll of film. So, he brings it to the camera shop to have it developed. -- After he develops the pictures, he observes one closely. The image is fuzzy. Therefore, he has it enlarged. He sees, more clearly, that there is an object on the floor of the room. He knows it’s the recreation room because there is a hockey stick placed on the wall beside the object. Upon closer observation, he discovers that it is the finger of a hand. George rushes down to the corner of the rec room to where the finger is laying. He gasps! He can’t just leave it lying there. So, he grabs a pair of tweezers and a sandwich bag. He carefully puts the finger in the sandwich bag without touching it. He walks over to the rec room closet. He grabs the shoe box, off the top shelf of the closet, which already has a couple of items, and places the bag inside it. The shoebox is put in the corner of the shelf of the closet out of view where nobody can see it. -- The next day, he is sitting back in his reclining chair reading the newspaper. The front-page news story points out that a recent murder victim was found; and that his index finger was missing from his hand. George panics because the finger he found in his rec room might be that of the murder victim. George realizes something. If he leaves the finger in the shoe box in the closet of the rec room, investigators might search his house and find it there. Then, he would get arrested and sent to jail for murder. He engages in quick thinking. It is early in the day. Therefore, he has time to get the finger out of his house. So, he rushes to his closet, grabs the shoebox, and takes the plastic bag out of it. He meticulously puts it in the carrying case pouch. He then gets out of his house and gets into his car to drive to the forest located down the road from his house. When he arrives there, he finds a discreet area that he can dig up a little hole. He takes the finger out of the sandwich bag with tweezers, and places it in the hole and covers it up with sand. Afterwards, he gets into his car and drives home. -- The police authorities begin their search for an index finger belonging to the murder victim’s hand. They target the forest down the road from George’s house. It is one hour into the search when they find the missing finger. The police authorities meticulously place the finger into a sanitized container. They bring it to the police lab for DNA analysis. When the lab technicians run tests to analyze the DNA from the finger, they compare it to the DNA of the murder victim. Low and behold, they discover it matches the DNA of the murder victim. The police authority investigators analyze all the evidence they gathered up to this point in their investigation. They conclude that the murder victim was not killed in the forest. The evidence indicates that it was a home on the same street as the forest. Further analysis reveals that the home of the crime scene is George’s. George has the T.V. tuned on the news channel, All That Matters. The first news story is about the murder victim who is missing a finger. George panics. He worries that the murder will be traced back to his grandfather’s house, where he now lives. And that is exactly what happens. The murder took place 1 month prior to when George moved into his grandfather’s house. George is shocked to know his grandfather may have murdered the victim of the finger he found. The newscaster further says that police authorities are on their way to the home where murder took place to arrest the homeowner who most likely committed the murder. George has sweat running down his neck and face. Since his grandfather is no longer alive, he assumes he will be arrested because he is the prime murder suspect. Now, George must think quickly. He is in a race with time. He figures he has to fly out of the country, so he won’t be arrested. He packs his most valuable possessions. He jumps into his car and drives swiftly to the airport. Earlier, his google search indicated that Aruba is a destination country where he can’t be extradited. When the police authorities arrive to his home to arrest him, he is nowhere to be found. They suspect that he is gone to the airport because they see that his passport storage tray, on his desk, does not have his passport. They get into their cars and head to the airport. At the airport, George has gone through the custom check point and boarded the plane to Aruba. It is now in flight and headed there. George is delighted. He can live on the beautiful island of Aruba for the rest of his life. That is because he can’t be arrested and extradited to Canada because there is no extradition treaty between the 2 countries. George must be sure of something. He opened his laptop. He went to the list that he made prior to leaving his house. He made sure he took with him the most essential items he needed to successfully live in Aruba. He looked at all the items. He realized he took all that was essential. So, he had no worries. Mission accomplished! Now, all he has to hope for was that the plane lands at the Aruba airport without incident. He is safe and secure in knowing that authorities won't be able to arrest him because Aruba has no extradition treaty with Canada. He can sleep peadcefully tonight.

The first day she saw him, he wore a brown cap and navy-blue tie. An oxygen tank sat beside his feet, and his hands trembled ever so slightly. On the second day, his tie was striped, and he ordered their new pumpkin-spice coffee with cream. On the third day, a dandelion was pinned to his shirt. She smiled, nodding as she poured his coffee. “That’s a very nice flower,” She said, and he met her gaze with a smile. He tapped a shaky finger against the dandelions stem. “It’s my wife's birthday.” He said. She grinned. “You must love her a lot.” She said, and he nodded. “Oh yes,” He told her, and reached for the steaming mug. “Very much.” On the sixth day, he was wearing a Veterans pin, and she asked him if he lived in one of the Senior Residencies. He laughed some, then raised his napkin against his lips as he coughed. “Never,” He told her, and when he drew the napkin back to his lap, he was smiling. “I live with my nephew.” She nodded, using her thumb to wipe a drop of coffee off the lip of his mug. “He must be very handsome, to be related to someone such as yourself.” She hummed, and the man laughed again. He shook his head lightly. “Oh no,” He waved his hand noncommittally and leaned forward, cupping the mug in his hands. “The only family I have is from my wife’s side.” She asked about his wife on the seventh day. He smiled solemnly. “My dear,” He said, “My wife has been dead for almost twenty years.” She had begun to apologize when he waved a hand. “Don’t be sorry.” He advised “I’ve already cherished every moment and more.” Day twelve was slow. The cafe was empty except for the old man with the oxygen tank. The girl busied herself for a few moments behind the counter before pouring herself a cup of hot mulled cider. The man was looking out at the window, he looked up when she cleared her throat. “Can I sit with you?” She asked, and he nodded, eyes brightening as he straightened. “Please,” He gestured to the chair adjacent and she smiled. She placed her mug on the table and pulled up the chair, crossing her ankles as she sat. She untied her apron and laid it across her lap. The man smiled when she did. He pointed a shaking finger to her torso. “I hadn’t noticed you were pregnant,” He said. She beamed, glowing as pregnant women do, and crossed a hand over her blossoming stomach. “It’s still early,” She said, almost humming as she glanced to her middle. She met the man's eyes again as he sipped his drink. “I’m only a few months along.” The man raised his mug, even if only a few centimeters. “Congratulations.” He nodded to her, and she returned the gesture, clinking her mug with his. She smiled. “Thank you.” He hummed as he set his mug back on the table. “Y’know,” He said, grazing his tongue over chapped lips. “My Mother was the first great love of my life.” Her eyebrow quirked, and she smiled over the lip of her mug. “Only the first?” She mused, and the man's eyes twinkled in response. “Oh yes,” He said, and leaned forward for a second sip. He cleared his throat afterward and straightened his back along his chair. “She was born 1916 in Czechoslovakia, only two years before it was founded, during the peak of the first world war. Reina Alexsandra Vartoughi, born premature to my grandparents, Friedrick and Petra. However, as peace settled, the Russian Civil War was just beginning, and my Grandfather passed shortly afterwards. My Mother was barely five years, and my Grandmother just shy of twenty-eight, when a group of Czechs made the move west. Seven widows, with thirteen children between them. "They ended up getting picked up by a French circus as they passed through Vienna. My Mother once told me that she had been terrified; sudden screaming, the sounds of animals and people alike, and my Grandmother, sobbing and pleading for refuge. They were caged and starved for three days; the elder women giving themselves up for pleasure. The circus owner was a vain man, with hats made of feathers and coats made of fur. His wife was even more so--a formerly Austrian woman nicknamed ‘Marie’ for her resembling aesthetic to that of the former Queen of France. She was passing through the circus train one day when she heard my Grandmother sing--like a nightingale draped in silks and other fine textiles--and struck her a deal. If my Grandmother made decent pay in the circus, she and my Mother would be released once they passed through England.” “What did she do?” The barista asked, an elbow propped between her chin and the table. The old man's eyes shone. “She sang. Day and night. She learned to dance and taught my Mother, and once two months had passed, they arrived in Glasgow under new identities. My Mother's beautiful Czech name, shortened to Alexandra Vaughn. Other women were not so fortunate, and some much more. My Mother once recollected a bearded lady who had whip-marks across her back and shoulders, and later dedicated her teen years to advocating the abolishment of slavery. "She was eighteen, one evening, and attended a protest that later turned into a riot. A bystander threw himself in front of my Mother to shield her from an oncoming blow, and landed himself in the hospital for three nights. My Grandmother called him a foolish boy, but even she couldn’t hide her discontempt for my Father. My Mother had brought him a poundcake whilst he was in the hospital, and invited him for dinner once he was released. "They married soon afterward, once my Mother had gotten pregnant for the first time. My Father moved in with my Mother and Grandmother, and they converted the sewing room into a nursery furnished with lilac wallpaper and silk curtains. They lost the baby over the winter, a boy, as well as a daughter two years later. They accepted that it wasn’t time yet for them to start a family, and my Father enlisted in the army. He was deployed for four months before my Mother realized she was pregnant.” The barista smiled. “With you?” She asked softly. The man nodded. “With me.” He smiled, then sighed. “She sent him a letter, but they never heard back.” The barista shook her head. “That’s horrible.” She said, and he shrugged. “Perhaps,” He agreed, and held out his mug with a smile. “May I have a refill?” He continued to come in every day afterward, and they told each other stories when the cafe was idle. On the seventeenth day, he stayed later than he ever had before. The barista removed her apron and dimmed the back lights as the sun began to set. The man was looking out the window when she joined him at his table. “Are you waiting for someone?” She asked, adding a packet of sugar to her tea. He nodded and drew his gaze back to hers. “My nephew,” He said, and she hummed. “On your wife's side,” She remembered, and smiled when the man nodded. “Will you tell me about her?” She asked. His eyes shone with boyish glee and he grinned, nodding. “My Maybelle,” He crooned. The barista sipped her tea. “I was nearly twenty-one when I attended the University of London. I spent my first three years out of high school travelling the United Kingdom, when I found myself growing more and more peculiar about social work, similar to my Mother. I received word of my acceptance six months after I applied, and my Mother helped move me into a dorm the week following. "Two weeks into my philosophy course, a fellow student and I struck a debate about equal wage. Things became so heated that she struck me right across the cheek and called me a privileged moron.” The barista tried and failed to suppress a giggle at the lovestruck expression dawning on his face. “Now, before then, I had never thought of myself as privileged, coming from a single-salary household with no father, but to a brown woman in her first year in university, I could imagine the misunderstanding. "I spent the next three days educating myself more on the topic, and found myself to be in the wrong. When I called my Mother to tell her of my predicament, she called me an idiot. So before class the following afternoon, I pulled her aside, presenting her a daisy and an apology. She had flushed, stroking the petals of the flower and stammering an apology for hitting me. I remember laughing, and telling her I deserved it. We ended up sitting together, passing notes back and forth like school-children, and do you know what she said to me at the end of the day?” “What?” The barista asked. He smiled. “That for future reference, dandelions were her favourite.” He took a sip before continuing. "She was majoring in nursing, and often confided in me how she wished to be a neuroscientist. She was seventeen and a half when she’d applied, listing a recommendation letter from renowned practitioner Gail Heron. She came from a family of five; her mother, father, two brothers, and herself. They lived on the outside of London, in what she used to describe as the Dreary-Fog-Hour, where it was often miserable. Her father was crippled from war, leaving her two older brothers to provide for them, in one of the most discriminatory eras to grace Europe. "At fifteen, she got her first job filing papers in a medical office, where she met Dr. Heron, who took an immediate liking to her. The older woman soon became something of a mentor to my wife, and I was introduced to Dr. Heron on our fourth date. Three days afterward, Maybelle broke up with me.” He smiled lightly at the baristas awestruck expression and shook his head. “I was distraught, to put it lightly. After only four dates, I knew I wanted nothing more than to marry her.” “But why did she break up with you?” The barista asked. The man gave her a sad smile. “She was raped. She was leaving one of her night classes when two boys from her class wrestled her into an empty classroom. She discovered she was pregnant the night I met Dr. Heron. I ended up reaching out to her after I’d had a few days to process the breakup, and she began sobbing over the phone. She told me she was dirty, and that she didn’t think I’d want anything to do with her once she had an abortion. That was the first time I told her I loved her. I accompanied her to her abortion the following week, perfromed by Dr. Heron. She later told me that was the moment she realized she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me. "And she did. I proposed to her one year after she graduated, and we married the following year. She was the second great love of my life, and I’m thankful for every minute I was by her side.” A pair of headlights flashed through the window, and he turned his head. A faded pickup was pulling into the parking lot, and the man hummed. “Well,” He said, pushing his empty mug into the middle of the table. “Thank you for the coffee.” She had a doctors appointment on the nineteenth day. When she got to work on the twentieth, his eyes lit up. “You weren’t here yesterday,” He said, already pushing his mug to her. She grinned as she poured his coffee. “I had a doctor's appointment.” She said, and the man's eyes faltered. “Are you okay?” He asked, and she smiled gently. “Yes,” She nodded, and rubbed a hand over her stomach. “I’m having a boy.” His face stretched into a wide smile. He pulled his mug back towards himself with trembling fingers. “I remember the excitement,” He mused, and traced his thumb along the lip of his mug. “My favourite part was decorating the nursery.” The barista met his gaze in bafflement. “I thought you said all your family was on your wife's side?” She asked, eyes sparkling with curiosity. The man hummed and waved her to the chair across from him. “Not always,” He said, smiling. “The third and final great love of my life was my daughter. Maybelle and I discovered we were pregnant the year she turned thirty. We both knew there were additional risks to having a baby while ‘older’.” The waitress grinned. “But we were absolutely ecstatic. We spent the next nine months preparing for the baby; decorating the nursery, going shopping, reading parenting articles, and telling Maybelles family. Everyone was thrilled, even Maybelles mother, with whom their relationship had become strained. Things only started going wrong at the beginning of her third trimester. "Maybelles blood pressure kept rising, and she was confined to bed rest. It was a very stressful pregnancy, but she was worth it. Farrah Alexis Vaughn. Born seven pounds and two ounces, two weeks early, and deaf. The diagnosis took the first three months of her life, and Maybelle had been absolutely devastated for Farrah. We adored her more than anything, and we all cried the first time she got her hearing aids fitted. She was five when we found the perfect pair, and she had already been proficient in sign language. She loved music, and often laid down in front of the stereo to feel the bass. "She had beautiful caramel skin, and curls that rivaled my own. I called her my Amber, the same gem as her birthstone, and the jewel that would be embedded into a ring I was planning to give her on her eleventh birthday. She was homeschooled up until Grade Six, by myself, whilst Maybelle finally began the neuroscience fellowship at the hospital. She was so bright, and incredibly skilled in mathematics, much like Maybelle. She thrived on puzzles; crosswords and sudoku, solitaire and cribbage. "She started figure skating the same year she entered middle school, and Maybelle and I were cautious to say the least. We attended every practice, every competition, and every performance. She was like an angel on the ice. She’d never stop, not even when the old pond froze over.” His smile turned sad, and the waitress shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She said, and he waved his hand in a dismissive manner. “I’m not.” He rebutted. “She was a happy girl, even with her disability, and if nothing else I’m thankful she found something she was passionate about.” The waitress hugged her stomach. The man made a humming noise. “Do you have carrot cakes?” Day twenty-three was the last day she saw him, and a caramel toned man entered the cafe a few days later. The old man had passed away in his sleep, and they were holding a funeral at the end of the week. She was invited, and so she went. A kleenex in her purse and her hands cupping the rising bump of her stomach, she watched alone amongst others as a mahogany casket lowered into the earth, and remembered the last thing he’d said to her. ‘Did you ever remarry?’ She’d asked one day, and he shook his head. ‘Most people are lucky enough to have even one love of their life,’ He said. ‘I was lucky enough to have three, and I don’t intend to keep them waiting much longer.’ She arrived home that evening to an empty home, and an even emptier refrigerator. She laid her purse on the floor, curled up on her couch, and began to sing her baby a lullaby.

It was dusk with a slight wind blowing enough for the tree tops to sway and with bits of garbage floating around. Sue decided it was time to go in. She had to make lunches for her kids, her husband and herself. The kids were already in bed and her husband was in the study putting finishing touches on a presentation he had to present to a new client tomorrow. Just as Sue stood up from her chair, she saw a person, or something that looked like a person. It walked like it was a person, but was it a person? It was hard to distinguish what she saw since it was farther down the street and it was now totally dark. Sue couldn’t be sure if she saw anything at all. As she walked into the house her husband noticed the look on her face. “Why so thoughtful?” he asked. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I thought I saw a person down the street, down by that vacant lot. But with the wind blowing and it being dark, when I looked again, it was gone. Now I’m not sure I saw anything at all,” she explains. “Do you want me to go have a look?” Her husband asks. “No need,” answers Sue. “It probably was something blowing in the wind.” “Well, if you’re sure,’ replies her husband. “I’ll just head up to bed. Goodnight.” As Sue continues making the lunches she can’t stop thinking that maybe she did see a person. She shakes her head as she shuts the lights off and goes up to bed. If she had looked outside she would have seen that same figure walking past the house and it looked like he was carrying something. The next morning as Sue was leaving for work, her neighbor, Miss Jones, asked her if she say anyone last night. “To tell you the truth” admits Sue, “I thought I saw someone but it was too far away to be sure. It probably was the trees swaying in the wind and also it was almost completely dark.” Sue’s co-worker invited her to go for lunch with her to the corner café. They go there regularly as a treat from bag lunches. Even though Sue had her lunch she agreed. Once they were seated and had given their order, they could hear talk from other tables. It seemed like the common topic was a stranger. Sue asked Betty, her waitress when she delivered their order what was this talk about a stranger. Then Betty told her that Police Constable Paul Marks found a man wandering around the central park early this morning. Since it was late the constable just brought him into the station and let him sleep in one of the cells. The constable wanted to wait until morning until his superior came to work. No one knows anything more, but you know how things get around, states Betty. I have heard that he is an escaped convict, a travelling salesman, since he was carrying a suitcase, or get this; someone suggested that he was a travelling preacher. So, we will just have to wait. The constable usually comes in here before his shift; maybe I can ask him. But I did hear that Captain Winters was in a conference with the Mayor, so it must be important to get the Mayor involved, don’t you think? “Like you said,” replied Sue, “we will just have to wait and see. We have to get back to work. Thanks.” When Constable Marks came in for his usual, Betty made sure she was the one to serve him. “How are things Betty? “Asks Constable Marks. “Not too bad, but there is a lot of talk about the stranger you found. Who is he and what is he doing in town?” Betty asks. “I really can’t say,” replies the constable. “I have to wait until I speak with the captain about what he and the Mayor talked about.” “I heard the Myer twins talking about offering to let him stay in their garden suite. They think it is the Christian thing to do. What do you think, Constable?” Betty said. “Like I said,” replies the constable. ”I have to wait until I talk to the captain. Have a good day.” As Constable Marks walks into the police station, the receptionist tells him that the captain wants to see him as soon as he gets in. Constable Marks knocks on Captain Winter’s door and enters when bid. “As you know Constable, I have been with the Mayor about the stranger you found.” “Yes I know,’ states Constable Marks. “What decision was made?” “What I am about to tell you is in strictest confidence. Do you understand Constable?” The Captain announces. “Yes, sir, strictest confidence you say,” replies the Constable. “Please close the door and have a seat,” states the Captain. “This stranger, whom I will call Mr. Lord, is not like he looks. He is an educated person who has money and is here on a mission. He is here to perform a sort of experiment. “What sort of experiment?” asks Constable Marks. “He wants to find out how people treat certain people, like how would they treat a rich person or a down and out poor person. He’s writing an article for a psychology journal.” “Where is he now?” asks Constable Marks. “I had an officer walk him to the café,” answers the Captain. There was a knock at the door. “This fax just came in about the stranger, sir,” announces the officer. “Thank you, close the door please. It looks like everything he told me pans out. “Where will he be staying?” Constable Marks asks. “The Mayor suggested that he stay with me for a few days since my wife is away. Mr. Lord (that is his real name) and I will discuss how long he hopes to visit our small town and take it from there.” states Captain Winters. A phone call announces the return of Mr. Lord. Captain Winters introduces Constable Marks then closes the door for a further talk with Mr. Lord. “How was your breakfast, Mr. Lord?” asks the Captain. “I must tell you, the few people I talked to were very friendly, especially the Myer twins, such lovely ladies. They asked where I was staying and before I had a chance to answer, they thought I would like to stay in their guest house. I didn’t know what to say at first, so I told them I would think about it and meet them tomorrow morning to give them my answer. Can you tell me about them?” asks Mr. Lord. “Yes, the Myer twins are Godly ladies. They believe their calling from God is to do good works, which they do a lot. Neither of them has been married, they thought it would take them away from doing their good works. If you do decide to stay at their guest house, I think it would be a good idea,” answers the Captain. “Great,” replies Mr. Lord. “I will wander around your lovely town and meet you back here about 5 p.m...” “That sounds great,” Captain Winters answers. During dinner at Captain Winter’s home Mr. Lord regaled him of his visit in their town. “I have had more offers to stay at people’s homes than in any other town,” states Mr. Lord. “I must say, your townspeople are of a special breed. I believe my article will get great reviews. I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.” “How much longer do you think you will be here?” Mr. Winters asks. “After I meet with the twins tomorrow and accept their offer of hospitality, I will play it by ear. Maybe they can give me a history of other residents. I will tell them I am looking for a place to retire. Remember I don’t want anyone else to know my true reason for visiting.” “You don’t have to worry about us, my wife and I will keep your secret, but I did tell my constable, you did say that would be alright,” replies Captain Winters. “Thank you,” states Mr. Lord, “but, if you don’t mind it has been a tiring day. The twins want me to meet them at the café rather early so I will see you in the morning. Goodnight.” Next morning after a quick coffee (tea for the ladies) and a crumpet, the twins take Mr. Lord on a short tour of the town on their way to their home. While walking they gave him a precise history of their town and how it got to where it was today and also who helped get it there. Mr. Lord was quite overwhelmed with information by the time they got to the guest house. The twins left him on his own and would be expecting him to come to the big house for dinner promptly at 5 p.m... After dinner they sat out on the porch and the twins continued to give him more history. They were interrupted by Constable walking past and Mr. Lord excused himself to walk and talk with him. He wished the twins a pleasant evening and he would see them in the morning, at the café. “Thank you constable, the twins are very sweet ladies, but a person can take in just so much information,” states Mr. Lord. “My pleasure, Mr. Lord,” replies Constable Marks. “That was why I happened to walk by. So, how do you like our little town so far?” It is almost too good to be true,” answers Mr. Lord. “After my conversation with the Mayor and wandering around on my own and now with what the twins have told me, I wish I would have decided to come here sooner.” “Thank you for the walk,” says Mr. Lord. “I’m ready for bed. Goodnight.” The next morning at the café the president of the bank approaches the table where the twins and Mr. Lord are eating. “Good morning Miss Myers’, forgive my intrusion, but I heard that we had a distinguished guest in town and I wondered if you would introduce me,” states the bank president. “Of course,” states the elder Miss Myer. Mr. Lord this is our bank president, Mr. Jones; Mr. Jones, this is our distinguished guest, Mr. Lord.” The men shake hands and state that each is pleased to meet the other. After a short silence, Mr. Lord excuses himself saying he has an appointment with the Mayor. “Good day to you ladies, as he turns to the twins and to you, Mr. Jones, as he shakes his hands again.” As Mr. Lord walks towards the Mayor’s office, he decides that he has seen enough of this wonderful town that he has come to a conclusion. “Good morning Mr. Lord,” adds the Mayor. “How is your visit going?” “It has gone better than I thought,” announces Mr. Lord. “So well, in fact, that I have decided to leave on the afternoon bus; but before I do I have to explain something to you. Firstly, I apologize I have not been entirely honest with you about my visit. It is true, I am writing an article for the psychology journal, but that is minor. The truth is I am dying and only have a month or two to live. I have no family whatsoever, so I decided to visit several small towns to experience the people; their friendliness, their pride in their town, their rapport with one another. Your small town got very high marks. I wish to give you this cheque for any town improvements needed. And when I finish my article I will give instruction to my attorney to send another cheque when my estate has been settled. Like I said, I don’t have family and your town made me feel like a part of their family. I am happy and look forward to meeting my maker.” “On behalf of our town, I thank you tremendously for the donation,” states the Mayor. “It will be put to good use. I am sorry we had to meet under such circumstances. Can I take you to the bus station?” “No thank you, I wish to walk,” answered Mr. Lord.

The man on the horse was an odd one - I could tell that even as he angled his quarter horse into my beams like it was his turn in the center ring. An Easterner, which maybe 10 years earlier might’ve seemed even odder. Little dressier than the average rancher; handled his animal like he knew how but had learned it someplace else. “Saw you from the rise,” the man said. Easterner, all right - kind of horse-faced fella with a government haircut and a big nose that reminded me of the Jew families that’d passed through the dust and winds and Pop’s tourist camp on their way to California. Not that I gave a damn - Pop hadn’t given a shit about God after He’d took Ma in ’32, and so he likewise didn’t give two shits about anybody’s private dealings with The Lord with or without Jesus. No, it was the man’s eyes. Big, calm. Curious. “Do you need some assistance?” My old Nash 400 was running like a top on four threadbare but plump tires, and the trunk was flung open with the jack still clamped into place. And then there was the Indian blanket I’d got in trade for some janitor work at the “last gas” before the next “last gas” on the way to my pot of gold that had turned into a cesspool about two hours ago. Oh, and the shovel lying next to the blanket rolled tight like a Tulsa oilman’s stogie on the dirt under the lip of the trunk. Even without Jesus putting his two cents in, it wasn’t the way I’d been raised. But like I said - it was the eyes, unblinking even in my headlamps. And that slow smile he gave me as I pulled Pop’s old Colt out of my belt and made him a third eye. Like I’d done him the biggest favor in the world. ** I’d settled in Espanola a couple years after the Depression ended. Though or maybe cause I’d helped the town undertaker put a number of such folks under the shifting Oklahoma topsoil for a few pennies a body, I’d sought out someplace a little more off the path of men desperate or stupidly hopeful enough to drag their wives and young ones through the Valley of Death to a pot of gold that didn’t exist. But everything shrinks as we grow, my pop once said, and it wasn’t too long until they started to trickle south off the California trail into the desert. College types -- engineers, they said. Easterners. Jews, I heard, and more than a few foreigners who weren’t fooling anybody with names like Henry Farmer and Nicholas Baker. Now, I’d never been out of Oklahoma before Pop’s lungs finally gave out and I dug one last grave this time for free, and I’d sure as shootin’ never met any Germans. As at the time we had an ax to grind with Mr. Hitler, I was a sight more than nervous about the funny voices with the funny names sidling up beside me at the local watering hole on a Saturday night. Didn’t help that the government’d bought out the ranch school and put me out of the first steady work I’d had since sorting the dead from Pop’s barely paying guests. The school and its high-flown Eastern teachers and rich folks’ kids playing cowboy seemed a bit silly to me, but groundskeeper’s pay was decent, and the Pondses treated me right. Felt no desire to stick around afterwards, even with the new jobs the government and their “engineers” were bringing to the area. What the Easterners and foreigners specifically were doing may have been the best-kept secret in the Southwest, but the tighter you keep the lid on the pot, the bigger the mess when things boil over. All anybody could guess was it had to something to do with that aforementioned scrap with Der Fuhrer, but folks got rattled with the Army and the federal suits “cleverly” watching every move the locals made. Bad enough they were keeping Nazi prisoners and Japanese folks from California on ice down south at Fort Stanton. Seemed passing strange we weren’t rounding up Germans and Italians who could blend right in at any military base or shipyard, but my two cents wasn’t going to buy me anything but trouble, especially these days. The Denver and Rio Grande Western had ripped out the “Chili Line” and pulled the tracks from Espanola in ’42, but the town was hanging on between the nearby farms and the new government jobs 10 miles to the west. I was a handy sort with nowhere really to go, so I hung on, too, in what passed for the middle of nowhere. ** If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. I think that’s in the Old Testament, or maybe some tourist dropped that pearl on me on their way to the New Promised Land. As I now headed the opposite direction, back through Espanola and north past Taos into the mountains near the Colorado border, I could feel God’s jeering presence. Poor time to get religion, with two bodies stuffed in the trunk and a ticket to Hell waiting at the station for me. When I think about it - and believe you me I have - maybe that’s precisely the time. I put them deep in the Carson Forest. It was a skill I thought I’d put behind me, but even the dead can surprise you. I was in my bed a few hours before dawn, contemplating and shivering on the bare mattress. It was sheep country - I could get a new blanket in the morning, though at this moment, I wasn’t sure of the need. Barring rattlers, the horse was the only one got off free that night. ** Hitler willingly gave up his ghost in the spring of ’45, and his pal Mussolini got a date with a firing squad and a public showing strung up like the day’s catch outside a Milan filling station. It took close to three more years to rein in Hirohito. After destroying the Japanese Navy and taking a string of Pacific islands, hemming the Empire in nice and neat, we rained fire down on Tokyo, Osaka, Hiroshima, and Fukuyama. I say “we” although I spent most of my stint with the 124th Transportation Battalion in Luzon, up to my elbows in axle grease and sweat. I’d signed up two months after that night in the forest, reasoning only more blood would wash away what was on my hands and my soul. I was pretty much nobody in the middle of nowhere, and when no GIs or Eastern-looking fellows in suits and badges showed up on what passed for my doorsteps, I figured Uncle Sam had chalked things up to Nazi spies or an unlucky turn on a dark plateau trail or maybe Junior, as I’d come to call him, just bugging out. It was those goddamned eyes. He seemed like a man looking for a back door out of Purgatory. Wonder if the sergeant at the Santa Fe recruiting office spotted anything like that in my bloodshot brown eyes. See, thing with being nobody, having nobody in the middle of nowhere is the company you’re forced to keep. Nobody was ever likely to find the bodies, and nobody was likely ever going to spill a tear over the man who’d soiled my good blanket. But every time I listened to the bodies piling up on the radio, I wondered how many others I’d buried. Just what was it that midnight horseman had been up to at the old ranch school, with his army of eggheads with phony names and their army keeping the whole town under wraps? And why did most of the lot just pull up stakes a few weeks after? “Had t’be some kind of secret weapon, blow the krauts and the Japs off the map, my guess.” For one bleary moment, I thought my brain had contracted TB and an Irish brogue, but it was one of the Denver and Rio Grande Western’s gandy dancers who’d lost a knee and his toes and the works in between to a 3 p.m. coal car maybe 15 years ago. It hadn’t broke him of the whisky. He read too many of those cheap detective magazines with the gumshoes and masked crusaders and flying saucers and half-naked women about to be sawed up or worse, and I’d had my wits about me, I’d have heard him creaking down the planks and cleared my stool. “And what makes you think that?” I asked, ‘cause it was the noise I needed. “My sister’s boy, he does some plumbin’ and odd jobs for them mad scientists down the road,” the old man wheezed. “Seems like everybody’s in an uproar over the boss fella gone missin’ a few weeks back. Seem to think there’s spies all about - nazzis or commies or some-such. Young Danny happened down the wrong hall, and the soldier boys there grilled him near t’medium well.” “Boss?” My voice went up a couple notches, but he was too stewed to notice. “Some Jew scientist from California sposed to be grand muckamuck of the whole operation. Jingleheimer, Wisenheimer, sumpin’ like that. Summa the talk is, this Jew might be the spy.” He leaned in on the half-leg and grabbed my sleeve as a thick cloud of coffin varnish sent me reeling back. “Now, you think about it, boyo. Why you think every man-jack’s knickers are in such a knot, less somethin’ big was in the works? Y’ever hear of atoms? Y’know, the stuff what we’re all of us made of? Well, I hear tell Hitler and his boys have found a way to split them atoms, to just rip all a’ creation apart. Unless we get there first and blow the fella to Hell first. Little wonder them nazzis would wanna rub out Dr. Jingleheimer.” He then toppled from his stool. I caught him halfway to the floor, jostled him back into place, and made for the door. Crisp desert night outside, the moon too close and stars scattered across the black nothing like atoms torn asunder. I jumped in the Nash, somehow made it alive back to my shack, and packed for my penance. ** “Recently leaked revelations allege the U.S. Defense and State Departments largely falsified published reports that Nazi Germany and Russia were on the verge of harnessing atomic fission as a potential weapon against America and its European allies, purportedly to spur allied physicists to escalate development of such an ‘atomic bomb’ to bring about a speedier surrender by Hitler’s forces. “That effort, referred to as the ‘Manhattan Project,’ was conducted under a nearly impenetrable cloak of military security on the site of a former boy’s academy near Los Alamos under the auspices of preeminent theoretical physician J. Robert Oppenheimer. Without revealing the nature of his work, Oppenheimer’s mysterious disappearance late one night in 1944 sparked a massive manhunt and rumors the eccentric scientist had collaborated either with the Germans or the Russians, given his wife and brother’s ties to the American Communist Party. The case remains open to this day, and the Manhattan Project ended shortly after Adolf Hitler’s suicide and the effective fall of his Nazi regime. Amid the loss of one of its most brilliant minds and fears of further security breaches, the remaining physicists of Los Alamos declared the project a failure. “Or so we thought. I talked this week with Isidor Isaac Rabi and David L. Hill, former Manhattan Project researcher. In a 60 Minutes exclusive, Rabi and Hill reveal for the first time that they and other project scientists concerned about the long-range implications of atomic warfare conspired to conceal their findings from the military.” RABI: “Dr. Oppenheimer himself voiced doubts about the sanity of releasing such a force into the world. But he was under intense pressure to beat Hitler, beat Stalin to the punch. None of us knew we alone held the keys to a Pandora’s Box, but without Robert’s ‘zeal,’ we reached a hard but crucial decision. There are questions which illuminate, and there are those that destroy. I was always taught to ask the first kind. The only answer to the question of the day was destruction. If not merely the instantaneous vaporization of entire cities and the then-unquantified aftereffects of ambient radiation, then the geopolitical stranglehold an atomic arms race between the U.S., Russia, perhaps even the former People’s Republic of China would impose upon the human race. And imagine if such a weapon were deployed. There would be no defense, no deterrence - only annihilation.” “Rabi was awarded the 1944 Nobel Prize for his discovery of nuclear magnetic resonance - a major breakthrough in medical imaging and diagnosis, and his work in microwave technology revolutionized military and commercial radar systems and led to the introduction of the home microwave oven in the mid-‘1950s. Meanwhile, following the dissolution of the Manhattan Project, project team member David Hill headed up the Federation of American Scientists, later to become the Global Federation of Responsible Scientists with the overthrow of Joseph Stalin and subsequent collapse of communism across Russia, Eastern Europe, and Northern China. Under Hill’s leadership, the Federation worked with the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission and other international agencies to design virtually failsafe atomic reactors which have all but replaced coal-fired power facilities and have been credited with greatly reducing air pollution around the planet. We reached Dr. Hill at his Santa Fe home. Hill continues to defend Oppenheimer’s patriotism and loyalty as he has since President Truman branded the missing physicist a traitor in league with communist factions.” HILL: “The consensus was that the specter of atomic warfare and destruction would come to eclipse any prospect of science in the public interest. We’ve harnessed the power of the atom to save lives and provide clean, safe energy. I posit we’d never have put men and women on Mars nor developed a seamless worldwide web of satellite communications and technology had we created a world occupied solely with averting global apocalypse.” WALLACE: “Not everyone concurs with your assessment. Ret. Major General Boris Pash, who headed up the investigation into Oppenheimer’s disappearance in 1944, argues you and your colleagues withheld vital scientific information that might have ended the war four to five years earlier, saving, in his words, ‘countless American and civilian Japanese lives.’ And to this day, Pash believes Oppenheimer was complicit either in your deception or acts of espionage. He’s pushing the Justice Department to bring formal charges against what he called ‘the Manhattan Conspirators.’ Your response?” HILL: Mr. Wallace, I’d invite you to imagine a football stadium filled to the rafters with all those American, British, Australian, Russian, Japanese casualties. Then imagine dropping a bomb that would wipe out an area five, 10, 100 miles around that stadium. Then look ahead at the radioactive wastes that would linger in the air above that area for months, possibly years, that might carry across hundred, possibly thousands of miles. Multiply that by as many bombs as it might take to prove we mean business. As for Dr. Oppenheimer, you have to understand the exhaustion and stress we were all under. Robert’s way of dealing with that pressure, his doubts about the work and its consequences, was to ride the mountain trails around Los Alamos, through the Sangre de Cristo and the Jemez Mountain Ranges. He loved New Mexico, and he loved his horses. We were on the verge of a key breakthrough at that point, and he vanished shortly after supper. Most of us knew where he’d probably gone, and when they found his horse wandering around the plateau about three miles off, we figured he’d met up with some kind of misadventure. Dr. Oppenheimer would never have let that animal to languish in the wilds. That was something General Groves and his men would never understand.” ** It was a small item on the Sunday news feed, but the Taos byline had caught my eye. A massive flash flood had uncovered and a trio of hikers had discovered what looked to be the skeletal remains of two adult males, one wrapped in the shreds of a decomposed wool blanket. A couple ribs shattered by one bullet, another bullet found rattling around in his companion’s punctured skull. They’ll surprise you, all right. And with ‘em, the rest come surging back. The soldiers, the flyers, the privates and colonels and generals, the moms and dads and sons and daughters caught in the spitfire, the moms and dads and sons and daughters snared in limbo merely for being the face of the enemy or a fair enough approximation. The odd horseman with the tortured eyes who’d suffered such indignity and injustice for taking a midnight ride. I’d taken a single souvenir that night in the forest. Secreted it away to the Pacific, on the second great California migration to find that golden pot in the airplane plants and the aeronautics trade. Tucked it in a bedroom drawer through a marriage, two sons, a funeral and two graduations. Buried it deep packing for that one final job far but not far enough away. Now, it seemed, was the time. It’d been a tough week in the field, and I’d hoped to catch the satellite feed of 60 Minutes and maybe Columbo , but this finally seemed the time. I set the yellowing badge - No. 76, I guessed how the brass kept track of their college boys - on top of the TV monitor, trying not to look in those damnably damned eyes this time. Bye, J.R. Then I wrote this for you, whoever you wind up being. You can see the right people get it. Then I think I’ll step out for a bit of air. The desert is beautiful at night, especially in the high beams of a double moon.

Lindsey likes to talk in code. She sets the vase of irises down onto the overbed table. The mushroom cloud of purples block my view of the hospital room except for the visitor space on my right where an anaemic-pink armchair sags against the wall. She takes a seat on the edge of the cushion. A nurse attends to her routine of adjusting the pipes, tubes, and bleepers that keep me fed, watered, and alive. Soon it will be just Lindsey and me. ‘Your brother’s a fighter, he is’ I watch the brunette nurse from my paralysed perspective; her smile is comforting, stretching into her crinkled eyes. ‘Really inspirational chap, isn’t he? Read all about him in the papers’ She looks over the irises to my sister. I blink twice, trying to catch her attention with my eyes, her hand extends across my chest to twist the vase around. ‘That’s better’ No it’s not . ‘Like a saint’ Lindsey takes my lifeless hand in her cold one and copies the nurse’s smile in her own bland, unsatisfying type of way. ‘Aww’ The nurse is pretty but not when she’s acting. She doesn’t need to act, I’m a witness too. ‘Well, I better be leaving the pair of you to it then’ A nod to Lindsey, a wary look to my slack face and she exits the room, leaving me in the awful company of my sister. The door suctions shut and the room becomes a tomb of silence. I blink, wait . An anxious click from the heart monitor pings in my ears. Lindsey swallows her nuclear smile, my mechanised lungs labour to drag a breath into my body. A thin whistle sounds as it exhales for me. I want to throw my hands at her but my muscles are frozen stiff. The way she looks at me, grey eyes filled with half pity, half envy. They slink over the collection of ‘get well soon’ cards on the dresser, the tubes, and back to my elastic face. Livid with the signs of care in the room. Why are they not at all directed at her? There is a sick itch eating away at my sister like a parasite extracting sweet jealous nectar. ‘Not so handsome now with those burns, are you?’ We make eye contact. A memory of her white face in the black plumes of house fire smoke assaults my mind; the aftershock of a scream, dad’s limp arm aflame on the floorboards. Bitch . She takes out a cigarette and a lighter like a Bond villain, ‘You mind?’ I blink twice, Yes . Could she get more pathetic ? ‘Perfect’ A grin. She adjusts the blinds to the glass overlooking the hallway then moves to the window. I look at the irises again. Didn’t Van Gogh paint the same ones in his asylum? A gust of springtime air cools my face; an indirect, unknowingly granted gift. Lindsey returns to her seat. ‘You missed their funeral, not much to bury though’ She flicks the lighter. A searing pang of hatred lights my throat ablaze, I feel my face grow hot again. I wish my pain was a noxious gas that would leak from my pores and poison her, make her skin blister and eyes melt from her sockets. The flame dies and her cigarette is still unlit, drooping from her lips. She takes my hand again and this time positions the lighter in my fist so that I’m holding it with her support. With my thumb, she forces me to light it. She puffs, my hand drops over the side of the bed, the toasted scent of fresh nicotine floats over my head. How I want to pull out these tubes and suffocate her with them . ‘Cheers... I brought your favourite’ She motions to the vase. These are mothers favourites, not mine. She would’ve been celebrating her 60th in twelve days. They are too bright and sickly as if the petals were moulded from cheap fondant. Sweet enough to choke me. Irises, springtime, April. A month of pastels and plastic things. I think of cheap yellow chicks on dry cake and hollow eggs. The irises are the senile colours that old women wear; jaundice yellows and purpura purples, insipid pinks and vapid blues. My eyes follow hers, she flicks her cigarette and kicks the ash away. Her foot catches on something and there's a rustle as she picks the item up. It’s a newspaper, a blown-up image of my college portrait takes centre stage on the cover. The title reads ‘House Fire Leaves Model Son with Life-Threatening Burns’. Like looking into a mirror that shows you a better, dated version of yourself I’m reminded of how much I’d taken for granted. Lindsey throws the paper to the corner of the room, she scoffs. What could she possibly be mad at? She broke the boy in the newspaper that she resented, now she’s jealous that he’s broken and still made the front page. I know to which frequency the machine of her mind operates. Her fuel is envy and greed, then greased with an indulgence of self-pity. ‘Don’t you want to scream, hit me?’ Finally got something right . She takes the last drag from her cigarette and looks over me once again, ‘God, you were always such an attention seeker...’ Her eyes light up with something ferocious and she moves forward, stubbing out the butt on my arm. She looks for a reaction, there is none. I don’t dare shut my eyes. I still feel it, every pinch. ‘You don’t feel a thing do you?’ I blink, yes I do . ‘The doctors are wrong, you’re a complete vegetable’ I feel a sense of accomplishment. Despite being locked away behind the prison bars of my skin I can still control what Lindsey knows and doesn’t know about my condition. ‘You’ve never been so easy to talk to... I enjoyed this, let’s do it again’ She collects her coat from the floor and leaves the room with a bounce of satisfaction in her step. I stare at the irises, the irises stare back at me. Locked-in and rattling my cage of bones, I am bristling and alive inside. I have something I never had before; a master's key to my sister’s thoughts. Every locked room and hidden attic of her brain is free to explore as long as she returns, let’s do it again . I won't be paralysed forever and when I walk again, I promise to return the favour. I will make it my goal, precise, an ordered plan, no loose ends. A perfect conclusion to a putrefying plotline. Done for mum and dad; once for her, twice for him, thrice for the order of the iris.

There weren’t two ways to go about it. Sophie had to make a decision. She had arrived in town yesterday afternoon. She was on her way to a scientific convention, when her car had decided to give up. It was an old red car, gifted to her by her dad. He had used it for years as a detective, and she had kept driving it despite all its rumbling and fits of nerves. It was almost a human being at this point. But she couldn’t stop herself from giving it another chance each time. She was so attached to her little red queen, especially since her father had passed away two years ago. The engine had started to act up a few miles back. Whether it was the gearbox or something else, she couldn't tell. The car had broken down right after passing the town sign. She had tried desperately to restart it a few times, without success. “You better wake up tomorrow” she had muttered, casting a furious glance at the car as she walked past it with her luggage. The country road led her straight to the town center. She saw an old, square building with a flag hanging above the door. The engraving beneath it was almost completely worn away, but she guessed it was the town hall. The church bells rang half past four. “I hope there’s still someone inside,” she thought as she walked towards the entrance. A person greeted her behind a counter. The place was rather dark but the air was fresh, a relief during these hot summer days. “Coming to stay at the Ambrasio Hotel ?” the person asked. Sophie was startled, she didn’t expect such a straightforward question. “Maybe, I don’t know yet,” she replied, “My car broke down near the town sign. I wasn’t planning on stopping here. Is there a mechanic that can look into it today?” “Oh, I see! I see!” the odd fellow kept repeating. “We have the best car mechanic in the country here!” proclaimed the short man, with all the hubris of a small-towner cut off from the rest of the world. “His name is Ygor. His garage is on the street adjacent to the church, you can’t miss it.” The man picked up the phone and placed a call immediately. She thanked him and left, rolling her suitcase behind her. She soon reached the garage, a ruined warehouse contiguous to a tiny home-shelter. Noise came out of the warehouse, so she decided to walk straight in, her rolling luggage growling louder and louder. It must have been what tipped him off, as a stocky man in blue overalls was already coming towards her. “How do you do?” he asked with a smile, his mustache all excited at the sight of her. “Well... Hi,” she baffled, “My car broke down near the town sign, and I have to...” “My, my, don’t worry, ma’am,” he interrupted her. “I’ll fix it for you in no time!” His confidence, however, did not reassure Sophie. “That’s very kind. I have to be on my way tomorrow, do you think...” “Tomorrow uh ?” he interrupted her again, “Well I’ll see what I can do, but first I have to inspect it. Now which sign did you leave your car at?” “The one towards the town hall, I suppose,” said Sophie. After noticing a few crease marks appear on the man’s forehead, she added where she was coming from. “Ah! The one near the old tree! It’s almost time for me to close, but since you have to leave tomorrow, I’ll start working on it tonight after closing. You can come tomorrow morning first thing, but I...” he kept saying when suddenly someone yelled. “Hey boss! Mr Ambroise is here to pick up his car!” It was one of the mechanics, holding the door of the contiguous home opened. This meant her mechanic was the garage owner. “Excuse me” said the owner, while walking towards the door. Sophie decided to follow shortly after. “... Yes... Yes... Everything in order”, she caught the owner saying, followed by “On the house.” Mr. Ambroise was a rather tall man, looking quite well for his age. As she walked in, an awkward silence followed. His eyes were fixed on her, and no words were spoken, as if time had frozen. “Huh... Her car broke,” said the owner to put an end to the silence, “I’ll have it fixed by tomorrow.” “Do you know where to sleep tonight?” he asked, without even introducing himself nor asking for Sophie’s name. She couldn’t help but notice the straightforwardness of the people in this small town. “I... hum, the nice fellow at the town hall told me there was a good Hotel here. Ambrasio, I think. I guess I will go there for the night...” “Ah, the Ambrasio,” exclaimed the tall man. “It’s a fine place, but I hear they don’t have any more rooms available,” he continued, “they’re doing some renovations this summer.” “I see,” said Sophie. She felt a little fear growing inside her. Her stomach pinched her belly. “I will still want to go to see, just in case.” “Ma’am there’s really no point in wasting your time,” interjected the mechanic, “Mr Ambroise is the owner of the Hotel Ambrasio.” “I can host you for the night,” said the rich man, “It’s no trouble at all. In fact, it would be my pleasure.” While Sophie agreed, she felt as if she had just sold her soul. *** Mr Ambroise’s car was very old, yet very luxurious. The kind of cars you usually see in the movies. For a moment, she felt like an actress. The sun was now painting the sky in warm orange and the clouds in lavender blue. Soon the houses were behind them, and the car was speeding amongst the fields. They slowed down and turned right, on a road leading to a disproportionate mansion. “This is my family house, the Ambroise estate,” he said, in a calm voice. It was only when they parked in front that she realized how gigantic the building was, with its columns and ten-feet windows. A man came dressed in a suit and took her luggage. He did not look surprised to see her. “Which room?” he simply asked, as if out of habit. “The one,” Mr Ambroise strangely replied. “She’s here only for one night, I want her to have the best possible stay.” “Very well,” acquiesced the man, “dinner is ready and will be served at seven in the second dining room,” he continued, and off he went, pulling her luggage behind him. Sophie was curious about his family history and the place. When asked, he was very evasive. He explained that his family had lost a great deal during the wars and that there was once a vineyard on the estate that he used to enjoy in his youth. He was the last heir. After dinner, he proposed to accompany her to her room. “I don’t want to tire you more than I have already,” gracefully declined Sophie. “Alright, up the stairs, go to your right. When you reach the end of the corridor, it will be the door to your left. Joseph will wake you up before breakfast tomorrow, after which I can drive you to the garage to check on your car.” *** The bedroom was splendid and almost circular. She went straight to the bathroom and took a shower. Everything was clean and layed out for her. Wrapped in two towels, she reached for her luggage. She bent to unlock it, but the towel wrapped around her hair fell on the floor. While picking it up, she noticed a paper under the bed. She took it. It was a plane ticket, supposed to depart last month, for a person named Felicia Pearsons. “A previous guest,” she thought, while a creepy feeling grew inside her. She thought of calling Joseph to inform him, but refrained from doing so. Instead she locked the door and kept the key in the lock, just in case. That didn’t make her sleep better that night. Sophie was already dressed when Joseph knocked on the door the next morning. At breakfast, she decided best not to mention the plane ticket. Perhaps this Felicia was a close relative. It wasn’t her business after all. As promised, Mr Ambroise drove her to the garage just before the opening. The air was still fresh at that time of the day, and the birds chirping from every corner. The owner greeted them with a wide smile. “Ah you’re back! I know what the problem is ma’am. It’s your engine. You see, two injectors have stopped working. That’s why your car dances the Cossack when you try to turn it on.” He told her he didn’t have the spare parts for this model, but had already ordered them last night. “It can be ready early tomorrow if I get the parts before closing tonight, but not today”. “Could you inform me if you haven’t? I can still reach on time if I leave tomorrow morning, but otherwise I won’t be able to attend the convention.” “Will do,” he replied, this time staring at Mr Ambroise, expecting him to add something. “I could drive you there,” started the rich man, “Unfortunately I have matters to attend to at the Hotel, matters that cannot be delayed,” he added, his piercing gaze pointed at the mechanic. “I understand. I guess I’ll have a tour of the surroundings to pass time. Anyplace you would recommend?” “You should start with the Mabrosie Café, it’s on the main street,” replied the garage owner. Sophie had forgotten that these places usually have a ‘main street’ that concentrates all the life and businesses. She thanked them and agreed to come back to the garage at closing time, after which Mr Ambroise would drive her back for what she hoped would be her last night here. Despite the summer vacation, many residents were going about their daily life. A few kids were playing with the pigeons near the fountain. People were giving her the look, the kind of look that makes you uneasy. “They must know I am a stranger,” she thought. When the aroma of fresh coffee reached her nostrils, she knew she had reached her destination. *** A few men were seated on the terrace, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes while reading the newspaper. She sat at one of the tables far from them. Not that she didn’t want to mingle, but Sophie didn’t smoke, and she couldn’t stand the smell of it. A bald man resembling a bear clad in a white apron came to her. “Hello Miss! First time I see you ‘round, ya?” It was more a remark than a question, “What can I serve you?” “Good morning,” she replied, forcing a smile, “a cappuccino would be great.” “Sure! Do you want the newspaper with it? It’s only one extra.” Sophie nodded and thanked him. He was already on his way. The drink came crowned with a cloud of milk, filtering the vapors of coffee from underneath it. She took a sip and started reading the newspaper. Suddenly, her heart stopped. She didn’t catch it immediately, but here it was. The name on the plane ticket she had found, Felicia Pearsons. She had gone missing for a month. Then, the most horrendous thought crossed her mind. It couldn’t be. Mr Ambroise had been so nice to her. Or had he? Had he been nice to Felicia too? She couldn’t wrap her mind around it. She didn’t want to believe it. Maybe she could ask him? Something had stopped her from calling Joseph last night, maybe her instinct was right? Her dad had always told her to trust her guts. She felt the terrace giving up under her feet, her chair steadily floating as in zero gravity. “Poor girl, what a shame what happened to her,” she heard someone say over her shoulder. It was the waiter, but he didn’t seem very upset about it. “Oh that, yes, tragic. I hope they find her,” she replied. “We’ll see, we’ll see,” concluded the man while walking back inside, with a confidence that sent a chill down her spine. She left as casually as possible, trying not to raise any suspicions. She felt like an animal in a zoo, a million eyes on her, analyzing her, mocking her, or perhaps preying on her? Something was not right, the article never mentioned what had happened to the girl. There weren’t two ways to go about it. Sophie had to make a decision. She started to walk faster, having made up her mind. Sometime after, she found what she had been looking for. She had grown too suspicious of the locals to ask her way around. The police station was near the corner. She checked her purse, and found the plane ticket she had kept. The most valuable evidence. Her feet shakily brought her closer to the station, as if her body and mind were not aligned on this. She was about twenty feet away when she noticed something strange. It was Mr Ambroise’s car parked on the street opposite the police station. Wasn’t he supposed to be at the Hotel? At that moment, she saw a police officer get out of the car. He approached the driver’s window, nodded in agreement, and then crossed the street back to the station, carrying an envelope. She turned and waited for the car to pass. It was Mr Ambroise, smiling from ear to ear. Was she getting paranoid? Did the police know about the missing girl? Best not to risk it, she thought. As a detective, her dad had made connections within the police over the years. She knew exactly whom to contact. She retraced her steps and walked towards the fountain, where she had seen a phone booth. She felt as though everyone was watching, and briefly feared someone might leap out and try to stop her. The kids were still annoying the pigeons. Ignoring them, she entered the phone booth. In her wallet was a card with important phone numbers. She pulled it out and began dialing when, suddenly, she heard a knock on the door. It was... it was just a kid, making a funny face. She almost had a heart attack. She smiled as gently as she could, and returned to her phone call. “Lieutenant Raymond speaking, who is this?” said a man in a hoarse voice. “This is Sophie, Sophie Mayfair, you knew my dad, Rob Mayfair,” she replied in a stressed, hurried voice. He must have sensed her panic as he immediately asked “Are you ok? What’s going on Sophie?” She explained the entire situation to him, including the locals' attitudes and her gut feeling that something was off. “I knew your dad, and I knew his guts. If you have half of what he had, my guess is that you are onto something,” he went on, “I’m contacting the police of the nearby town right away. Where exactly are you now Sophie?” “Sophie?...” She was not listening anymore. A tall man was standing in front of the door, but he wasn’t waiting for a call. It was Mr Ambroise. “Already bored of this place?” he asked, with the same piercing gaze she had seen him throw at the mechanic. “I.. hum, no... I just wanted to inform the people at the convention... that I might be arriving a little late,” she answered. Her mind was carbureting faster than her car’s engine. He may as well have seen the gears spinning behind her eyes, as he immediately took her by the arm and pulled her out of the booth. The kids saw the powerful rich man drag Sophie. Their young minds blocked all memories of the scene afterwards, as they returned to their pigeons. The men at the Café did not even look. They kept reading their newspapers, expecting another snippet to appear in next week’s column. Not a word was spoken in the silence that followed, after Mr Ambroise’s car had departed. *** The police arrived around noon. They localized the phone booth and found the plane ticket on the floor. It must have been dropped in Sophie’s struggle, or perhaps she did it on purpose. An investigation was opened. The investigation would later reveal that the Ambroise family owned most of the small town. The Hotel had undergone multiple renovations over the years. The police found many bodies buried in it, including Felicia Pearsons. This had been going on for decades. Turns out the whole town was complicit, even the police. The garage owner had already started dismantling Sophie’s car for parts. The town hall employee had placed a call to the garage and to Mr Ambroise the minute she had stepped out of the building, and Mr Ambroise’s car never needed any fixing in the end. *** Sophie never made it to her convention. Upon arriving at the estate, she was taken to the now-empty wine cellar and locked in before Mr. Ambroise’s return that night. As the sun cast its last rays of light, she heard a key turn in the rusty lock. Expecting her captor to barge in, she took refuge in the darkest corner she could find. Instead, she was greeted by Joseph, a half-smile on his tired face. He told her she had done what he was never brave enough to do. He had left the plane ticket on the floor, hoping she would find it while evading the scrutiny of the evil man who inspected the room each time. She left him with a kiss, before running in the direction he had pointed. Sophie ran like never before, tears streaming down her cheeks. There weren’t two ways to go about it. At this moment, there was only one way to go about it, and one way to run to.

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Rainy Day** **“Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.” - Roger Miller** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘Rainy Day’ in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You can use the quote as additional inspiration. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #Feedback on the Micro Monday feature If you have not yet filled out the feedback form, please take a moment this week and fill out . Thanks in advance!   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **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 spotlights. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. **Do not downvote other stories on the thread.** Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that 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. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #Spotlights - - Submitted by u/Badderlocks_ - - Submitted by u/OldBayJ - - Submitted by u/ATIWTK - - Submitted by u/Lexistential-Crisis *Thank you so much for all the votes!* ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

Robert had seen a scary movie that wasn’t really intended for his age. The movie was rated at 18+ and he was only 10. “What will happen if I go to sleep after watching that? Will I get scary nightmares about monsters?” He said with a scared voice, trembling in fear. “It will be fine sweety, just don’t think about it at all. Just think about how today was fun!” His Mother said is a soothing voice to calm down his anxiety. Robert calmed down after some time, and went to sleep just to get the night over with. Tik Tok. Tik Tok.What was that? Tik Tok. Tik Tok. Where is it coming from? It stops right after the fourth tik. *DING!* Robert jolts awake, and feels like his heart is pounding, trying to get out of his chest. “What was that clock sound? Where was it coming from?” He nervously thought. As he looked around his room, he fell right through his bed. After falling for what seemed like hours, he hits the ground. He gets up, and looks behind him. A very big silhouette appeared behind him. “AHHHHH!” he screams out of fear. He starts to run the opposite direction, but as he is doing that, he hears a very faint sound. Tik. Tik. “That sound!” Tik. Tik. “Where is it coming from?” He stops, and turns around, to see the silhouette of the man from before behind him. “What do you wa-”. Before Robert can say anything else, the man opens his jacket. Robert cannot believe what he saw. He closes his eyes in fear, as the silhouette of the man starts to approach him. He opened them, and saw a giant clock, ticking, just ticking. It starts to tick even louder than before as it starts to get to the 12. Robert runs away, as the sound to him is unbearable, but it doesn’t get any quieter. He slips, and falls off the edge, and the clock stops ticking. *DING!* *DING!* "It is indicating that it is midnight.” He jolts awake again, thinking that the dream is over. He looks at his clock. 12. He gets up from his bed, and goes to his door to open it. “Should I?” he thinks. He has this irresistible urge to open it, but he feels that he shouldn’t. He opens the door, and all he sees, is the same silhouette of the man from before. “How? How? How can you be here rig-” The man jumps in front of him. As the silhouette does that, Robert covers his eyes out of fear. He opens his eyes, only to be stuck in a room, with clocks. “How am I here? HOW AM I HERE!” He keeps repeating those words over and over again to drown out the sound from the clocks. He looks around for a possible exit. There! He found a hatch. He crawls over to it, and opens the hatch, only to be swallowed in darkness. “Hello?” he says in a quiet voice. “Hello?” No answer. “Hello!” he says in a scared, loud voice. “Hello!” No response. He curls up in a ball, and starts to cry. “It is okay little one.” A voice said from the distance. Robert looks up with his face covered in tears. “It will be alright” The man said. Robert is now in an alleyway, with a man in front of him, just standing there. How did I ge-. The man spoke again. “Are you okay?” It starts to rain. Robert looks down, to see himself covered in mud, and his clothing ripped up. “No.” Robert said in a scared, trembling voice. “No, no I am not okay” he starts to cry, not knowing where he is, or when this will end. He wakes up in a cold sweat. Eyes wide open, scanning the room to find nothing in sight. He looks over at the clock. 7:30AM. “Is this still another dre-” His mom opens the door, frightening him. “Honey, it is time to get up you will be late for school.” “Okay” he yells out to make sure his mom can hear.

The Wyoming Winters When Jeffrey and I watched the television show Longmire , we were immediately inspired to travel to Wyoming. It had quickly become my favorite show, and Jeffrey enjoyed it too. We left on November 29 and knew it would be cold, but we couldn’t begin to fathom how cold it would truly be. We got to the lodge around lunch time, where we were greeted by a very friendly woman who introduced herself as Sarah. She told us this was her father’s lodge, and that he would be back soon, more than eager to meet us. She took us to our room and told us dinner would be served at 5:30. We got settled in and unpacked since we planned on being there for a week. After we unpacked, we decided to go skiing. We went down to the front desk to ask Sarah where we could rent some skis. “It's about to snow pretty heavily here soon, and I’m sure the roads will be cleared tomorrow so you'll have fresh snow to ski on.” Sarah responded. We decided to sit in the parlor of the lodge, which had a giant fireplace with glass windows beside it. It was lovely to relax in and watch the snow start to fall. We sat there for hours, talking to different guests from all over America. We met another couple, who introduced themselves as Zach and Lacy from West Texas. They said they flew up to Wyoming to see the snow, since they do not get any where they live. We became fine friends in a mere matter of hours. It was soon dinner time and we all decided to sit together. Sarah's father came to introduce himself before dinner and hoped that we would enjoy the food. They served an amazing 3 course meal beginning with an appetizer of spinach dip. For dinner, they presented us with grilled chicken with mashed potatoes and asparagus. For dessert, they served an amazing brownie with vanilla ice cream and caramel drizzle. We ate so much food it felt like we were in a food coma. Afterwards, we decided to go back to our rooms and rest a little. Jeffrey and I got back to the room and started to flip through the TV channels. “We have incoming news on a very dangerous snowstorm coming into northwest Wyoming. Wind speeds will be up to 120 miles per hour. Residents may lose electricity in their homes, so do not forget to turn on your backup generators.” the weather man said. “That doesn’t seem too good. I hope this place has a generator.” Jeffrey said as he looked out the window. The snow began to come down harder and harder and trees started swaying in the wind. Eventually, we couldn't see anything outside of the window. After a few hours it started to get a little colder. Suddenly, the power went out. Jeffrey and I went downstairs to see what was going on. As we got to the bottom of the stairs, we saw everyone panicked and huddling together to keep warm. “What happened?” Jeffrey asked. “The power went out and the back up generators haven't kicked in yet.” Sarah explained. Jeffrey and Zach started to think of reasons why the back up generators did not turn on. They mentioned that it could have been from the age of the generator. If the generator was as old as the lodge, it could have faulty wiring and signals for when it needs to come on. They came up with a plan to go to the shed where the generator was and fix it while Lacy and I kept the fireplace going for everyone. After a while without Jeffrey and Zach coming back, Lacy and I started to get worried. “Have you tried calling them?” Lacy asked. “I don't have any signal and the wifi isn't working since the power’s off.” I replied. We started to get more and more worried as time passed. Lacy and I started to talk to Sarah and asked here where the generator was. She said they kept the generator outside in a shed in the back of the lodge. Even though it was not a very long walk, the blizzard made it impossible to get there. With the winds being so strong and the snow coming down like crazy, Jeffrey and Zach could have gotten buried alive. “What if they need help?” Lacy asked. “I’m sure they found the generator and are just trying to fix it.” I said, still worried about the possibilities. All of a sudden the lights turned back on and the TV’s were working again. A few minutes later, Jeffrey and Zach came back inside. They took their coats off and went to the fireplace. Lacy hugged Zach and told him how worried she was. I gave Jeffrey a big hug and told him how much I appreciated him. We all sat down next to the fireplace and started watching the news. “The snowstorm turned into a blizzard!” the man said. “Make sure you keep your generators on and fireplaces going because it's going to be a cold night. However the snow should die down by the time the sun rises tomorrow.” “Does that mean the slopes will be open in the afternoon tomorrow Sarah?” asked Lacy. “Yeah, the slopes and the roads should be open by at least noon.” Sarah said. We all made plans to go skiing the next day. When we woke up, we saw beautiful white snow outside our windows. We could not believe how much there was. We went down for breakfast before heading to the slopes. We filled up on pancakes, fruits, and coffee. Zach, Lacy, Jeffrey and I all went to the slopes and spent the day together. For the next couple of days we spent most of the time with Zach and Lacy. We went shopping, to dinner, and to see shows. We made lifelong friends we never knew we would have had and after all it turned out to be a great vacation, even though we got trapped in a lodge with no electricity or phone service.

That’s the thing about this city--it looks like it’s made all of glass. The city seems so big and hardy, full of stretching alleys and ever-expanding secret holes and infinite dim-lit streets. And at night the skyscrapers, glassy and poignant, are the only things marking the path to the sky. There is the big one Mom and I called the Keyhole, because there is a gap at the top that some huge god-sized key might unlock. To where we didn’t know. Narnia, probably. Heaven, Mom always said. “El cielo.” She is like that. She loves the city. It is Dallas, basically the biggest city in the state, but the surrounding wilderness--the Trinity river, the Cedar Ridge area--has always seemed intent on creeping in. You can see it at night. Vines growing up apartment building corners. Big cedars and live oaks shading small unlit houses in the M Streets. Grass pushing through cracked Lakewood asphalt. When she could still walk, Mom went walking through alleys. She brought a gun with her, too, and had since she’d gotten the license the day after she got her visa from Venezuela. Small dark-haired woman, small dark alleys, small dark gun. I never went with her. I stayed under the blankets, praying she would come back. After work I visit her in the hospital, at about four PM. Her small white hospital room smells of tangy soap and is quiet, except for a woman’s voice singing from the radio by her bed. El amor que una madre tiene por su hija , the voice sings breathily. Es más fuerte, más fuerte que las montañas Sí, mas que el viento de montaña... Mom calls me chica and kisses my hands with her cracked lips. The fat IV bag dangles beside her. “You look...” I say and hesitate. She looks so weak. She is so thin and small, so vulnerable, everything about her is weak except that which is hidden inside. But it is buried deep. Mom tries to smile when she sees me hesitate, though I know I have hurt her inadvertently. “You look beautiful,” I say finally. “I am not lying.” She smiles genuinely this time. My eyes fill with tears when I have to leave; on the way out she asks if I know that there will be a blood moon that night. “No,” I say, though I do, and lie because she would have urged me to walk to a park or something to see it and I am too afraid to do that. It is five PM when Medical City Hospital calls me. I am sick the day Mom dies, ten years after diagnosis and three weeks after admission to the breast cancer ward. I walk to the hospital, teary eyed and pockets full of used tissues that I feel like I need to burn. They hand me papers and her new slicker and the shoes I’d given her for her fiftieth birthday, all of which I accept numbly. I say yes to an autopsy and no to organ donations and no to cremation; we are both Catholic and she would have wanted a traditional funeral. They call me a “cool customer” and pat my back because I did not cry and scream and demand to see her body. Then I walk home, with more tissues in my pockets than before, arms full of the last clothes she had ever put on, crying from both frustration and grief. Some part of me knows I am being pathetic. It is a warm, bright Monday evening. My feet ache. When I get in the door I take off my shoes, pushing the heels off with the opposite toes, and kick them into the corner by the door. I drop Mom's things on the ground to think about later. My face feels tight. I haven't quite understood what just happened. The floor is warm on my bare feet. It is bare and swept clean as I stand on it, looking at my feet. I swallow hard. I am a cool customer because I don't know how to cry about her yet. The sun is pulling itself down behind the Reunion Tower, which I can just see if I tilt my head the right way below the railing on my little tenement balcony. I let my purse clank to the ground and pour myself a glass of water. I can’t take anything stronger past five. Whenever I drink a mimosa or something I think of Mom, with half a glass of hard cider at nine PM, her bare feet on the railing, watching the night flow by the city. I get two ice cubes from the freezer, drop one on the ground, and look around as if anyone was there to tell me off before putting both cubes into the glass. I open the balcony door and settle myself in a wicker chair and wait for night to fall. Mom had a honey jar once, one she’d brought from Venezuela. It was the color of amber, perfectly round and seemingly weak, made of tempered glass like the rest of Dallas. It was little but strong. I dropped it several times when I was little, putting it away from the dishwasher or on the breakfast table, but it never broke. Mom would look up, eyebrows high, when she heard it clunk on the linoleum, and then down again when I’d call “All good!” She knew it wouldn’t break. Like she knew she could keep herself safe at night, like she knew the night was safe and good. Like she loved the city. She was a little, strong woman. The first night birds sing in the live oak branches down in the street. Their sound is so familiar that it takes me a while to realize they have begun to sing. Mom told me, once, when I was still little and believed everything, that the night birds’ song is always the same, even between Venezuela and Dallas. She told me that exactly one year before cancer happened to her. Well, it wasn’t surprising, I think to myself, sitting alone on a lonely balcony on a lonely street. I’d had it before her. I got breast cancer at age eleven. I was the only breast cancer patient at MD Anderson for about a week, and then a little white-haired grandmother came all alone, sick and coughing and Mom was the only one who could translate her Guatemala-accented Spanish for the doctors to understand she had Stage Two. She joined me in the breast cancer ward and told me stories about La Llorona. Mom brought us honey in her amber jar to sweeten our hospital food. That unbreakable amber jar. I lean my head back and the sun soaks my eyelids as it disappears for the day. The glass sweats cold water onto my palm as the city night slowly envelops me. When we first came to Dallas from Venezuela I was just seven, didn’t speak English or even read Spanish. Mom would walk from place to place in the city, from job to job, her face hard-set and shoulders back as the stars glinted above her. The breeze would be as cool as in Venezuela. “You don’t know a city until you have seen it at night,” she would say, and she didn’t mean its nightlife. “Not just the big skyscrapers but the little, little houses in the neighborhoods. Where people sleep safe at night. The hogares . That is how you know a city.” It was how she loved it, too. The night air cools around my shoulders. I relax a little bit; I’m safe up here from the dark streets. The glass slips out of my hand and shatters on the concrete balcony floor. I jump up, startled and gasping, and then lower myself back down. “It’s nothing,” I mumble, though it seems to represent something I don’t want it to. I feel like that glass, old and broken, now that I know Bed 34 is empty in the Medical City Breast Cancer Ward. I sit there, my head beginning to throb on my small balcony with wet glass shards at my feet, as Dallas falls into darkness. I start to cry. I never knew the night, so I never knew the city. Or Mom. It is nine PM now and my tears are only just drying. When I walk inside to get ready for bed I pause. Something is broken on the floor. I hadn’t heard it crash, so it must have been there all day, I think. I have swept up the dark glass shards and am about to throw them away before I realize it is Mom’s honey jar. It has finally broken.

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting. And remember, feedback matters!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** This week’s challenge is to use the above image as *inspiration* for your story. You may interpret the image any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules. You do not have to use the entire image. You can use any part you like (i.e. the colors, the subject, the setting, etc.).   ***   #Last Week There were so many great stories on the thread this week, as is every week. First, I would like to highlight u/Poelarizing and u/Thetallerestpaul for the wonderful feedback they provided on so many of the stories on the thread. Each of you went above and beyond and I really love to see that. Now, story spotlights! - - Submitted by u/stranger_loves - An immortal faces the reality of his choices. - - Submitted by u/mattswritingaccount - A story about saying goodbye.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

I never knew I would make such a terrible decision. It wasn't my proudest moment of my life, but just a portion wouldn't do it justice. Well, I might as well tell you the whole story. I was young and naive. My higher education in accounting was in progress. My female peers gushed over my chestnut locks and sparkling emerald eyes. I was irresistible, at least, for a time. That was until my inevitable downfall. It was the end of my third year, and my abilities were undefeated. A few scholars, including myself, were on our path to showcase our skill. The overall trip included a terribly long bus drive, another college, and a glaringly loud timer. We were expected to complete a multitude of tasks within a set time. "Good afternoon students," the moderator boomed. "Your tasks will be assigned shortly. In the meantime, converse with your peers." Our competitors scrambled to produce their plan of action. My team members decided the more logical course was to keep our voices low. "Why don't we split them evenly?" one asked. "We should split them based on skill," another answered. Two more members nodded in agreement. As the discussion of the other team came to a close, assistants stalked down to the tables with our tasks. Before the packets could touch the tables, they were snatched by a team member. We rushed to distribute our packets. Glancing over my primary packet, a glimmer catches my eye. Attempting to not get distracted, I shake my head and keep my eyes on my packet. I manage to complete a few questions before a blindingly shiny object catches my attention. Upon closer inspection, a realization strikes that the object in question happens to be a phone. "Do you see that?" I ask the member beside me. They follow my line of sight and spot the cellular device. "What do you think we should do?" they question. "We should do something similar," I whisper back. My ally shoots me a terrified look, scrunching their brows in horror. "What?" I question. "If they can do it, so can we!" They shrugged, surely giving up to return to their packets. I grasp at my device, hoping no one spotted it. Opening the apps, I check my surroundings in case of extra surveillance. With a lack of rising suspicion, I proceed to open my advanced calculator. The calculator in hand, the questions ease into simplicity. To ensure my use of assistance goes undetected, I must constantly keep an eye out.* I happen to finish all but one of my packets as the timer chimes. We pass our work to the judges to be graded. Shoving my phone in a jacket pocket, I pray no one saw it. "Alright students," the moderator shouts. "I have an announcement to make. One of the judges spotted something awfully peculiar during your working period." I gulped, my lunch hopping around in my stomach. " Oh my god, they know ," I thought. As if by some outside force, my seat began to push me away. My thighs grasped onto the seat, not appreciating my readjustments. "One noticed a cellular device in use," continued the moderator. "Be honest and come forward if it was you." A member of the opposing team stood, one after another, until two out of the twelve members remained. "Neither of us did anything wrong," one stated. The other nodded, closing their eyes entirely. "Alright," muttered the moderator. "Since they used a device, the whole team is disqualified. The team from Dallas wins by reason of disqualification." My team cheers and high fives in celebration. We've been working our tails off just to get here. "Go home, get some rest, and we will see you soon," the lead judge said. My team and I eagerly ran back to the bus. Clambering onto the bus, we begin to settle for the long trip home. "Y'all, we need to talk," shouted our teacher. Silence overcomes us as we attend to listening. My chest tightens, squeezing my pounding heart. In doing so, my chest forces my heart to beat in my ears. "Did any of you happen to see the other team use their phones?" our teacher questions. Four hands, including my own, are raised to be presented. Our teacher nods before scribbling something on their notepad. They stumble into a seat and grab their phone. "Why do you think they asked us that?" another student asks me quietly. All I could give them was a shrug, and that would have to suffice. My stomach continued to rumble and shake violently. The body I obtained at birth proceeds with its assault using guilt. Face burning and arms surrounded by ice, I force myself to stare out the window. When we arrive in Dallas, we gather our items and wait for our rides. We all stand or sit outside, no one making a peep. I text my twin sister, so she can drive back to the dorms. "How did it go?" she asks when I get in. "We won," I answered. "That's great!" she cheered as we screeched to a stop at a red light. "We only won because the other team used their phones," I mentioned. "Oh well," she sighs. "At least you won." For a while, we sit in absolute silence. "I'll need to email the professor," I tell, breaking the uncomfortable confines of the lack of noise. My sister nods, not wanting to talk to me. I turn to face the window, and tears rush to my eyelashes. Comfort is found through listening to the radio static with closed eyes. Once we arrive at the dorms, I grab my satchel and rush to the solemn room I call my own. Jumping onto the freezing bed, I remove my phone from my jacket pocket. I unlock the device and gain some composure. I open the emails and pour the details of my crime into an email. Upon finishing my email and sending it, I set my phone aside. I slam my face onto my pillow and quietly sob. My career came to an end, and I've been paying the price ever since. *Keeping an eye out for Selener.

When Tom sat down for Thanksgiving dinner with his mom, he knew it was going to be a long meal. For the past three years, he had always managed to find an excuse not to come. This year, however, he had messed up by one: teaching his mom how to use Facebook when she had pestered him about it, and two: by posting how excited he was for the long Thanksgiving weekend and how he had zero plans. "That's great to hear, sweetie! Can't wait to see you for Thanksgiving dinner!" his mom had commented, with lots of heart emoticons at the end. He had shown up later in the evening since he couldn't stand the thought of having to prepare Thanksgiving dinner with her since this would be their first Thanksgiving since the burnt turkey incident two years ago. He used getting stuck in traffic and forgetting his wallet at home as his excuse, and since Tom lived an hour away, it was a feasible excuse. "How are things at work, Tom?" Tom rolled his eyes. "They're fine, Mom. I guess," said Tom, shoveling some of the slices of white turkey meat onto his plate. "Aren't you going to help yourself to some green beans?" said Mary, nudging the steaming bowl of green beans towards him. A long exasperated sigh escaped from Tom as he threw his head back, resting it on the back of his chair. "I don't want to eat any freaking vegetables. I already ate vegetables today." "When?" she said. Picking up his knife and fork, Tom stuffed turkey into his mouth, avoiding eye contact before giving an exaggerated shrug. "I dhunno, ghud. At lwunch owh whatever." "Don't speak with your mouth full," said Mary. Tom sighed. "I'm sorry, god damn." "Language." "I'm friggin' forty-two years old. Why can't I frickin' swear?" "It's impolite." "Oh my god." "Do you want dessert or not?" said Mary. "Yeah, I do." "Then eat more green beans and behave yourself." Snatching the bowl from his mom, Tom piled more green beans onto his plate, scowling. He played with the green beans on his plate, rolling them around, and when he got bored of that, smooshed down his mashed potatoes. Mary sighed. "I take it work has been stressful. Though I wouldn't know since you never call." "No, Mom. Being an accountant at a cat food company is never stressful. Whatever gave you that idea?" "Don't take that tone with me." Tom looked at the glowing red numbers on the microwave clock. Barely three minutes had passed. "It's fine. I don't really want to talk about it." Neither of them spoke, the only sound being the silverware that scrapped clanked against the cheap, white, glass Ikea plates. All of the aromas from the warm, steaming food made the air feel stuffy, suffocating. Another look at the clock and only one minute had passed. 6:02. "How are things going with that girl you're dating?" "It's fine. I guess." " Why didn't you bring her to dinner?" "I don't want to talk about it, okay?" "But-" "I said I didn't want to talk about it. God!" "I just want to know what's going on." "Why?" "I'm sorry, sweetie, but you never tell me anything. I mean, I can't even remember the last time we had Thanksgiving-" "Oh, c'mon. Like you don't remember the last time we had Thanksgiving together. Like anyone could forget that friggin' shit show." "I told you no swearing." "I said friggin'!" His mother pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes, a faint murmur escaping from her lips. Tom knew that she was counting to ten, a common thing she did when Tom did something that infuriated her, like the time he broke one of her glass animals. It had been a bear or an elephant or something. He had been ten, so it was hard to remember. But he did remember her slumping down into the leather recliner by the TV, closing her eyes and counting before even saying a word to him. The glow from the TV set had turned the broken shards into tiny stars on the beech floor. Something about it drove him crazy. At least his dad had taken him out for ice cream that night to 'give his mother some space.' Before his mom could finish counting, Tom stood up, his chair scraping across the linoleum floor. "Whelp, that was a great meal, Mom. Thanks for everything. So glad I came." His mother, breathing out the last number, turned to him with a look of absolute calm on her face. Her mouth even twitched up to a little half-smile that didn't reach her eyes, that condescending smile triggering more frustrating memories from childhood. "She broke up with you, didn't she?" Tom scoffed. "No, what, she...no." She sighed, putting her hand to her chest. "I'm so sorry, Tom." "Sorry about what? There's nothing to be sorry about. She didn't, I mean we didn't...ugh, whatever, forget it. Fine, we broke up. Happy?" "Ah, well, that explains things, doesn't it?" "Explains what?" "Why you're acting like such a baby," she said. Groaning, Tom stood up, grabbed his plate still piled high with green beans now soaked and mixed with gravy, and brought it to the sink. His mom remained silent as he washed the mini Thanksgiving feast down the drain, though Tom knew that this wouldn't last. He could practically hear the gears in her head turning as she tried to think of a tactful way to get more information out of him. "So...was it-" Having washed the last of it down the sink, Tom turned on the garbage disposal, giving himself five more seconds of blissful peace as the loud mechanical whir drowned out his mom's voice. He would have let it go until he was out the front door and safe in his car again if that were remotely possible. Once he switched it off, he sighed again before facing his mother. "What was that?" "I said, was it mutual?" "I don't really want to talk about it." "So it wasn't?" "Mom," Tom groaned. "She seemed so sweet from the photos you posted. I wish I had gotten to meet her." "We only dated for six months." "Still." Something in his mom's tone made Tom stop washing dishes. Mary didn't move, choosing instead to stare at her plate, still holding the one scoop of mashed potatoes and slice of dark meat that had been on her plate since the start of the lovely meal they had been sharing. "I wish you would include me more, but I get it." "Mom..." "I'm not as fun and easy to get along with as your dad was." The sound of a single drop of water escaping from the faucet head and landing in the sink echoed in Tom's ears. "And after last Thanksgiving-" "Mom, don't-" "No, if I hadn't burnt the turkey-" "That's not-" "You wouldn't have had your little outburst." "Mom, no, none of that was your fault. I was...I was just still upset." "And if your dad had been here, he wouldn't have-" "We broke up yesterday, okay?" "What?" Tom sighed as he sat next to his mom, still not looking her in the eye as he studied the lattice pattern of the rug that laid under their kitchen table. "We broke up just yesterday. So, it's still a bit fresh." Tom swallowed a ball of saliva. "And I lost my job a few hours after that, so, yeah, not feeling super great right now. Especially since I broke up with Jenna since she wanted to move to Phoenix because of her job, and the only reason I didn't go with her is that I didn't want to leave my job. And, of course, we had a big fight about it, so yeah. That bridge is burned." His mom sighed. "And this all happened yesterday?" "Yeah, and I guess I'm still processing it. It still too fresh. And, well, frig, you know me. I'm not good at dealing with this kind of stuff. You know?" Getting up from her chair, Mary went to her son and wrapped her arms around him. "It's okay not to feel a hundred percent." "And with my job, shit, I just don't know what I'm going to do." Tom gritted his teeth together, swallowing his emotions as he hugged his mom back. They stayed like that until Tom leaned back in his chair, his mother mirroring him. He had a feeling she would have stayed with him like that for as long as he needed. "I'm going to start putting stuff away," she said, standing up. "I'll help you," said Tom. Walking past the small island in the middle of the kitchen, Tom opened the cupboard and took out a bunch of different Tupperware containers. His mom brought over the bowl of green beans and the giant platter of turkey over to the island, and together they began the long, arduous task of scooping and putting away the remains of their Thanksgiving meal. "Sorry," said Tom, as he put the last of the dark meat away. "For what?" "For swearing." Mary shook her head, still smiling to herself. "And...for the last two Thanksgivings." "Tom-" "I was embarrassed about what happened two years ago. Dad had just died, and I just couldn't take it. And last year, I was still embarrassed about it. I thought I could maybe manage this year, but I-" "It's okay, Tom. You don't need to pretend around me. You should know that." "I..." Tom closed his eyes, counting to ten as he fought back the sting of tears he felt coming. If his mom noticed, she didn't say anything. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the last of the green beans had been put away, his mom over by the sink washing the bowl. "Thanks, Mom." She turned to him, smiling. "How about some pie?"

I remember the day she was born. She was so small, so vulnerable. She looked so beautiful in her crib, her mother always fretting about if she was comfortable. The day she was born was the day I swore to protect her no matter what. I remember when she went to her first day of school. I stayed with her all day, of course it was in spirit. When she went into the classroom for the first time she was crying because we had to leave, but when she came home she was a ball of laughter and sunshine. Her first day of school is when I swore to always keep her that little ball of sunshine. I remember the days when she would come home obsessing over a boy, all the wedding details being spilt so fast I wasn’t able to keep up, or when she came home and stayed in her room for hours jamming out to a new band. Some of the best days were when she was with her friends, she laughed and smiled like the time she came homegrown school for the first time, she was weird in her own amazing way. Those random days were when I swore she could always be herself around me, no matter what. I remember the day she changed too. She came home with empty eyes and a hollow voice saying she was fine. I went and sat with her for hours just in case she wanted to talk. All she said was that she was just tired. That day I swore to always be there if she ever needed to talk. As vividly as the good days, I remember the worst day of our family. I heard the water, which was unusual as she should have already left for school and her mother had already showered. I walked towards the bathroom, my socks becoming soaked as I got to the door. A red tinge the the water flooding out from under the door, so I raced in and saw her in the bath, tears staining her face with scars that were no longer invisible on her arms. I called for her mother, yelling as loud as I could. When her mother came in, she started bawling, before grabbing the phone to call an ambulance while I sat there comforting her. The paramedics came and took her to the hospital. That day I swore to always be by her side no matter what. I remember the day she came back, and all the days after it. She lashed out, almost relapsed a few times but she was on her way to being better. She did more activities, even if some days it was harder to get out of bed. She tried though for us, her friends and for herself. That day I swore that she could always lean on me for help, whenever she needed me. I remember the first day of therapy. She was reluctant and would only go if I went with her. So I did. We were in the waiting room for ten minutes before we got called in. The therapist seemed nice, a good presence radiating off him. She seemed comfortable early on in the session but didn’t talk about her problems. The first few I continued to go with her but after about the fifth session she went by herself. She would come home afterwards, and talk about a certain suggestion or something he did that helped. One day he shot her with foam bullets when she spoke about herself negatively. She said that made her feel so much better. That day I swore to always let her talk about whatever she wanted to keep the dark thoughts away. I remember the day she became herself again. Her hair was up, and she was wearing a singlet, showing off the scars she was always self conscious about, and shorts. But that wasn’t the big indicator. What really told me she was back was how excited she was when she found out she got into her dream university. She was dancing around the room, smiling, laughing, squealing, just like she used too. She called her friends around to celebrate with them. They all screamed before putting on songs from when they were growing up. She was laughing so hard she was breathless and her voice cracked as she and her friends tried to hit the high notes. As I observed her, it was as if I could see the black cloud that had engulfed her, lighten to a grey. That day I swore to keep making that cloud lighter and lighter. I remember the days she spent packing. Sorting all her belongings into three bags. She was going to live at the dormitories at the university. She had days where she would scream in excitement and there were days where she would panic about if she was ready for that much of a change. When those days came around, her mother would sit her down and tell her that aside from love, few activities seem to provide us as much happiness as going travelling: taking off for somewhere else, somewhere far from home, a place with more interesting weather, customs and landscapes. They laughed about the weather part, the school was only two hours away. That quote seemed to get her through so much. That day I swore to always provide her with the same amount of love that I knew she would feel for travelling. I remember the day she left for university. All smiles and nervous excitement, as if she was right back in kindergarten. She promised to call if things ever got bad again before giving us one last hug before leaving us behind, driving to her new life. That was the day I swore to always support her, no matter how much distance was between us. I remember the day she came home too. She had tears in her eyes, as she hugged me, muttering sweet nothings in my ear. She asked her mother how long I had left, a sob wracking her body when she heard I wouldn’t make it through the night. I realised that this was the day that all my promises were going to be broken. I closed my eyes, imagining all the days I wish I had the chance to remember. The wedding day she had planned since the age of thirteen, the kids she had already chosen names for, and even the house I knew she had already mentally decorated. But I knew I would never be able to see these days come to pass. I accepted that when it started to hurt too much to be normal. I opened my eyes again when I felt her hand stroking my head, I could hear her talking as well. She was saying how much she loved me, to the moon and back, how much she will miss me and our amazing time together, how proud of me she is that I kept fighting, until the end and how thankful she is for my constant support. As I closed my eyes for the last time, I heard her sob out one last sentence in a wobbly voice. “You are a good boy, the best dog ever.”

The corpse was right where I left it, half-buried in the snow six miles north-east of base camp. Even through my tinted visor, the glare of the sun on Antarctic snow practically blocked out the terrain, and I had to squint to see three meters in front of me. Unfortunately, that didn’t obscure the frozen arcs of vermilion blood on the ground, or the fact that the body lacked a head. “What the fuck is this, Barton?” Nilsen asked me. I couldn’t form words. I’d never seen a dead person in real life; maybe a few body bags, the odd morgue, but nothing nearly as visceral or as raw as this. I swallowed bile. The acrid tang of last night’s rations burned my throat and made my eyes stream. “I don’t know, sir. Sorry--Nilsen. I found it--them--this morning on a hike.” “Well, it is clearly a Russian,” he said, gesturing to a blurred mass of black text on the corpse’s chest. “Demidov is not an American surname.” I blinked away tears and the body’s nameplate, black text on a bright orange background, was thrown into focus. Padded under thick, ice-spattered layers, the body was essentially androgynous. Without the face peeking out from under the parka’s hood, there was no means of identifying the body any further. Whatever had torn the hapless Russian’s head off had done a remarkably clean job; the wound was neat and even, with barely a tear on the skin below the cut-off point. The only sign of violence was a loose tear in the material around the parka’s collar. The fluorescent orange fabric had frayed and come apart from the outer lining, as if somebody had tried to rip the collar off. Bloodstained, it lay spread on the snow, a cruel facsimile of the national flags that ringed our own research outpost. “Probably from Vostok,” Nilsen continued. “They are the closest base to us. Still, travelling fifty miles in this cold? They must have frozen or starved to death days ago. It’s a miracle they made it so far.” “They must’ve been fucking desperate,” I muttered. “There’s no way anyone would’ve left a snowmobile behind unless--” “Unless there was no other option.” He glanced at me, eyes invisible behind his goggles. Neither of us dared mention the blood or the absence of Demidov’s head above the nape of their neck: the first human being we’d encountered aside from ourselves in seven months, and they turn up dead and mutilated in a snowdrift. There are bad omens, and then there’s just a great big middle finger from the universe. I stared out at the endless expanse of white, unwilling to glance at the corpse. “Should we take the, um, body back? Y’know, to study or something?” “Unless it’s a magic troll in disguise that will somehow deliver another year’s worth of food,” Nilsen replied bitterly, “then there’s no point, is there?” “Should we bury them? I think--” “Let the snow take care of it. If that corpse freezes in the ice cap, it’ll outlast the rest of us.” “Nilsen--” “When I give an order, I expect you to call me sir,” he interrupted brusquely, his Danish accent sharpening the vowels. I knew that arguing would be hopeless. Nilsen didn’t exercise his authority as base commander often, but when he did, there was no such thing as a rebuttal. He trudged back to the snowmobile, not waiting for a reply. Predictable. Nilsen was totally unreasonable in one of his taciturn moods, not that I could really blame him. Everyone who remained had their coping mechanisms. Fettes drank her way through what little was left of the alcohol stores. Lindwall wrote three emails a day to her wife: they ended up in the unsent tray every time, but she kept going, letter after letter. Waites poked and prodded at the radio, hoping that against all logic and reason, a voice would finally reply to his increasingly frantic hails. I went for my hikes, trekking further and further each time. Nobody minded. In fact, I think they’d all be secretly glad if I ended up getting lost and ending up like poor Demidov. Anything to stretch out their supplies and stave off the inevitable. In any other age, any other situation, the discovery of a headless corpse at the South Pole would’ve been a legend. Now it was simply a tiring annoyance, another thing to keep us awake during the endless daylight of the Antarctic summer.

The storm engulfed the valley. It unsheathed its wrath on the Glen below; mercilessly. Arrochar, the valley of the two lochs, hidden among the Trossachs mountains. The village bared the angriest malice of the Scottish weather. The young boy stood at the bank of Loch Lomond, his gaze fixed on the towering mountain that pierced into the clouds. His breath held, listening to the melody of the storm. The roaring skies that bellowed thunder from its belly, the wind’s howl echoed through the Munros, and the waves crashed its jaw on the bay. Mostly he'd hear nothing out of the ordinary. But still, he listened carefully to catch the song in the storm. HER song. He traced over the empty gap on his boot where his sgian-dubh once rested. His grip tightened around a marble conch shell, wondering if its owner would return. Many full moons faded since that evening. He waited out every storm since then, listening for her voice, reminiscing that fateful evening... ***** Angus clawed his way up the mountain, his frail hands struggling to catch grip on the waterlogged gravel. He could hear his older brother calling out from far below; his voice fading with each rock he’d scale over, slowly ascending into the mist. He had to lose his brother off his trail. He knew he’d be dragged back home if Fraser ever caught up. He couldn’t bear to face his bullies having failed his challenge. Bring back a stone from the cairn at the mountain summit, they said, and show them the so-called might of the MacFarlane clan. Perhaps then he’d be released from their torment. Their taunts echoed piercingly in his head. He didn't know what he feared more. The never-ending jeers of his failure, the battering winds that could fling him away with one swift blow, or the unearthly creatures that hunted unsuspecting travellers who’d strayed from their path. “Kelpies haunt the foord by your direction, an’ nighted trav’llers are aluur’d to their destruction”. He knew the stories were only made to scare children away from danger. He couldn’t let silly folklore scare him anymore. Though he could not help but wonder if the legends were true. The tales of a shape-shifting water horse, who’d lure men with alluring beauty, only to feast upon their victims. The storm raged violently. The heavy gust edged him towards the drop. His heel off the ledge, gripping down with his toes and worn fingernails. He glanced down at the bottomless death he avoided; very narrowly. He traced the rocky path with his eyes, but it faded into the mist. The summit remained shrouded among the clouds. That was when he heard it. An ominous melody in the wind. Something was out there. Though the mist rendered his vision shorter than his arm’s reach, he sensed something tracing his movements. He reached down for his sgian-dubh and took arms. The fragile stone blade shuddered under his numb, blue grip. He cursed his father for believing him to be too young to wield a real blade. Slowly, he etched forwards, darting his eyes in every corner of his fading surroundings. Left. There was no mistaking it, something dashed across his left. The wind had come to a sudden halt, and the rain had silenced. He held his breath, listening to every leaf rustle, and every raindrop. He could hear the song getting louder and closer. Its breath was on his neck. He slowly turned his head to the tree beside him. There it stood, behind the twisting dead tree that clawed out its branches. He kept his gaze on the red eyes, glaring hungrily at him. The mist faded to reveal the creature hidden within. A stallion with blood-red eyes piercing into his soul. It gills ripped across its neck, and its fangs poised like daggers. Its black body was a dark abyss, consuming the fading remnants of light. The wind howled in fear at the creature’s presence. Its blow swept Angus over the cliffside. He clawed into the rocky ledge, desperately climbing away from the bottomless void beneath him. The creature bellowed a haunting cry and hurdled towards the mountain edge. The rock shifted under Angus’s weight and pelted onto his forehead. His senses withering as he plummeted down. The final traces of light reaching his eyes watched the blurred creature shoot its hooves down to reach for his arm. As his vision faded from red to black, to nothingness. ***** "Angus! Angus!" Fraser yelled with all his might, yet his dim cries were no match against the roaring wind and the canon firing raindrops. He cursed the other village boys for constantly tormenting his poor wee brother. He had a right mind to wheech them off the mountain summit. That would show them to challenge the might of the MacFarlane clan. Nightfall was fast approaching. It was difficult enough to make his way through the shrouding mist, but the darkness would render it impossible. He was drenched, blistered and bruised. Yet the thought of his younger brother's lifeless body overwhelmed his sense of pain, as he continued the chase. He knew better than to let his fear fall prey to silly folklore of the unearthly creatures dwelling in the mountains. He knew they were only tales to scare the children away from harm. Yet he could not shake the lingering unease lurking within him. Perhaps it was the way the wind seemed to whistle back and forth to itself, as if it were communicating. Or perhaps it was the way the mist that had engulfed him, creating the sense that he was being watched... ***** The eruption of lightning jolted Angus awake. He gasped for air, coughing uncontrollably. He could hear the waves of the loch crashing onto the harbour bay. Just how far had he fallen? Was he dead? His vision sharpened back to him slowly. He found himself shielded away from the spearing storm within the mouth of a shallow cave. His stone blade placed delicately next to him was enough to work out he hadn’t fallen here by accident. Someone, or rather, something had brought him here. Carefully, he picked up his blade and scanned the cave. He turned towards the song coming from within. The flash of lightning revealed the pale, ghostly face, watching him from the shadows. He poised his blade at the creature, waves of terror flooded his veins, as he shook uncontrollably in terror and agony. "Show yourself!" he demanded. Desperately praying his squeaky childish voice was threatening enough to scare it away "I've been told to never reveal myself to a man" it replied with a playful tone. Angus lowered his blade in defeat and sorrow. He sat back on the rock, tucking himself into a ball. "Then you have nought to worry about", he said with a melancholic sigh, "I'm not a man. I never will be one, just a wee runt who cannae fend for himself". The pale face gave a beaming smile that lit up the cave, as it slowly rose from the shadows. Angus watched in awe as the girl emerged from the rocks and skipped towards him. His face helplessly reddened at her beauty, mesmerised by her heavenly choral voice and the sweet melody she sang. Her ebony hair glistened with the fading light of the evening. Her smile radiated through the shadowing mist like a beacon, with a row of pearls glimmering in her mouth. But above all else, it was her ruby eyes that charmed a spell over Angus's heart. But the spell broke just as quickly as Angus backed away wide-eyed in fear at the sight of her hooves. He cowered back with his blade trembling in his hand, pointed dead at the girl. "You...you’re a Kelpie! You’re a man-eating Kelpie ain’t ya!" "That's right!" she said, the same smile still beaming ear to ear "I won't let you eat me!" he closed his eyes and swung his blade in frenzy. "I'll fight you to the death I will!" She gently placed her hand on his and lowered his weapon. "Father was right about men, nothing but war on their minds" she tutted, and gently placed his hand over his bandaged forehead. "Don't you think if I wanted to eat you, I would have by now?" Angus slumped back on the cave floor in shame and confusion. "So why have you kept me alive then if not to eat me?", he asked, looking into the girl’s piercing ruby gaze, as if disappointed in not having the worth to even be eaten. The girl sat beside him and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't enjoy the taste really. I prefer deer, fish or sheep really. Men are nutritious for us, but you all simply taste sweaty and horrible to me.” Angus let out a small chuckle but stopped abruptly at the sharp pain on his forehead. “Hope you don’t mind” she began, “but I had to rip off a bit of that cloth you’re wearing to stop you bleeding to death.” He stared miserably at the muddy, shredded remains of his kilt. The regal red and emerald tartan of the MacFarlane clan soiled brown. He deserved it, he thought. Better left to rot in the earth than soil the name of a mighty clan with his measly existence. “Cheer up!” You’re alive, aren’t you? You’re lucky that it was me who found you and not one of the others. They love the taste of man meat. Storms like these are when we go to hunt. We hide ourselves in the mist, hunting for dwelling travellers who’ve lost their way in the mountains. We’re always hidden away, so we forever remain only a myth, unknown to the world on the truth of our existence.” The girl kicked her feet in the air and continued to sing, tuning her melody with the whistling of the wind. Angus was mesmerised by every note she sang. He closed his eyes, hypnotised by her soothing song, he felt his pain slowly ebb away. “What’s that song you keep singing?” he asked when she finally finished. She placed an arm around him and returned a sly expression, as she leaned close to whisper into his ear. “It’s our hunting song. It’s what we sing when we’ve found a prey to feast on, our signal to call upon the others to ambush our victim.” Angus froze, his heart stopped dead. He gazed into the creatures menacing eyes, as she revealed a row of teeth, each as sharp a dagger. She couldn’t hold back anymore. She threw her head back and burst out into laughter. “Sorry,” she croaked, struggling to catch breath between laughter, “couldn't resist! Don’t worry, the others can’t hear me. At least, not without this.” She revealed a marble conch shell, glimmering in the fractured light refracted through the raindrops. Angus’s anger quickly subsided by the glistening treasure. He looked at the shell, then back at the creature with great curiosity. “So why aren’t you on the hunt with everyone else?” The girl didn’t reply, she merely gave him a smile and continued to hum her melody. But Angus understood. Though the shape sifter could eloquently disguise herself with her smile, she could not hide the loneliness that flickered in her eyes. The same pain that was in his own. He understood all too well the misery of an outcast. He heaved himself up from the rock and offered his hand to the lonely kelpie. “I’m Angus, wee’un of the MacFarlane clan.” The girl giggled and took the young boy’s hand. “Marie” she replied. ***** Nightfall was nearby, and the final traces of light would soon disappear. Yet still, there was no sign of his younger brother. There would be no way of finding a path down if he continued to climb. He’d be trapped on the mountain at the mercy of the storm. His brother’s fate unknown, praying that he was at the very least alive. A sudden gust catapulting him across the path. He tightened his white-knuckled grip onto a nearby tree branch and shielded his face against the barrage of rain. The wind howled stronger, determined to blast him off the mountain. Fraser darted his head at the creaking beneath him and dived away from the branch. But it was too late. The tree was hurled clean off its roots and crashed onto his body. He wanted to scream, but the weight had winded the air from his crushed lungs. His vision blackened and his mind blurred by the pain. The last thing he heard was a gentle song humming in the wind, as his senses faded away... ***** Marie’s ruby eyes flared blood red without warning, as her fangs began to emerge. "Blood of man" she growled, "the smell is nearby". Angus stumbled back in fear at her sudden outburst. He had let his guard down and now was helpless to defend himself. Marie quickly dimmed her eyes and retracted her fangs at the sight of the frightened boy. She apologised and helped him up, dusting the gravel off his skin. "Listen", she whispered. Angus held his breath, gazing into the Loch. He put his ear to the roaring wind and picked up the melody of her song. He could hear multiple voices echoing back and forth, hidden within the uproar of the storm. "There's another injured traveller up there. I can smell their blood. The others must have picked up his scent too". Angus gazed onto the mountain and wondered about the poor soul who'd fall prey to the Kelpie hunt. His face suddenly whitened pale, and his eyes widened. "Fraser!" He jolted up as the lightning struck the bay with full might. Marie held onto him dearly, urging him not to take himself back to the jaws of danger. She knew there was no way to protect him from the hungry herd on their hunt, but Angus wouldn't let down. "Please! I can't let my brother die!" Marie returned a heartbroken expression to the boy. She didn't want to lose the only person who she could seek refuge from her loneliness. Though she’d never felt the compassion of a friend before, she knew the duties of one, and was prepared to help her friend in his time of need. She transformed into her true form and heaved the boy onto her neck. “Grab hold of my mane, and don’t let go.” The deafening roar of thunder followed the bolt of lightning as it crashed into the bay. With a bellowing shriek, Marie charged into the mist at the foot of the mountain. She scaled the unforgiving terrain effortlessly, her galloping strides gliding over the rocky path. Angus clutched her mane in fear and awe. He felt the freedom of an eagle, soaring over the mountain towards the never-ending horizon. His eyes vigorously scanning for his brother “There! It’s him!” He leapt from her back and darted towards Fraser. He feebly tried to lift the crushing tree away off his brother’s, but his strength could barely catch grip on the bark of the hardwood. He leaned close, praying to hear even the faintest of living breaths. The songs in the storm were getting louder. The kelpies were edging closer. He desperately clawed away at the bark and heaved the trunk with all his will. Finally, he could feel it slowly budging. He rammed into the side of the trunk, but it didn’t shift, instead it began to lift upwards. He watched open-jawed as Marie lifted the giant pine tree over her head, and launched it over the cliff, as it soared into the horizon. The songs surrounded them with the mist, rapidly closing in on them. They were out of time. With another burst of strength, Marie heaved the two brothers into the air and caught them on her back as she transformed once more. She took a few trots back, before galloping at full speed, leaping over the cliff edge, down into the bottomless void. The songs fading as they fell deeper into the abyss. ***** Angus dropped to his knees in relief when he opened his eyes and found himself back safely on the bay. He held his brother tight upon hearing his breaths slowly strengthening. He exchanged an expression of gratefulness to his new friend, but she returned it with a melancholic smile, as she turned away from him. “Wait!” he cried. He opened her hand and placed his treasured sgian-dubh in her hold. “Something to remember me by. Made it myself. Hopefully won’t need it since I’ll get a real blade soon.” Her tears held back in futility. She tightly threw her arms around him and embraced the love of her new, and only friend. Angus couldn’t help but shed a teary smile when he noticed the flickering loneliness had faded away from her piercing ruby eyes. He watched her run back towards the mountain, as she galloped away disappearing into the mist. ***** Angus stood at the foot of the loch, inspecting the marble shell she gave to him in return. The final words they exchanged on that eve echoed in his mind. “Will I ever see you again?” he had asked, his voice breaking with sorrow. He turned his gaze to the mist that consumed the mountain, towards the song that pierced through the dark. His face beamed as she emerged from the haze. The two sprinted besides the crashing waves and threw their arms around each other, welcoming the warm embrace of their newfound friendship. “Wait for me by the loch when the storms rage across the Glen”, she had said to him, “the kelpies hunt among the mountains when the mist shrouds their presence, when the roaring winds carry their melodies. But I’ll be here instead, waiting for you. Listen for the sound of my voice, listen for the song of the storm.”

Hi everyone my name is Ella McCarthy I was born and raised at United Kingdom. I’m 15 years old. My dad decided to moved at Los Angeles California with us for his new business. We arrived at the said country. Our new neighborhoods shown their skills in cooking. They loves my British accent. My mom enrolled me at the school. First day of school my brother Douglas fell in love to his new classmate. He is one year older than me. Her classmate’s name is Lily Watson. Lily Watson is so gorgeous and sexy. No wonder she is a campus crush. Douglas is an introvert. He has no courage to tell his feelings for Lily. Douglas is certified no girl friend since birth. At the campus I sat the bench waiting for my brother. While waiting there was a group of mean girls trying to annoys me. Unfortunately they had no idea how bully I am. The guidance councilor caught us having a sarcastic conversations. Until Mildred pushed me. Because she lose to our debate. Her friends teasing me. So I kicked her tummy. After the incidents we received one week suspension. We are required to attend to community service. My parents scolded me. We arrived at the forest. I saw Lily she has an advocacy. She loves to protect our mother nature. Lily introduced her favorite tree to me. I asked her why she loves it and why she worshiped mother nature. According to her we need to taking care our nature. Because our nature never stop loving our land. I fell in love to that place. After our community service. I went back at our home. I went on my room and I heard Douglas he sang his original composition. I went on his room. I asked him if he is in love to someone. He admitted he fell in love so quickly to Lily. I taught him how to express his feelings for Lily. Unfortunately he can’t do that. So I volunteer to helps him how to win her heart. At the school I talked to Lily. I shared everything to her about Douglas. It seems Lily is interested to listen to my story. Lily and I became best friend. Every weekends she spent her days at the house or sometimes we went to our rendezvous at the forest. Douglas is so over the moon he is getting closer to Lily. Our school announced our JS Prom. Douglas had no courage to ask her to be his date. Well I’m willing to help him. On the following day. I makes surprises for Lily inside the campus. I sing and dance in front of her. Just to get her sweetest “Yes” for my brother. I asked her if she want to be my brother’s date on our upcoming prom. She said Yes. Douglas became happy. At the prom I saw Lily wearing her expensive gown. She is the most beautiful maiden I ever seen in my whole life. I witnessed my brother’s reaction when he saw Lily. It’s obviously he is in love to her. The former Prom queen and king announced the newly prom king and queen. Douglas and Lily won the crown. While Douglas and Lily dancing on the center stage. I felt a little bit of jealousness. I told to myself. That should be me. While watching them I reminisced how we started to became best friend. I went inside the C.R I looked at the mirror and I saw myself with teardrops. I realized I fell in love with my best friend and now my brother’s imaginary girl friend. I went alone at the gazebo. I wrote a poem on the piece of a paper. I was surprised when she called me. Inside the gazebo. Lily asked me for a dance. I granted her request. While dancing she admitted her feelings regarding to me. She loves the way I makes her happy everyday. She cherish our moments together. She enjoyed the days I court her for Douglas. Lily admitted she is slowly falling in love with me since the day we met. I gave my poem to her. I wrote what’s truly inside my heart. I love the way you looks at me I love the scent of your body My soul is melting every time I see you I felt I’m a prisoner inside your heart Can I kiss you even just for now Or can you tell me you loves me Even it’s a lie Say that you love me Even Just for now. The birds, The Trees, The river and The Wind These are our witnessed Without prejudice I will cross the ocean I can be a Mother Nature for you Just say that you love me Even just for now The Trees that binds us It seems they’re rooting for us We had roots that connects to our hearts. I wrote this for her. She is teary eyed while reading my poem for her. She couldn't believed she fell in love with me. She believes mother nature is one of the reason why we fell in love to each other. Lily kissed my lips and she said she loves me. Even she is not sure if she want to continue her feelings for me. Since we’re both too young for love. Lily say good bye to me. Because her journey in high school is almost over. She will migrate on New York City with her parents after her graduation day. Lily rejected Douglas. Lily and I had connections because of her favorite tree. I joined to her group. I learned to love our nature. I became an ambassador for the said group. I encourage the community to love and protect Mother Nature. I also met different people at the community. Every summer Lily went back at Los Angeles to check her favorite tree. We swims at the river and we slept at the grass. Everytime she visited our rendezvous At least I know to myself she loves me and that's enough for me.

He woke up in a cold and sterile room. Sickly green curtains hung limp over the window, adorned with lilacs and daisies. The room was strangely devoid of personality. There were no clothes to be seen, everything was neat and orderly, and there was no dog-eared journal, yellow and faded with age. "Where is my notebook?" he thought, angrily. He propped himself up in the bed and searched closer. Nothing. He did, however, notice the framed portrait of an old couple on the bedstand. "Oh." He realized where he was, and shakily stood up to get a coffee. As he hobbled down the halls of the nursing home, he looked around at the others in the entertainment rooms. They sat about, some talking, others watching TV, others still merely sitting and watching their lives fade away. The only thing they had in common were their eyes. Each one shared the same look, the same gaze, one of hopelessness and disgust and confusion. "Good morning Edward!" someone called out. He paused, unsure how to react, or to whom. "Good morning to you too!" he eventually responded, to no one in particular. His name was Francis. When Francis finally reached the kitchen, he paused again. Why had he come here? He began to rummage through the various drawers and cabinets. "What are you looking for, Francis?" The voice frightened him. He looked around, starled. One of the nurses stood in the kitchen, watching him quietly. "Oh, just whatever I find." he said, suddenly cheery. She smiled a sad sort of smile and left him to his own devices. The coffee machine gurgled on the counter. "Ah, that's right. Coffee." Francis thought. He pulled a stained blue glass out of the cupboard, and set it brusquely on the table. He shakily grabbed the pot and poured the coffee into the glass, spilling enough to dribble down the sides and onto the wood below. He set the pot back on the machine, and picked up the steaming glass. He cried out in pain as the hot glass burned his hand, and he dropped the glass onto the floor. "I'll get that" said the nurse as she swept up the glass and called for a mop. Francis stood, rooted to the ground, looking very scared, and confused. He didn't understand. The nurse returned with an insulated styrofoam cup, and filled it with coffee for him. "Oh, thank you Agnes." said Francis, with a warm and overlarge smile, as he shuffled out of the room clutching the cup. Her name was Alice.   Francis sat on the cold, hard couch and stared at the cup of coffee. A television played Fox News very loudly in the background, and, at another table, a man sat playing chess with himself. "Francis, your grandson is here to see you!" He looked up, to see a different nurse guiding a man to the couch where he sat. Francis smiled. "Hello Robert!" He said cheerily. "Hi Grandpa" answered Robert, somewhat meekly. "Would you like a coffee?" Francis asked. "The nurse poured me one, but I didn't really want it." "Sure, Grandpa." Robert said, as he grimaced and took a sip. "Thank you." Francis was very pleased. He smiled at Robert for a moment, then asked eagerly "So how is school going? You must be in the 11th grade by now, isn't that right?" Robert paused, unsure how to answer. "I'm in the 14th grade, Grandpa." "Oh." Francis said. "Well, I always liked the 11th grade. That was the year I met your mother!" Robert looked rather uncomfortable. "You mean Grandma?" "Ah yes." Said Francis, ignoring him. "Say, be sure to let your mother and I know if you ever need help paying for college." There was a long pause, and Robert teared up. "Grandpa, Grandma has been dead for 9 months." "No, she hasn't!" Francis said, airily. "She's right here with us! Agnes! Come over here Agnes, Robert has come to visit." The background chatter hushed, and head began to swivel towards the pair. "Agnes? Come on honey, don't you want to visit?" A note of concern began to enter his voice. Robert was crying. "Where have you gone? Get over here you old bat!" Francis stood up, and began to search for his dead wife. He stumbled down the hall, screaming her name, confused and angry, at this, at himself, at everything. Robert still sat on the couch, holding the cold cup of coffee, tears running down his face. Next to him, the spot where his grandfather had once sat was still warm. He was once a brilliant man, an engineer. He lived his live with vigorous pride and determination. He worked hard, retired early, and gained the respect of almost everyone he met. He was happy, and others were happy for him. His life was charmed, it seemed. But now, he hobbled through the halls of the nursing home, yelling at the empty frames on the wall and the empty people that lived there. He screamed and searched for his wife who would never be found. He could no longer understand. His name was Francis.

Just six months ago, I was the highest ranking warrior in our lands, and I was forced to give that up for the sake of a prophecy. I understand why King Jurien eliminated my former title, but what am I if not a warrior? Only one week remains until I am to wed the King, and I should be honored the Gods saw me worthy of being Queen of Beloar, but some part of me was mournful of the life I always expected to live. “There was an attack in the Northern Forest, my King.” A guard announced as he rushed to the King’s side. The King immediately rose from his seat, slamming his hands down on the table we were currently eating dinner on. The porcelain dishes on the table shook, one sent flying towards the floor before shattering. “Is anyone injured?” he questioned, already knowing the guards' response. The attacks on palace grounds have increased in the past several weeks. The creatures that lurk in the forest are capable of breaching the innermost spaces of your mind and transforming you into nothing more than a puppet. I’ve seen warriors turn their weapons to their comrades and eliminate the threat they post to the creatures. Most are not even aware of the creature closing in until it’s too late. Once you know of the creature's presence, your fate is in its hands. “One guard, sir.” the guard paused, as if he didn’t want to explain further, but continued, “your guard. Kolan killed himself before the creature could take hold. Nobody else was injured. Warriors are trailing the creature now.” “Call the search off.” The King demanded. “The beasts are faster than the warriors. There is no point.” The guard nodded, before leaving out of the dining room door. King Jurien remained standing with his hands braced on the table, his head slumped over in defeat and worry. I chose to remain silent. As a warrior, I was well-trained on the customs and order of our lands. Even before becoming a warrior, I’ve never once questioned the commands or motives of the King. I often reminisce of my life as a high warrior- commanding the forces and eliminating the evils that would consume our land if left unchecked. King Jurien quickly picked his head back up, straightening his posture, and left the room. The shattered dishes on the ground beneath the table were already being tended to by the maids. I made my way to my bedroom, which was separate from the King’s. He preferred his own space, but we occasionally shared a bed. That is how it’s supposed to be, afterall. Now that I am to be Queen in a week, I will be expected to be available to the King at all times and eventually carry children. I want this, though. Even if I am not always sure of it, this is how it has to be, and I should be grateful. *** The next morning, I was awoken by the sunlight that beamed through the window across from my bed. The maid stood before my bed, bright eyed and cheery as always. “Oh! Good morning Remielle. How was your rest?” She asked me. “It was lovely, thank you Hana.” I replied as I threw off my covers and forced my tired legs to stand. “Breakfast is nearly ready. You have about ... “ Hana turned to the clock that hung beside the bedroom door, “thirty minutes to be at the table. Do you need anything before I depart?” “No, thank you Hana. I appreciate you for waking me.” A friendly smile escaped as I responded. Hana closed the door behind her as she left. I quickly found my clothes, already laid out and prepared by Hana. A gorgeous sky-blue fabric, with a white floral lace flowing from the waist down. I slipped the dress on, tightening the strings that wrapped around the waist. It fell just to my feet, barely brushing the floor, as if it was sewed only to fit my slim body. My straight blonde hair fell to the space just above my collarbones. Hana left a pair of elegant slippers, which were surprisingly comfortable to walk in. I made my way down the bright corridor, walking toward the dining room where the King waits. He never starts eating until I am present. The grand doors to the dining room were silent as I entered, closing gently behind me. There was a face I had never seen before standing to the right of the doors. I paused for just a moment, studying and appreciating his features. His hair appears black in comparison to the King’s deep brown. His eyes ... I have never seen such a contrast. His green eyes are vibrant against his lightly tanned skin and black hair that was tightly knotted into a bun behind his head. I forced myself to push aside the thoughts I was having of this man, and continued walking to the table. I pulled out my chair and sat across from King Jurien. “Good morning, my future Queen.” Jurien said without even glancing my way. “Good morning to you, my King.” I replied, already digging my fork into the potato scramble on my plate. “This is Luther, my new guard. After what happened to Kolan, they were quick to reassign a new guard. This one won’t be venturing off to the forest like Kolan did. How foolish he was.” the King spoke firmly. “Lovely to meet you ... Luther.” I glanced in his direction, clearing my throat before continuing at my food. “You as well, Remielle.” He replied, not loosening his gaze on me. The way he said my name had me squirming in my chair. “Remielle, are your preparations in order for our wedding? I expect Hana has aided in those preparations?” He questioned, never once looking toward Remielle. “Oh, she’s been more than helpful. She’s done a great deal to lessen my load.” I responded, checking to see if he would look at me just once during our conversation ... which he didnt. “I expect nothing less. Hana is to be at your assistance. I trust you will notify me if there are any concerns.” I nodded. “Of course, my King.” I can’t help but feel that he is ungrateful for his servants. It’s evident that he’s never lived as a commoner, as I once was. I understand that every person is expected to do as the King demands, without expectations of something in return, but it sometimes feels wrong. These servants work tirelessly and never ask for anything. We sat in silence for the remainder of the meal, before the King exited, ordering Luther to show me to the garden once I finished eating. I spend a significant amount of time in the garden. After my warrior title was stripped from me, I had to find something to fill my time with, and the King suggested gardening. Although he was sometimes cruel, he truly wanted me to be untroubled and content with my new life as his Queen. Before my mother died when I was a child, she brought me to her garden frequently and that’s where we bonded the most. For a while, gardening was a painful reminder of what I lost. I have learned to find joy in it now, however. On our walk to the garden, I refrained from speaking to Luther, mostly because I wasn’t sure what to say. I shouldn’t be this attracted to someone other than my future husband. I was to be married in just 6 days and I just met this man. These thoughts must mean nothing. I expected our walk to be filled with silence, but he spoke to me first. “Do you come to the palace gardens often?” He looked toward me, waiting for my response and scanning my face. “I do. I find it quite peaceful. I didn’t expect to ever find this happiness in the garden after ... “ I didn’t finish the sentence. I don’t feel compelled to share my life story with a stranger. “From what I hear, you are a skilled warrior. Why did you relinquish that title?” He stared at the ground, hands in his pockets as we continued walking around the garden. “I was a warrior. I am to be a Queen now. As you know, a Queen has no place commanding armies. Besides, King Jurien required me to forgo those duties and focus on my new life. He wants to start a family, and I’m to remain in the palace to raise them.” I took a deep breath before forcing a smile. This is an honor, I recited in my head. “Ah ...” he nodded, “what a shame. All for some prophecy .” He said with disapproval, shaking his head. I was stunned. The King’s personal guard just disrespected the prophecy and the King in the presence of his future Queen. “You are not to mock or ridicule the prophecy. Only good things come from the Priestess’s words. You must respect the order.” I sternly reminded him. He stiffened, “I meant no disrespect. I only wish to share my concerns with the prophecy. I am sure you see the suffering of commoners while the Royal folk live grandly, without care.” I knew he was right, deep down, but I would never admit that. To speak of the Royal in such a manner is borderline treasonous. Luther showed me back to my room, as I requested, and I stayed there until Dinner. I saw him again at Dinner, but we just exchanged brief stares before moving on. *** I awoke in the middle of the night ... nightmares again of the creatures that roam the forest. I can see the forest edge just outside of my window, only a short walk away. Would we ever truly be safe until those beasts are eliminated? I am not even certain it’s possible that we could ever rid the lands of all of those evil creatures. We do not even know where they retreat to after an attack, so the chances of us wiping them out is slim. It is always the same nightmare, too - I’m usually in the garden, tending to one of my plants, when I hear screams of people in the palace ... I will find every person controlled, including the King, and the creature then claims me, it’s final victim ... for whatever ends it wishes to achieve. Apparently this time I was screaming, because when I peered up, I saw Luther standing aside my bed, concern stretching across his face. He had never been here to witness my nightmares before. “Remi! Are you alright? I heard screaming.” “I am okay, Luther. I just have nightmares quite often and they interrupt my sleep when they occur.” I made sure to note that he was here, but King Jurien, who I was marrying in just 5 days, was nowhere around. I know he would never care for me the way Luther cares in this moment. I pushed the feelings aside once more. “You can return to your sleeping quarters now, but I do appreciate your concern.” He hesitated, but turned toward the door. I was hoping he would leave so I can try to forget the way he makes me feel. It is wrong of me to feel this way toward a guard when I am almost a bride. He halted just before the door, still for a moment, before jolting toward me. Then I could hear what made him stop like that ... screaming. I am sure this is a dream. But considering Luther’s behavior, I know I am not dreaming. Luther quickly closed the door. “You really should go to the King, Luther.” I quietly suggested. He paused, before saying, “I can’t leave you alone. The King will be surrounded with guards, but you have no protection.” “I can defend myself, Luther ... remember ... warrior.” I smirked. I haven’t called myself a warrior since I gave up the title 6 months ago, but I liked the sound of it. It has been so long. “Damn right you are. Regardless, I’m not going anywhere. I will stay here until someone comes to report whether it is safe. We have no idea what that scream was for. I won’t leave you, Remi.” he replied, firm in his stance. There was no convincing him to leave her, and she knew it. We both remained silent for several long minutes, listening for any noise outside of the door, before I spoke. “Do you judge me ... for agreeing to marry him? Do you think it makes me weak and powerless?” That’s how I sometimes thought. I was a warrior. “I never think you are a weak. Far from it actually. You are marrying a man who couldn’t care less about you, knowing you are in for a life of pain and regret, all to respect the laws of the land. I think it is admirable. But I have to say, Remi, I do not want you to marry him. He is not deserving of you.” He replied, studying my face as he said those words. “Perhaps it is what I deserve. The prophecy requires it, Luther. I do not know what I am to do about that.” “Maybe the prophecy does not know what is good for you, my dear.” He sat on the bed, facing me now, brushing a stray piece of hair out of my eyes. I contemplated his words for several moments. But the way he said prophecy caught my attention. He said it as if he does not believe it. Why would a guard of the King suggest the prophecy is fake? “You think the prophecy is a lie?” I was truly curious. I have only known this man for 2 days, yet I believe he has good reason for whatever it is he believes. I must hear him out this time. “It is fake, Remi. Only the highest of Royalty know, but they will never give it up ... it gives them too much power. They have no reason to denounce prophecies that only ever benefit them.” His words had power. I do not know why, but a part of me believed him. For the first time ever, I was questioning the truth of the Priestesses and prophecies. We stared into each other's eyes for several moments longer, before the door suddenly burst open. It was Hana. “Oh my sweet girl! Are you alright?” She blinked and glanced at Luther before continuing. “One of the creatures must have breached the palace doors. An off-duty guard killed his sleeping wife. The other guards were able to subdue him and the palace is secure.” “Well I should be going now.” Luther announced. He straightened his shirt as he stood. Hana studied every move Luther made as he left the room, then turned to me. “Do you care to explain why he was in here?” Her head tilted and eyebrows rose. “He heard me scream. Nightmare again. That is all. Then he decided it would be best to stay until he knew the palace was safe. You can go back to sleep now, Hana.” I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Hm...” she paused, as if she knew the words we shared, “okay! I will be sure to let you sleep in tomorrow. I will sit breakfast outside your door in the morning. Or maybe I will have Luther do it.” She chucked back to me. *** By the time I woke up, the sun was already halfway across the sky. I’m not even going to bother with breakfast today. I got dressed in a hurry and went straight to the garden. 4 days until the wedding , I thought to myself. A part of me hoped there was truth to Luther’s words, so I wouldn’t have to marry the King. Footsteps approached and I turned to the entrance to the garden. Luther. He smiled and walked in my direction. “Did you manage to get some sleep last night? I couldn’t get you out of my head once I left...” he whispered, brushing my ear. “I slept fine.” I replied. I’m not giving this thing between us anymore attention. Luther could ruin my life. “Did the King ever come to check on you?” he knew what I was going to say. He knew the King just as I did. I took a deep breath, and replied, “He did not.” How long was I going to ignore these feelings I have toward Luther. If the prophecy is wrong, is it worth me never getting to be with Luther. Would he even agree to be with me? He has just as much to lose. “If I was marrying a woman like you, Remi, I would share a bed with her every night and she would never doubt my love for her.” He paused, examining the way my body shifted with those words. I couldn’t pretend any longer. I don’t want to live a life never knowing what could have came from this man that stood before me. I think he knew what I was feeling, because before I could do it myself, he lunged for me, kissing me. Passion swirled between us. Passion like I’d never knew before. Everything felt right about this, but I know it shouldn’t. I never pulled away, though, until footsteps sent us both shooting away from each other. “I figured you were hungry ... “ Hana announced, carrying a tray of food. We both knew she witnessed what just happened. “Remielle ... Luther, I know a way you can escape, if you wish to be together...” We turned to each other, as if we were deciding if that was an option. “Remielle.” Luther said to me, waiting for my confirmation. I contemplated for a moment. “We’ll do it.” I declared.

Hanbei knew the story Jingwei, the fierce bird who flew through the skies above the Chinese oceans. She often wished she had met the beautiful princess who was transformed into the mighty-winged bird who protected her people from the crashing waves and the powerful seas surrounding her homeland. Hanbei regularly looked up into an unfamiliar sky filled with New York skyscrapers, and she wondered if Jingwei knew that she now lived near the Atlantic Ocean and in new country where her family needed the protection of the bright, majestic bird. Dragons moved to the new country years before Hanbei was born, and often it slept quietly until poked to awake and stir the words and actions of those who spit fire and clawed into the air. Because of this, Hanbei’s mother forced her to stay indoors until the dangerous creatures slept again, leaving the city in peace. Deep in her bones, Hanbei, like so many new immigrants, yearned for the open spaces of city parks where trees shaded the pathways and where children safely ran until their legs grew tired. Her parents did their best to help her feel that she could live beyond the thin walls of her apartment by setting up ‘play dates’ with classmates on the computer. Hanbei took virtual violin lessons and played small pieces with those from the other apartments who sometimes leapt to their balconies to share their musical abilities with the city. Still, Hanbei wished she had wings like Jingwei. She wanted to fly far from the invisible danger that lurked like an approaching storm just outside of her front door. Hanbei’s parents knew their daughter’s legs were itching to move and her arms aching to fly. Once, on a shopping trip, Hanbei’s father looked frantically up and down the aisles for his daughter’s favorite spaghetti sauce; this was her favorite American food. Surprisingly, during his search, he discovered the very small display of various games in the back corner of the store. Immediately, a pair of red handles and a bright yellow jump rope caught his eyes; he could not stop smiling when he put this great find in his grocery basket. As soon as he was home, he and Hanbei ran down the steps to the small patch of dirt and grass that everyone at the apartments called ‘the garden’. They immediately began to practice jumping in sync while Hanbei’s mom videoed the perfect moment Hanbei’s feet jumped together in rhythm with her father’s, and they flew from the ground and left the earth for a moment. Still, in between laughter and happiness, there was always something hiding behind her parents’ smiles. Hanbei heard them whispering in Chinese, and sometimes in English, about how dangerous this new world was for them. She knew her parents cried behind the bedroom door, and when her dad stepped out on the balcony or sat alone in the apartment ‘garden’ with his tea, she knew things weighed heavily on his mind. Hanbei felt the most fearful when her mother’s glasses fell off the bathroom counter. Purchased in China just months ago before they crossed oceans, the glasses were frequently taken on and off during moments when her mom felt a headache coming on. Eventually, the screw holding one of the lenses in place fell out and was nowhere to be found. Hanbei and her parents quickly crawled on the floor looking for the one piece that would hold the lens in place. Quite unexpectantly, her mom, not being able to see clearly, accidentally crushed part of the frame of her glasses with her knee when she thought she caught sight of a silver speck and reached out to grab hold of it in the blurry world in which she now found herself. At the sound of the plastic frame cracking on the tile floor, Hanbei’s mother drew her hands over her eyes and began to cry, softly at first, and then uncontrollably. The three of them huddled on their knees in the bathroom and secretly wished they could all magically be transported back to their homeland. The crying passed when Hanbei’s dad taped the frame of her mother’s glasses so that the lens could stay in place. But at breakfast, the lenses from the broken frame popped out and landed in her mom’s cereal. Everyone laughed at how silly it was to see the lens floating in milk. Both Hanbei and her dad made funny faces and pretended their ears or noses fell into their cereal bowls, and they would wait patiently for Hanbei’s mom to smile as they each fished through their own bowls in search for what they had lost. During one of those times at breakfast, Hanbei looked longingly at her parents who began to question the strange glaring of their daughter’s eyes. Was she was feeling all right? Did she have a fever? Hanbei assured them that she was fine as her parents felt her forehead and held her cheeks in their hands. Hanbei understood why her parents built the safety nest of the apartment; she knew they loved her more than she would ever understand. But she felt something move within her and she needed them to let her go. She did not excuse herself from the table. She did not ask for permission. Hanbei’s mother quickly jumped for her daughter who was now already down the hallway and near her bedroom. Hanbei’s father jumped up too; he reached out for his wife who wanted to run for their daughter now shut up in her bedroom, door locked. He held her as she cried into his shoulder. Into the curve of his neck, she pleaded for him to let them return to China where it was safer for them all. Quietly in Chinese, he desperately tried to calm her. Didn’t she know she needed to accept their new country, its dragons and monsters lurking? Every country did have them, regardless of whether they seemed more familiar to her in their home country than they were here. Hanbei listened to her parents from the other side of her bedroom door; she wanted to strike out of the apartment, but she could not leave her parents standing alone. She quietly opened her bedroom door and moved down the hallway. Once within reach, she threw her arms around her parents, and from just outside her window, the wings and the cooing of city pigeons could be heard as they swept between the buildings.

***In a deal gone wrong, you become impregnated with the devil’s daughter. The devil forgets about his young daughter until on her 13th birthday, he attends her party and wants her back.*** ​ There's a knocking on the door, and I yell "Coming!" as I sprint through the house, dodging teenagers. The house is currently full of them, lounging around drinking or eating snacks. Some crowd the TV, some crowd the pool outside, but over it all is a thumping bass beat coming from the home sound system. I finally make it to the door and open it to find *him*. Suddenly I can feel the bass beat thrumming in my chest and I'm not sure it's the music anymore. I stand with my mouth hanging slightly open, before recovering and narrowing my eyes. "What do you want?" I demand. He smirks, knowing full well what's running through my mind. "I want....my daughter." "What? No," I breathe. "Yes," he says, and I almost feel the word creep up my throat and roll off my tongue but I catch it in time. "I said, no. You don't get to forget about her, forget about me, for THIRTEEN years, then just decide you want to take her away." We're still standing in the doorway and the couple of kids around us are gaping at the man in the frame. Reluctantly, I take a small step back and tilt my head, silently asking him to come in. He glides into the house and the sea of teenagers parts for him. He makes his way into the kitchen. *Of course he knows the layout of the house,* as I roll my eyes internally. I follow this man, the devil, my devil, into my kitchen. "Coffee?" I offer. "Sure," he smiles, and there is that grin. That smile that took me in so many years ago. My hands tremble as I hold the coffee mug out to him, and as he grabs it from me he looks up at me with his bottomless eyes. I let my own eyes roam, drinking in the one man who ever owned me. His beard, his hair, kept perfectly trimmed, brushed, and oiled. The rolled sleeves of his dark blue business shirt that put the star tattooed on his forearm on display. He knows my memories are flooding back, the dam I built in my mind buckling under the weight of his presence. The deal I tried to make, and how utterly wrong it went. How much fun we had, how much love we made, until one day, he disappeared. The crushing blow. Then later, finding out I was pregnant, with the devil's progeny no less. The baby grew healthy but I was alone. I couldn't tell my friends how it came to be, or where I had been, or who the father was. Thus I alienated myself, and the most difficult parts of the pregnancy came and went. A nameless doctor held my hand as I gave birth, and when I heard "It's a girl!" from one of the nurses, I blacked out. I thought he would come find us. I thought he would know. He *is* the Devil after all, who knows and sees all much like his heavenly counterpart. Fast forward thirteen years and all the pain, the sadness, the melancholy, gives way to a simmering rage. Who knows how long we sat in silence, me wallowing in my thoughts, him looking out the window, contemplating... something. I feel his eyes rest upon me, feel their weight at the top of my head. "My daughter is my pride and joy," I say, finding words. "She's so sweet, so calm, such a great kid who as you can see has made a fair amount of friends. You can't just take her from me." He smiles a soft, slow smile that spreads across his tanned face. "Babygirl, you knew the deal." My eyes start to brim over with tears. "She's all I have, all I have had, since you left," I manage, voice cracking. He tucks my hair behind my ear as one traitorous tear falls into my coffee. "I got very busy. I have a life of my own, you know. Had one for thousands of years before you came along and bewitched me." The last part makes me look up. *What a pathetic sight I must be. Not just crying, but allowing my heart to flutter in hope at his words.* He knows he has me now. "Can we work out another deal?" I say. At this his eyebrows arch. I barrel on, not wanting to give up whatever head start I have. "I don't want you to take her, and you're set on taking her, so how about this. We play a game of chess, just like old times. You win, you can have her and I won't fight you. You lose, she stays with me, but you can visit as you please." He laughs. Tilts his head back, opens his mouth wide and chortles at me. "You do realize you've only won one game against me?" I smile a small smile, and look up at my demon.

It was the beginning of the end. We were about to storm what used to be our home, storm the place that thought would protect us, protect our children but they damned us all to hell. I was the head figure of my battalion. The president of our Sect, had betrayed our people, betrayed us, and even betrayed me. I rallied my troops, transforming into something that no one can describe, a powerful being that glowed in the night sky. I had magic and wonderment, abilities that man could not describe in a single sentence. I was a powerful entity that was not human and nor was I angelic. I was angry and passionate for the people of this world. There is much more I could say but as we stormed in, my father, the president of this damned land, cowered in fear. My eyes grew narrow as an elegant dress appeared, walking with me as I closed in on him. ‘Do you have any last words;’ I muttered as he whimpered watching us storm his halls, the castle of his new country of Adelaide. I heard no answer as within seconds his body evaporated into the air, disappearing into the walls. The world was broken, detrimental, and emotional. We now had to focus on healing this world and building a new world, away from the authoritarian rule that we once knew. How did we get here, you might ask yourself, how we got here? Well, it is quite a story that has many twists and turns. I woke up to the sound of my alarm. It was the last day of my normal life before I knew who I was before I knew of the war and our past. My father came in with a tray of cookies and a note, from my late mother. “Today is the day princess;” He noted smiling as he sat on the edge of my bed. “Father, it is just my coronation into Adelaide’s kingdom. “A right of your birth; a right that your mother had on her 18th birthday and now you, princess, you are going to be crowned the princess of our land. “Father, can I get ready in peace. “Of course princess, and be down in an hour for your fitting. I nodded to him slowly closing the door behind him. I slowly leaned down as I read the note from my mother. It was a lengthy note that told the truth of who I was and the truth of our kingdom. We were not a utopia and the reason for her death was because she was about to unleash the tides of war on my father. I sat down staring as my hands beamed a white glow, slowly consuming my whole body and in an instant, my room was blasted from all corners of myself. The glow ceased as I slowly stood up staring at my hands in horror. My mother was like me. But not only that she was going to bring to light all of the stuff my father has done in the past years that were against the people, bringing them down, and destroying our country. I slowly walked down the stairs, tucking my mother’s note underneath my mattress and walking down the steps as nothing happened. I nodded to my father’s right-hand man, Lucifer. He has tried to court me for years but I have always pushed him to the side. Maybe today I would give him a chance. I did trust this man with my life. “Good morn Miss Adela, how do you do?” Lucifer said bowing to me as I bowed back. “Good, how about yourself Lucifer?” I said flirtatiously. “Greater seeing you, you excited for your coronation this afternoon;” He said cheekily. We were alone as I slowly motioned to go more Seclusive place. I smiled at him as he slowly hovered over me, smiling at me. “I was, I admit but now, I am not so sure,” I whispered to him. “Want to talk about it?” He asked staring at me with soft eyes, wondering what I was talking about. “You never liked my father have you?” I finally said as he slowly nodded to me. “Under what pretense;” He asked fidgeting with his work uniform. “The pretense that he killed Queen Adelaide when she tried to go public with her findings of my father,” I whispered looking in both directions to make sure my father wasn’t coming. “You know I serve my king well but yes, I have never liked him. I rather serve you and...” He paused as we bowed to a knight walking by. I looked down at my hands, did I just imagine that, or was that just me. “And I have been waiting for Lucifer, will you stand by me at my coronation,” I asked softly as he smiled at me with luring eyes. “I will be with you, to your right if that is what you wish and what is on your mind Princess?” He asked timidly. “I found out some things that have troubled me but at my coronation, I am going to call him out in front of the world. And if he says they are not true, I will show him the truth.” I said walking out into the open staring at the dark hallway ahead of me. “And what is the truth?” He asked skeptically. “This;” I whispered as I started to glow again, more quickly this time. His mouth dropped as I looked at him, he bowed to me nodding to me as he walked to the end of the hall in silence. I eased the glow and went to my fitting without another word to him or anybody. I knocked on the door to two older seamstresses that had seen my mother’s coronation. They were the proud woman that was proud of their pride and work in making uniforms, dresses, ball gowns and coronation uniforms. “Your father requested that you wear your mother’s gown.” The seamstress to my left said. “So we made a rendition of it but of course a more updated gown with similar features. You look so much like your mother; she was so young when she passed. You will honor her with this gown.” The seamstress said to the right of me. I nodded to them as they got started stripping me of my nightgown and dressed me in a corset, a brassiere, a bra, and a long elegant hoop skirt. I felt like I was stuck in medieval times. I sighed as the long gown went over my slim frame. It was a white gown with red sapphires, amethyst jewels, and even gold sequins that were made into snowflakes. My mother wore a similar gown with lace. They added that at the ends. It had a smell of my mother’s perfume, daisies, roses, and lavender. I missed her a lot. “Wow you look lovely;” My father said walking in to get his fitting done. “Thank you Father; when does the ceremony begin,” I whispered bowing to him. “In one hour the ceremony will begin, I want to begin the coronation pre-ceremony with you immediately.” He demanded of me as I nodded “Yes, Father,” I whispered to him slowly standing outside. He came out shortly after with a gold uniform, with purple leather adorning his majesty. He walked past me as I knew to follow slowly behind, we stopped at the fountain in the middle of our castle, and the fountain of wishes it is known. “Your mother and I first met when we were first here, I was just a mere Duke of Sect 22, she the princess of this land. I loved your mother with all my heart, it is sad she passed so young.” He said staring at the shimmering water. “Father, what is the pre coronation ceremony?” I whispered staring at the clay fountain and its shimmering water flowing down. “You’re staring at it. Your mother and I both had to believe in the fountain, changing our lives and our people’s lives for the better. I will have Lucifer come and get you when the ceremony begins.” He said standing up abruptly staring at a knight who was motioning him over. “Yes, father,” I said looking back at the fountain. It was suddenly quiet as I stared at the fountain, my hands shimmering against the water, glowing to match the color of the water. It was peaceful as I watched the water, suddenly realizing that he will never stop. If my mother’s allegations were true, he will kill me too. She noted that he burned a whole village down, killing thousands of people to build an arena for the people. He murdered school children when they didn’t salute his flag. The list goes on. “Mother;” I cried my tears dropping like jewels into the fountain. “I don’t want your name to be used to justify violence and hatred if these things are true. I don’t want to be seen as the princess that did nothing. I will not let this coronation be in vain. I will not let your words be in vain. The people need to know the vulgarity of what has happened.” I wiped my tears staring at the reflection of my face, my features similar to my mother's. I had piercing grey eyes, a button nose, and the reddest hair anyone has ever seen. I was no blonde like my father is. Lucifer came shortly after. I nodded, slowly getting up as I pecked his cheek, smiling at him. He smiled back as he led me to the staircase that I had to walk to my coronation. He took my right arm, slowly linking our arms as I lifted my head staring at the crowd before me. They were villagers, people, afraid of my father’s hand. “What will you do princess?” He whispered to me. “The truth, if we can come out on the other side together, I’ll let you court me;” I said vividly. “We will make it on the other side, and I will take it to your word, hopefully not too overwhelming.” He smiled kissing my cheek back. “It won’t be,” I whispered as we took each step with each stride. We stopped at the base of the stairs as the royal court official, read our names. “Lady Adela Lune of Adelaide, royal congregant and Princess of the land with her escort Sir Lucifer Thaddeus of the royal congregation.” The royal official said as he helped us down. My father nodded as Lucifer stood to my right, I bowed to the people first and then to him. I lifted my head before my father forcefully stopped me from lifting it. “Stay bowing child, now repeat after me. I insert your name, will do my best to represent the people, to work with them, work with the communities, and serve the people to my best of my abilities.” He said icily. “I, Adela Lune, will do my best to represent the people, to work with them, work with the communities, and.... No...” I said trailing off as I slowly lifted my head in insubordination to him. His eyes bulged as I lifted my head at him. “What do you mean no.” He bellowed. I slowly lifted my head to the people as I slowly walked forward. “Father I know you killed mother, the true heir to the throne so you could rule this land to the ground. The people know what have you done and I cannot accept your congregation, your rule, for destroying these people’s lives. You killed these people’s families, their children for your own selfish needs. I cannot accept to be under your rule, till your death, and nor can these people. I denounce my name and stand with them. And one more thing, mother was of magic, like I am.” I said slowly walking over to the people as I linked arms with them. “Guards!” He screamed as I started to glow, blasting them to the ground. I slowly grabbed Lucifer as we started to run and run not looking back.

Mr. Hendrick was driving home from work alone at night in his old silver Corolla. Hanging on the rear-view mirror was a bottle of liquid perfume that he shakes once in a while to get the scent running. Sarah put it there because she said that his car reeks of cigarettes. He always plays “Pink Swimsuit Lady” by The Headlooms on his way home, a song he often heard when he was a kid. The road home was dark as there were no streetlights. The only source of it was from his headlight. While swaying to his favourite song, in the beam of his headlight, he saw a girl who looked to be in her teen years waving frantically on the side of the dark road, signaling Mr. Hendrick towards her. From his perspective this is oddly suspicious. *A girl? At night? In the dark?* He thought. But her face was in a panic. He couldn’t ignore her if he wanted to. What if it is a matter of life and death? “What’s wrong?” He asked when he stopped near her. “My fr- friend,” she gasped for air. “He’s injured. Can you please help me?” “Where is he?” He asked, turning down his music volume. “He’s in there,” the girl pointed over her shoulder. It was the woods. She was pointing in the woods. “In the woods? What are you kids doing in the woods at nigh-” He stopped. “Alright. I’ll call an ambulance.” “No please!” She shrieked. “We need to get him to the hospital now! Waiting for the ambulance would take forever! Please help me!” “Alright- alright, I’ll help,” he surrendered. He got out of his car with the engine running. “Hurry, lead the way.” He followed her in the woods. He could hear his car whirring getting farther and farther until it fades. “How far?” He asked. “Not far, just ahead.” “Oka-” He was hit by a blunt object on the back of his head and fell on the ground not completely losing consciousness. “Ah! What the fu\*k?” He grunted and another blow from the object rendered him unconscious. He felt his body being dragged. He felt them tying his hands above his head on a pole. His eyes were heavy, no matter how hard he tried he could not open them. He heard people talking but their voices are muffled, the side effects of being hit on the head. “Are you kidding me?!” a boy’s voice said. “He’s the only one we got! It’s a slow night,” the girl replied. The one he encountered before. “That’s Sarah’s dad. How am I gonna look at her face after this,” the boy said. “The good thing is you don’t have to ask for his permission when you want to marry her,” she said. “A- Alan? Is that you?” Mr. Hendrick said. Gathering all the strength he has to open his eyes. He saw two people talking in front of a small bonfire. He recognised the boy’s voice. It was Alan. Sarah’s boyfriend. “Hey Mr. Hendrick. Sorry but this is a huge misunderstanding,” Alan replied. “Wh- what are you doing in the woods?” Mr. Hendrick asked. “Where are my clothes?” He realised that he was bound naked on the pole, except for his underwear. “Sorry for the misunderstanding Mr. Hendrick. I’ll untie you,” Alan replied. “No you won’t,” the girl said, pointing a dagger towards Alan. Alan raised both of his hands and backed away from Mr. Hendrick. “What are you doing, girl. I came here to help you,” Mr. Hendrick said wearily. “Sorry it had to be you, but you’re a father and we need that right now,” she replied. “You needed a father?” he said, unimpressed. “Do you tie all your daddies like this?” His wits coming back to him slowly as his mind got clearer. “No,” Alan interrupted. “We need your... heart...” “My what?!” Mr. Hendrick exclaimed. “Well, you’re a father and we need that. See, the ritual said that we need a virgin’s blood, a mother’s liver, and a father’s heart.” “Why are you explaining this to him?” the girl asked frustratingly. “He deserves to know.” “He doesn’t need to know this. He’s gonna die anyway.” “Why don’t we talk about this?” Mr. Hendrick interjected. “Nope. The longer you talk to him the more attached you’re gonna be. I’m gonna end this now.” The girl sprinted towards the quarter naked man led by the dagger in her hand but was pushed aside by Alan. “What are you doing?!” The girl screamed. “We already got the virgin’s blood and mother’s liver. This is the last one!” “Oh god, the two missing persons cases. You two were behind it?” Mr. Hendrick gasped. “Poor little Anna Karin and Mrs. Durden!” Alan and the girl kept their mouths shut and stared at the ground. “I want to be famous,” the girl said meekly. “What?” Mr. Hendrick asked. “I’m doing this because I want to be famous!” “You want to get famous for being a murderer?” Mr. Hendrick asked in confusion, cocking his head. “No, the ritual we’re doing is going to grant us wishes. And that is my wish.” “Oh god. What about you Alan? What’s your wish?” “I... I want to be rich,” he replied. “So I could take care of Sarah.” Mr. Hendrick looked at the little murderer in awe. “That’s kinda sweet. But you know what’s not sweet? Killing Sarah’s father.” Mr. Hendrick said. “Come on, let me go, Alan.” “I don’t know, I’m scared now. What if I let you go and you rat me out to the police? I don’t want that.” “I won’t do that, I promise. Just untie me and give me back my clothes and get me the hell away from her. If people see me in underwear with an underage girl, people are gonna talk,” he pleaded. “I’m twenty,” the girl said. Mr. Hendrick just looked at her. Not replying to that statement. He turned his head looking at Alan. Alan was in deep thought. Wondering whether he should let him go or get his heart. In Alan’s head right now, he’s making a mind map of pros and cons of letting Mr. Hendrick free. He would get Sarah all for his own if Mr. Hendrick was out of the picture. But he will feel guilty for the rest of his life. He would get his wish and become rich and maybe that’ll soothe his guilt a bit if he spends some of his fortune on Sarah. His mind is set. He’s gonna kill Mr. Hendrick. “Give me the knife.” The girl handed the dagger gladly, smiling an evil smile. Alan walked closer towards Mr. Hendrick. “Wait. Alan. Please. I’m begging you. Please. Who’s gonna take care of Sarah when I’m gone?!” Mr. Hendrick panicked. “I will,” Alan replied. Mr. Hendrick screamed in pain as Alan struck the dagger in his chest. He then proceeded to carved around the heart, snapping the rib cage protecting it. Mr. Hendrick was in excruciating pain. Alan was surprised that he had not passed out. Until he does. In front of them were the blood of a virgin, a liver from a mother, and a heart from a father. They both held hands while chanting gibberish. “Hey, where did you say you got this ritual from?” Alan asked the girl in the middle of a chant. “Wikipedia.

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Sentence - Use *one* of the following sentences to use in your story:** - **“The dragon’s wings darkened the city.”** - **“The flames could be seen for miles.”** *Additional Bonus Constraints (worth 5 pts): A major weather event occurs.* This week’s challenge is to use one of the above sentences in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, or change the tense if necessary, but the original sentence should stay intact. I’m providing , but its use is not required. **Stories without one of the above sentences will be disqualified** from rankings. The bonus constraint is not required.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **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. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that 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. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week - - Submitted by u/DmonRth   - - Submitted by u/Nakuzin   - - Submitted by u/nobodysgeese   - - Submitted by u/FyeNite   *** ###Subreddit News - I’ve extended the nomination period for , so don’t forget to nominate your favorite content before the deadline! - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

My wife’s name is Ava. She’s pretty much the only good thing that has happened to me over the past few years. Lately though, things have changed with her. Let me go back to the beginning. Three years ago, I was at rock bottom. Like just about everyone my age, I shipped off to college when I was 18. I was never the best student, but I was never close to failing any classes either. It was just the next thing to do in life. It just didn’t turn out the way I planned. I hit a wall in college. It wasn’t the classes but college life in general. Coming from a small town, I wasn’t used to all the social circles, gossip, and backstabbing. More than anything, my dorm was just a mass of loud strangers. My anxiety and insomnia hit a pick, and, eventually, I couldn’t do it anymore. My parents were disappointment, but they eventually got over it. I was adamant that I would get a job and that college just wasn’t right for me at the moment. My mistake was taking the first job that came up. I started working at the grocery store just down the street from my parents’ house. It was soul-crushing work at first. I stacked so many cans and peeled so many labels that my fingernails were permanently chipped. I dealt with so many customers yelling about their expired coupons and how the bakery ruined their child’s birthday’s cake that I had a persistent headache. Unlike college, however, work was repetitive and mind-numbing. More than anything, it felt pretty good to come back to my childhood bed at the end of the day. Things got better right around the time I met Ava. My do-nothing store manager retired and I decided to throw my hat in the ring for the position. Next thing I knew, I was working a salaried position. Things still were far from perfect. I had new migraines involving employees not showing up for work, stealing merchandise, or failing drug tests. The difference now was that I was finally in control of something for once. It was my store and my rules for the most part. It also helped that my bank account now had four digits in it, and I was looking to move out of my parents’ house. I met Ava on a completely random day at work. One moment I was fixing the lotto machine and suddenly there was a stunning woman looking at me. She was tall shoulder-length gold-brown hair and a set of large brown eyes. At the time, she was clutching a can of green beans. I shook off my immediate infatuation long enough to hear her explain that she had a lot of food allergies and that she wanted to know about some of the mystery chemicals listed on the ingredients label. I had to take out my phone for some quick research before piecing together some less-than-scientific explanation for the strangely named compounds. She was extremely thankful afterwards, leaving me a with a smile. This became an almost weekly occurrence. Ava (I learned her name after the third time) would come in to quiz me on some preservative or food coloring agent. It was a little strange, but I figured that she was used to going to organic grocery stores or something. Her questions eventually turned to conversations. She wanted to here about me, and I learned about her as well. She said that she was a graduate student, working with a professor to study some of the rare salamanders found in the nearby woods. When she started talking to me outside of her food questions, things picked up speed. For only the third time in my life, I asked a girl out and, somehow, she said yes. It was a whirlwind after that. She was adventurous (outside of food), constantly taking me on road trips and day-cations. It was good for me. I was a college dropout working a dead-end job and, suddenly, my world was a whole lot brighter. Ava never talked much about her past. She said that she had a bad relationship with her family and couldn’t move away from them fast enough. She only had a few friends, like me, she had made around town. My parents loved her, so it wasn’t heard to consider her part of our family. I was always teaching her things that I thought regular parents usually taught their children. I taught her how to change a car tire and how to cook a pot of spaghetti noodles. I guess her relationship with her parents really was strange. She always had an interesting way of bashfully bringing up questions about those things. She would be overboiling something on the stove and say something like: “Help. I do not have knowledge of this.” I thought it was cute. The little idiosyncrasies in her speech made me feel like she had spent time in another country or something like that. After a year, I was never so sure about anything. This girl had to be my wife. I wanted her with me, lighting up everything around me for the rest of my life. She seriously said yes. In some private moments, however, she did ask me if I was sure. After all, she had to travel regularly back to her college and attend conferences. We’d be separated for long spans. I said exactly what I felt. While I always wanted to be by her side, it seemed like a no-brainer tradeoff. If it came to it, I had no problem with quitting my job and picking up everything to move with her if we had to. My first clue that something was off came during one of those conferences. Back at home, I decided to call Ava to check in before I went to bed. She didn’t answer her cell phone, and I basically figured she was tired from the trip and had fallen asleep with the phone off. Still, being an overly-cautious person, I decided to call her room number. That was a problem. The number I called was disconnected. That was a little concerning, but I thought she may have scribbled down the wrong number for me. I called the hotel front desk then. That started sending shivers down my spine. Not only did they not have any record of anyone named Ava in the hotel, but her room did not exist. In fact, the hotel only had five floors and Ava had given her room number at 604. I didn’t sleep that night. My mind raced with possibilities. Did she not make it to the hotel? Had she lied about where she was going? Why? Was she having an affair? Had she left me? Why? We barely ever fought about anything. No, I was just being suspicious. I resolved to call her program advisor in the morning. I sent an email to the professor just asking if I could get in contact with Ava and how she was doing at the conference. I had just pressed “send” when my phone started ringing. It was her. I exhaled all of the air I had been taking in from hyperventilating. She had seen my missed call and was checking up. She apologized for falling asleep and not getting back to me. I delicately broached my confusion with the hotel situation. She told me that she had simply wrote down the wrong number and that the room had been booked by the university without her name attached. That made me feel pretty bad about feeling so suspicious. Of course, Ava wasn’t the type of person to run off without a word. I had completely forgotten about sending the email until I got a reply later that day. That reply sent me back to a world of confusion. The professor, Dr. Miller, told me that I had the wrong professor. She didn’t have an advisee with Ava’s name. I read that email is disbelief. Ava couldn’t have told me the about the wrong advisor. She had stories she told about her. I was sure that was her name. I only had more questions that were now coupled with that bizarre episode about the hotel. How well did I know my wife? Was she even in a graduate program? I’d never seen the bills, but she had assured me they were taken care of by a scholarship. What was she doing away from home? How do I even bring this up to her? When Ava came home, I still didn’t know how to find the right questions. I was afraid that just speaking the words would cause my perfect world to break. So, I was cold and distant. It wasn’t on purpose; it was just reflex. I was sure that I just needed to find the right time to bring it up. I was also resolved that this wouldn’t be the end of Ava and me. She was too pure, too good for me. Whatever it was--an affair, a job she didn’t want to talk about, something about her estranged family--I would not leave her. I think Ava really sensed by coldness. She started spending more and more time away from home. Mostly she liked to take walks on the trail down the street from our house, especially in the early mornings or in the evenings. I really started missing our evening movie dates. She had so many movies she had missed out on as a kid, and I enjoyed introducing them to her. Her favorite was Monsters, Inc. I had given her a Sulley plushie as part of her first anniversary present. It usually sat at the edge of our bed. It took weeks for me to get the courage to talk to Ava about her mysterious trip. Every moment with her started to be filled with suffocating anxiety instead of the warmth I had felt before. Finally, I decided that I would take a walk with her on the trail. I thought the pleasant atmosphere of a misty, early fall morning might take some of the edge off. Ava usually got up early for her walks, so I set my alarm for 6:00 am the next day. I awoke, surprisingly, well before my alarm clock. It was 5:00 am, and the sky was a very dark gray. I wanted to go back to sleep but quickly decided to stay awake to make sure I could catch Ava before she headed out. I rolled over in bed in an attempt to get up. That was when I noticed that Ava’s end of the bed was empty, save for the Sulley plushie. Ava was an early riser, but this was really early. My mind again wandered to where she may have gone. However, her care was still in the garage, and her outdoor sneakers were off of their rack. I figured that she must have went to the trail earlier than usual. I thought about maybe trying to get up earlier on another day to catch her but decided against it. No, this would be the day. I’d been putting this off for far to long. I wanted to hear what was really going on so that we could work through it and go back to normal. I got to the trail a few minutes later, needing a flashlight to guide me. Ava wasn’t near the path’s entrance, so I ventured deeper inside. The thick trees seemed to curl around the dirt path, making a canopy above me. The ground was just slightly muddy from the early morning mist. The cold air fully woke me up. I was only a minute into my walk when I noticed a dark goo-like substance underfoot. It darkened some sticks and the ground itself. Curious, I stooped down to get a better look. There was a red tint to the soupy substance. It was blood. It was gruesome to look at, but my first thought was that it was animal blood. Maybe a cat had gotten ahold of a squirrel or chipmunk, or maybe a deer had been hit by a car nearby and had stumbled back into the woods to die. I kept walking only to find that the bloody trail continued. Whatever had happened, it was brutal. I found a clump of hair next. It was wrapped around a large stick that sloped onto the trail. It was long... and human. In the light from my flashlight, I saw that it was golden brown. Ava’s hair... I nearly fall to my knees. I started coughing puffs of gray mist. This wasn’t just a hair or two. It was an entire patch removed. And there was all the blood. No! No! I was screaming internally, fearing that anything I actually spoke would make this situation real. What happened? Was it a bear? We usually had one bear sighting a year. Some crazed murder? Why? Why did I let her walk alone? My only two options were to run back home and call the cops or to try to find her myself. I just couldn’t leave her out here. It may be old-fashioned, but I felt like I was failing my duty to protect my wife. I kept going. The blood and hair clumps continued off the trail. With every broken stick, I was afraid that whatever had gone after my wife would spring out at me. But I knew that time was of the essence. I had to go fast. The next grisly discovery was only meters ahead. There was some gray mass almost glued to a fallen branch. It was sticky blood and flesh that had kept it in place. Realized that it was human skin, grayed due to blood loss. I may have thrown up then without stopping. Something did smell terrible. I nearly fell into a sort of clearing. The trees parted to a grassy plain. I felt strange whirring in the air, stronger than regular win. Some mechanical sound was rumbling the ground. I swung my flashlight around. Something was at the other end of the clearing. It was like a giant octopus, just taller than a person. Its bottom tentacles were larger, supporting its weight. Small tentacles appeared stacked on top of the base. A beak protruded from the thing’s center while two eye stocks grew out of the top. It was standing next to some time of device. It was large and metallic. Something inside the cylinder appearing to be spinning. I screamed completely, forgetting about Ava for the moment. With horror, I realized that I had crept to close to the thing while I was inspecting it. Its eye stocks pointed at me as I turned to run. I got to the line of trees only to cry out again. Hanging on a branch was an entire coat of human skin, dripping crimson. The top was covered with golden brown hair. “Ava!” Behind me, I heard another, animal-like gurgling sound. The monster was making noise as it advanced toward me. It was gaining ground much faster than I was. I looked down as I ran to find something else. There was another one. This was smaller but had the same shape as the first one. Only, whereas the first creature was red and blue, this one was whitish pink--flesh-colored. It came running towards me, gurgling like the other one. My only instinct was to kick it. My adrenaline-fueled kick sent the thing flying into a tree. The thing gave a terrible, ear-shattering screech. The larger monster behind me also shrieked. I felt something large touch my back. It had me. I clawed and punched at the tentacles. Some kind of purplish blood came out, but it still pulled me in. It hoisted me in the air. My feet could no longer reach the ground. It brought me closer to its gurgling beak. Then, it stopped. When I was in full view of the things face, it brought another tentacle to its mouth. It was another metallic device which it placed around its beak. “Nick! Oh, Nick!” That was Ava! “Ava!” I sobbed, forgetting that I had seen her lifeless skin. “Where are you?” “Nick...” I finally centered on the source of the sound. It was originating from the thing’s beak. “You!” I shouted at it, while kicking out. “Stop using my wife’s voice!” “Nick...” I kept kicking until the strength left me. “Nick, it’s me.” “You...” I gasped, my mind beyond hazy. “You...” “I’m so, so sorry Nick. I could never tell you...” “No!” I cried while shaking my head. “It’s not... it doesn’t make sense!” “I can explain, Nick.” I had to listen while the thing spoke. It told me how it came from a race of explorers from galaxies away. Those explorers were scholars, wanting to learn everything about the sentient beings of the universe. They like to take on their form and to live among them without creating a disturbance. They had machines that could craft skin, hair, and all outward appearance. Their bodies, like octopi, could fit into almost anything and were malleable. They could slip into fake skin and live like it was nothing. She told me her story. She had spent years waiting for an interstellar assignment. When a green and blue planet had been marked for study, she had been sent there. She had landed in the wilderness to make sure her arrival was a secret. After that, she had studied the languages and cultures. When she was confident enough, she stepped into their world, wearing their skin. She even picked out a name, one of the most common ones from a baby book she found. What she had never planned on was growing so close to one of the planet’s inhabitants. She had fallen in love with him and, despite any reservations, she had chosen to remain with her mate. “Ava... Ava...” I murmured in disbelief. “I’m so sorry, but it’s me. This is me.” Everything, everything, I knew was breaking apart. “We can go back,” she begged. “I can put on the human suit again, and you won’t have to see me like this again. It’ll be just like before.” It wasn’t just that the words had gotten stuck in my throat. My brain had completely stopped formulating thoughts. “Or, you can run away. I understand. I’ve lied from the beginning about something so important. You can go and never look back. I won’t be angry. I understand.” Seeing that I was calming down, she lowered me to the ground. I remained standing there in awe of the creature before me. “Even if you do leave, I’ve told my people to never intervene on Earth. I’ve told them that there are many kind humans there who should just be left alone and studied from afar. You’ve done so much for your world without even knowing it.” “Okay,” I said. I wasn’t sure what that meant. It’s just the word my brain centered on to tell me that it was processing information again. Ava. This was Ava. I noticed another set of tentacles. They were the same fleshy ones that I had seen on the little one earlier. “Then... that one,” I gasped. “A miracle!” Ava replied, sounding like she was weeping. “Maybe the greatest one that the universe had ever known. That’s why I’m out here. I need to make a new suite.” I leaned down, holding out my hands to the fleshy creature. Sensing something on an instinctual level, and despite my earlier actions, it slowly climbed up my arms. The top of its eye stocks were hazel, just like mine. On that strange, cool morning, I held my child for the first time.

It’s a rainy Saturday: dark, gloomy, and miserable. The TV is on, and I’m watching a Charlie Chaplin episode. Its warm glow basks me in blue light, making me feel a bit less alone. The blanket snuggles me, and a bowl of chips compensates my stomach. A knock at the door startles me. It echoes throughout the house, spreading its message. It’s rough-three hard knocks. I turn the TV off, and make my way to the front door. Who would be at the door in the wee hours of the night? I creep to the door, my blanket clutched around my chest. My moving boxes are astray in the hallway, still not sorted out. I weave my way through them, shoving them aside as I reach the door. There’s no windows near the door to look outside. Nor is there a peephole. I feel blind. As I’m debating what to do, there are three more knocks. Loud and clear. After giving myself a few more moments, I decide to open the door. At first, I only see darkness and rain. However, a figure takes shape. It’s a tall man, and he towers above me. I want to close the door, but I’m too scared to. The streetlights cast dark shadows across his face, hiding a sinister smile. His eyes are piercing blue, and they look deep into my thoughts. He simply stands still in front of me, just like a lion about to catch its prey. Am I the prey? Who is this man? As I ponder that question, he gently waves his hand in front of me. It’s pale and gentle, and I slowly close my eyes. ------------------------------- The tall stranger pushes past me, making me stumble. “Who are you?” I question, mustering some courage. “Nobody,” a gruff voice says back. He heads into my home, and I tug at his long cloak. It’s blue and is coated with velvet and small jewels. He simply strides forward, ripping it out of my grasp. The dim lights make the stones on the cloak sparkle, just like stars. They look magical, and I run to catch up. He makes his way upstairs, and pulls down the ladder to the attic. The stairs creak under his weight, and he ducks to head to the room. Unsure, I decide to follow with only a moment's hesitation. I gasp, astonished, when I reach the landing. The room is bathed in a golden light, all radiating from the stranger. His cloak flies behind him, lifted by an unseen force. Blue and golden particles begin to float around, instifying into an orb a few feet before the wizard. Then he starts chanting in a language I can’t understand, and suddenly, the orb explodes, leaving me blinded. ------------------------------- “May I come in?” the stranger asks. “Su-re,” I stutter as a reply. “Thank you, Ma’am. If we have your cooperation, this ordeal can be completed without much time and trouble. “What ordeal?” “Ma’am, please do not act like nothing is wrong. We have received a tip-off that there is some criminal cyber-activity originating from this location. To relieve you of all stress, my team is waiting outside, ready for my call.” “What?” He says nothing, and keeps on walking, ignoring me. He makes his way into each room, gracefully and purposefully taking objects out and checking every corner. My heart is pounding, even though I know I have done nothing wrong. He eventually makes his way to my room, where he stops in his tracks. I rush forward, trying to see what’s wrong. I bat his arm aside, and stop in my tracks too. My room is a large computer setup, with multiple screens and some suspicious activity. I’m confused. This was never here. I turn back to look at the agent. His stone cold eyes meet mine. “You are under arrest.” ------------------------------- The stranger quickly rushes in and closes the door behind him. “Please. I need help.” The door rattles, and thumps. I can hear the roar of people, banging against the woof frame. “Please. I need help,” the man says again. His face is bloody and bruised, as if he had been in a fight. But with this many people? “What can I get you?” “Ice. And some first aid, if you could.” I don’t hesitate, and this man’s polite words make me want to help him even more. I hurry to help him. “What happened?” “It’s...hard to explain.” “Do you want to rest?” “Yes, please.” I lead him upstairs, and the stairs creak under his bulky frame. I guide him to the spare bedroom, which only has a mattress, but no bed. He mutters a small thanks, and collapses onto the bed with his eyes open.I make my way downstairs, trying to see why all these people are after this innocent man. The problem is, I can’t see anything. I sigh. With nothing else to do, I make my way upstairs. I freeze, however, when the sound of metal scraping against metal fills the air. I grimace, the horrible sound hurting my ears. I peer over the banister to see the stranger, standing against the wall, sharpening his... knives. They are stained with blood, and it still looks fresh. Who is this man? He notices me, and beckons me closer, holding the knife out menacingly. Crying out, I rush downstairs, fumbling to open the door. ------------------------------- The stranger pulls me into a bear hug, embracing me. “My dear, are you alright? Took you forever to open the door!” “Da-d?” He lets go for a moment to look at me, with a large smile on his face. He leads me inside, and I hug him tight. “Charlie Chaplin, eh? I used to watch him quite a lot!” “Well, want to join me?” “Sure!” However, as I enjoy the episode with my dad, I can’t shake the feeling off; something is wrong. I manage to lose myself with my dad, until...there’s three knocks at the door. It echoes throughout the house, spreading its message. It’s rough-three hard knocks. Again.

Whenever I wear a Double Windsor knot, the tie tails run embarrassingly short. I hide the tiny tails inside the safety of my vest so no one else can see them. The gargantuan knot, however, that’s a big dumb flashing advertisement: THE GENTLEMAN ENTERING THE ROOM IS VERY IMPORTANT. God forbid I bend over and pick up a pencil or paperclip off the floor--the tails could pop out from under my vest and everyone would think that I’m a clown rather than a lawyer. What day is it anyway? Is it Thursday? I wear my brown tie on Thursdays. But there are three ties here on my closet post, one for each day left in the week. Wasn’t yesterday Wednesday? I’m going with the brown tie. I love this tie. From a distance it’s a deep mahogany, but close up, it’s a myriad of chocolates and indigoes. The browns swirl in different hues, resembling tear drops or amoebas--I haven’t decided whether the tie is crying or an amoeba. If the tie is crying, the blue drops radiate sadness in cocoa stitched echoes. If the tie is an amoeba, the blue drops are its food vacuoles, deep inside the plasmasol of the light java swirls and the ectoplasm of the dark chestnut stitches. The sun peeks over the horizon like a hot red blanket. Is it March already? I rub the meat of my palm over the steam clouded bathroom window and the tree line comes into focus. No frost. It must be March. With a washcloth, I wipe out a sliver of my reflection in the steam fogged mirror. The brown tie agrees with my blue collared shirt. It’s a meeting of the minds. I fasten the top button of my shirt, flip up my collar, and place the tie in position. The short end lays on point with the fourth button down while the long end swings low around my mid thigh. I rub the tie between my right index finger and right thumb. This tie is thicker than most ties. Fabric like this probably caused the Silk Road Wars. The coarse top and soft underside feel exotic, even in 2020. Or, is it 2021? I pull the long end over the short and pull the long end up and over what will become the majestic Double Windsor knot. The long end’s tip wafts her perfume, tones of orange, pear, jasmine, and vanilla. What was it? Chanel? Black Opium? What is she doing now? Is she asleep? Maybe she’s dreaming. It’s an hour behind there. No sunrise in Memphis, yet. I pull the long end up and over again, but this time on the other side. The end swooshes past my left ear. We rode the swing carousel. The air wooshed past my ears. I could feel it more than hear it, though. DJ Xtre was so loud that night. We got “Rebel Yell” by Billy Idol for our ride. She was in front of me for most of the ride, but when it tilted, she and I rode side by side. Our eyes met just after Steve Stevens’ guitar solo, the one that sounds like a Stormtrooper gun set to stun. “I’d sell my soul, for you, babe. For money to burn, for you,” Billy sang as the colored lights and artificial thunder buzzed and boomed around us. We held hands after the ride and then shared a fried Twinkie. A month later, she left. How long ago was that? Last year? Has it been a year already? I pulled the long end over and around and over and around. Did the Duke of Windsor ever tie a Double Windsor on accident? The Double Windsor is sometimes called the Balthus knot, named for Balthasar Klossowski de Rola. Balthus is said to have created his knot around 1930 out of boredom, but he rarely wore it. If he hardly ever wore it, how would anyone even know about it? With no TV, no internet, no wide newspaper circulation, something seems amiss about giving Balthasar the credit for popularizing the Double Windsor when he only wore it maybe twice. It must be Thursday because I haven’t worn this tie yet this week. I tuck the large end through the loop and pull it taught. I flip down my collar. There, there--a perfect Double Windsor. Thick and in charge. Not a Half Windsor. Not a Full Windsor. A Double Windsor. I tuck the ends of the tie into my waistcoat. I grab my pocket watch from the watch stand next to the bathroom mirror. I rub my thumb over the back of the watch. I read the engraving, “Congratulations on passing the bar, Malcolm. Love, Mom.” She gave me an engraved money clip when I graduated from high school. I lost it on Franklin Street during a Thursday night bar crawl. Mom gave me an engraved chip when I checked out of rehab. I carried it in my pocket everyday. But one day it fell out when I sat in a comfy chair at the Wagon Wheel Tavern. I fell off the wagon. The watch chain clasps to my belt like a vice grip. I tuck the watch away in my vest pocket. Biden’s on the news a lot, talking about empty chairs at kitchen tables. Mom was one of those chairs. COVID snuffed her out. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I ain’t losing this watch. No way. I sit in front of the television with a bowl of granola mixed with two tablespoons of Skippy peanut butter and a cup of whole milk. I turn on the news. Thursday! I was right. It is Thursday. She still calls Thursday “Little Friday.” Why does she always want to leave work early on Friday? I guess she likes the weekend. I hate the weekend. The weather report predicts rain later today. It’s supposed to rain in Memphis this morning, too. I hope she has an umbrella. Shit, she has like five of mine. I don’t know if it was because she liked my umbrellas or if she just kept losing them. But wait, she won’t need an umbrella because she works from home now. I’d wilt if I had to work from home. The Double Windsor holds all of this in place, deep and under my vest.

# I Am a Tree *I am a tree.* *An apple tree.* *My name is Woody Elwood Jr., but Woody works just fine.* *I was born to Mr. Woody and Willow Elwood on April 22, 1901.* *My father worked as a photosynthesizer and my mother as a housewife.* *I have sixteen older sisters -- Acacia, Aspen, Butternut, Ebony, Hazel, Laurel, Magnolia, Maple, Olive, Rowan, Sassafras, Spruce, Sugarberry, Sycamore, Tulip, Walnut-- and one older brother -- Paul.* *I grew up just outside Forst Manor. I decided to stay there, and so did all my relatives, barring Paul.* **Here** is my story: I was planted by one Christopher Forst. He was a young chap -- a mere eight years old -- when his green thumb first met my ... green ... thumb. I liked the boy: an awful charmer, he was. His hair was perpetually shaggy, his polos perpetually dirty, and his smile: perpetual. His nose pointed as if to have its parents tell it that it’s rude to point, and his eyes were blue as if to have their parents tell them off for crying in such an ugly manner! The boy was astute. He made sure to always have his studies complete before supper, and he would often find himself in need of my shade while reading *Paradise Lost* or *Candide* or *The Holy Bible* in the blistering sun. I was just a sapling, and yet I would listen to the stories as he read them aloud to himself. He spoke of heaven, of hell, of moral philosophy, and of Jesus. (To think one of my own became that crucifix. Damn my brethren!) I personally did not belong to any church, but Christopher did. That satisfied me enough. When Christopher’s parents were too negligent to water me, Christopher did it himself. And when Christopher’s sister -- Jasmine -- peeled away at my tender, timber skin, he would pull her away and admonish the girl. Christopher was my protector. Childhood was particularly difficult for us. Christopher lost his father -- he was now fifteen -- and he did not take it well. He became resentful, hateful of his own being and blaming everything on himself for something he could have never wished to control. The boy still loved me, though. He would run off from his mother and come to me to sit under, arms crossed and nose pointed. I would whisper to him that everything would be O.K., but I don’t think he heard me -- he only listened. His tears would water saddened ol’ me to make me feel better. He loved despite his own self-pity. He would now read to me even better stories -- books like *Great Expectations* and *Tess of D’Urbervilles*. He really did care. As a teenager, my body started to change. My hair started to curl, my branches started to crack, and I grew roots in places I had never seen roots grow before. I soon produced my own seeds, who flew into the Church’s graveyard. All but one -- Woody Jr. Jr. -- had to be dug up by Church officials’ orders. My friends would now say things like “Woody’s got a Woody” and “That’s a mighty bush you’ve got there,” but I paid them no mind. Christopher’s mum had died, too, now. He was no longer a boy and thus did not react in such an unstately manner as he once did with his father. Jasmine had gone off to live with a French chap, but Christopher stayed loyal to me. He had no wife, nor any children. He was a bachelor like me, and a content one, too. I never found myself very attracted to any of the birds by the manor -- and by birds, I mean trees. There was one just down Wick Lane - Ashley, I think: a gorgeous pear tree -- but she was too far away. Any chance of communication between us would need to be through others of our kind or a partridge, but such an endeavor was fruitless. I was happy without a female companion, so long as Christopher was. I soon decided to get a job as an apprentice soil technician. My dad always encouraged me to remain traditional and work as a photosynthesizer, but soil technicianing was always much more appealing to me. Plus, money doesn’t grow on trees. Christopher got himself a lass -- a Ms. Brandon Maisel -- and he now wore glasses. He became increasingly distant. I was hurt, but not completely torn. He would still come and water me -- rarely, though -- as he was working as a failed writer most of the day. My sisters had all gotten married -- some to the same tree! I was still without a better half, and I was O.K. with that. Christopher’s wife was now expecting -- a bigger deal for humans than it is trees, it seems. You would think I’d have been cynical and envious. But I was actually quite gay. Another Christopher to read me stories, to sing me songs, to protect me from the evils. I was older now, a little more weathered, but still well and intact. Christopher had bought cattle to roam the estate, and things were looking good. Christopher and Mrs. Christopher had a beautiful baby boy -- Thomas. He was too young to read to me yet, but I yearned for the day he would. He did not. Thomas passed from scarlet fever in his sleep one midsummer’s night. The many days I spent hoping this was a dream. Christopher spent more and more days at Church, praying to God to return his son, but He did not give him him. As my green hair became spottily brown, Christopher’s brown hair became spottily white. His wife grew pregnant again, but all they did now was squabble. It was a lonely May night -- 8 months after his son’s passing -- when Christopher came home from a nearby warehouse with a long rope. My boy approached me; he was finally back to love me, to read to me, to kiss me goodnight when I cried my lonesome tears of dew. He was my Son and my Father alike, a majestic brew of all that is Good and Bad and Excellent. And he grabbed a branch. No, he *really* grabbed it. It was a forceful grip rather than a light tug. So he grabbed me, and he laid the rope upon my arm. Well, what lies next is evident. Needless to say, the Forst Manor was soon empty, his wife moving far, far away following the horrifying death of her husband. My leaves -- very few, though -- remained stained red. It kept my hair warm. I was sad. A gorgeous and fertile young cow -- no older than two -- came up to me the night of to ask if I was okay. I nodded. She hugged me and introduced herself. “Maggie.” “Maggie what?” “Just Maggie.” “Your kind doesn’t have last names? *How animalistic!*” Maggie became a good friend of mine; though, my sisters would giggle at me for befriending a cow, because “all they eva’ speak is bull.” But Maggie did not speak anything of the sort -- in fact, she was quite grounded. “Maggie, tell me, beautiful girl,” I said. “To which Mr. Father Cow do you belong?” She pointed her finger to her father, Buttercup. He was an enormous and frightening bull, one with a curious proclivity toward harm. One day, however, I braced myself and asked for permission for his daughter’s hoof in marriage. He granted as I wished. Maggie, a former resident of a farm, had, too, heard stories. This time from a kind, young girl. “*You ain’t never herd’a Peter Pan!?*” Maggie would ask me, excitedly. “Gee, it’s the best book I’d ever heard!” My books apparently were “outdated,” and “vintage,” but I had disagreed. She would share what she remembered of the stories with me, and I would share what I remembered with her. We would spend nights away, reading to another *The Rainbow* or *Walden*. Workers came by sometimes to scout the house. I didn’t know why. I married Maggie on July 12, 1942, in attendance by all my sisters but one. Paul did not come to visit. Workers visited more frequently, now checking the house. We shared our first kiss a few weeks later. Workers plunged into the ground with “OPEN HOUSE” signs. Maggie and I had our first child on April 29, 1943 -- a sweet, baby cow girl ... *cowgirl?* Realtors were already showing the manor to visitors, builders already busting away at doors. The Forst Manor was being destroyed. It was a happy summer day. I was thinking quite a lot about Christopher this day -- June 5 of that same year ... Yes, that’s it. I was reminiscing about the times he would read to me the Devil’s banishment to Hell or Candide’s epic travels in El Dorado. To-day, they were planning to move the cattle. That meant my poor Maggie. Maggie was taken away on the back of a trolley to a slaughterhouse. Buttercup remained here. Weeks later, a lumberjack was hired to cut me down. I got on no knees and said to him, “please, please, Heavenly Father! Do for me a favor -- find for me the gorgeous and fertile cow at the nearest slaughterhouse, and ensure our eternal entanglement in death.” The ginger, full-bearded man stabbed me, cutting away one bit at a time. Whether or not he heard this plea or by coincidence, me and Maggie did end up together. I am no longer a tree. *We* are a book. *This book.* ***(Author Note: This makes sense if it was in a book of short stories, which I could do.)*** And her tender, leather skin holds me so.

The First Line of Defence By DannyG “Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” Mary Oliver I was convinced that my all of my future reincarnations were nullified by the enlightenment I had just attained. But something was wrong. The cycle of Samsara wasn’t broken -- not as broken as my family, as broken as my community, or as broken as the middle finger I had snapped getting up from my cross-legged pose under the shading Ficus. Also, after forty-nine days without movement, my legs were numb. Bodh Gaya was tranquil at this time of early morning, every breeze carrying whispers of centuries old chants and prayers. Monsoon was still a distance away. Lush, verdant landscapes seemed to pulsate with life, their emerald hues a stark contrast to the earthen tones of the ancient temples and monasteries that dot the area. The Ficus I sat under smelled woody and slightly sweet from the ripened figs, its branches, heavy with history, stretch out like wise old arms offering a shaded solace to those who seek answers. At night, the sounds of gongs and prayers fill the air, a lullaby speaking of peace and liberation. I grimaced and gripped my left hand, disappointed. Why, when all of my efforts to finally release myself from dukkha, from life’s perpetual dissatisfaction, did everything around me collapse into disorder? The cycle was driven by karma, past actions, and by clinging to that which was temporary so could only be effectively terminated by achieving nirvana. But I was only one man, and so all of Bodh Gaya had to be convinced to follow my path, else I would being a single success amongst a sea of failures. Not the best odds. Not exactly the ideal template for society's salvation. I stared at my middle finger, breathing deep and mindfully drifted into another focused reverie. Mara, the temptress, tried a number of things to distract me from staying the path, preying on my desires, fears, and doubts, her timely tools testing me. 1. The Filtered Mirror of the Future: A surreal tapestry of my future unfolded - an aged reflection of my tired face with absurdly bright red dog ears and an elongated, flapping pale tongue. It was a vision so bizarre, so vividly detailed, it seemed to dance on the fine line between a fevered dream and an alternate reality. 'How can such a future be?' I wondered, my voice a mere whisper in the dense air of incredulity. In a moment of disbelief and defiance, I hurled the mirror to the ground, only to be drawn back by an inexorable curiosity; I picked it up again, my fingers trembling. 'Damn her,' I cursed under my breath, Mara's trickery weaving a spell both confounding and captivating. 2. The Funky Melody of Forgotten Dreams: Instead of being entrapped by the seductive music, I chose to respond with a dance. I stand up, my movements at first awkward from stiff legs gradually become more fluid. This dance isn't one of grace or skill; it's a dance of mindfulness and presence. With each step and movement, I focus on the current moment, on the sensations in his body, the air around him, the ground beneath his feet. He transforms the temptation into a practice of mindfulness, reminding himself that true contentment and fulfillment are found in the present, not in the echoes of past dreams or the allure of an imagined future. 3. The Infinite Shape-Shifting Buffet: In the labyrinthine expanse of my daily contemplation, there emerged the vision of a boundless feast transcending time and form. Here, an array of dishes, each a universe unto itself, shape-shifted ceaselessly: now offering morsels of such exquisite delicacy that they seemed to encapsulate entire epochs of culinary mastery or, without warning transforming into the most ephemeral of sustenance, as fleeting and transient as the thoughts that flit through a mind lost in reverie. Faster Food, so to speak. This eternal banquet, ever-changing yet constant in its limitlessness, stood as a paradox, a tantalizing mirage at the edge of my pensive world, challenging the very notions of reality and illusion. 4. The Selfie with Celestial Beings -- if you could converse with anyone -dead or alive - blah, blah, blah. I opened my eyes amidst what must have been a once-in-a-lifetime snowstorm in Bodh Gaya. Mara was not the immediate threat. The usually serene Bodh Gaya was caught in the grip of an unusual tempest, the once vibrant landscapes blanketed under a pristine layer of white. The cycle of Samsara, of reincarnation, obviously still remained intact. Here I was again. Everything else around me was still shattered, like my middle-finger, which i snapped while rising from my icy meditation beneath the snow-laden Ficus, its branches heavy with the weight of this unexpected winter. The chill had seeped into my bones and my legs were numb. Standing alone in the snowstorm I realized the magnitude of my task. To construct a foundation for society’s salvation I needed to convince the entire community to embrace the path I’d trodden. I looked down. Light flashed about my feet, then my torso, then my eyes, as if someone were whirling the sun around on a rope over their head. Flakes of snow darted at my eyelashes. Ahead, gleaming objects with lights instead of eyes moved quickly along wide silver trails. It was if the air carried scents so complex and alien. Nothing like the earthy, fresh aroma of my forest -- it seemed to be emanating from a multitude of carts of food. The people were like a swarm of ants, each moving with purpose, their voices a constant, unintelligible hum, so different from the harmonious whispers and chants of the forest. Every touch of my foot on the hard, unyielding ground was a reminder that I was no longer at home, the sheer scale of the temples, towering like cliffs of stone and clear glass, made me feel smaller than I had ever felt under the tallest trees. The first line of defense is not you, not me, not the two of us, not the street we live on, not most of us after you take away the very old and the very young, not all of us minus 1. The first line of defense is all of us. Period. How do I know that? Cars......that’s what they were called. Cars. A huge car, with a long piece of metal in front of it pushed all the snow to the side of the road, just moving it really. There wea snow being moved from one place to another in a well-coordinated group effort. We should get to work. There is shoveling to be done.

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Use one holiday-themed song as inspiration for your story.** **Additional Bonus Constraints:** *(These are just for fun and extra inspiration. All writers will receive the bonus points this week.)* Use at least one of the following constraints in your story: - a snowman - a ruined holiday dinner - a character unwrapping a present - an unexpected guest appears - sleigh bells are heard We’ve approached the holidays! For most it’s a warm, cozy time spent with family and friends, and a time full of memories. In celebration of these coming holidays, I am giving you a . I would like you to **use one holiday-themed song to write your story** this week. The provided songs are just ideas; if you have another that inspires you, use it! Just be sure to list the song title and artist at the end of your story. Remember, when using a song as inspiration, you may use any part of it, whether it’s the lyrics, a single word or image, or a theme. The interpretation is entirely up to you as long as you follow all subreddit and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **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. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that 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. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week I appreciate your patience last week. For anyone who missed last week’s rankings, you can view them . Now, onto this past week... - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/nazna   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/Ilicarian   *** ###Subreddit News - Nominate your favorite content from this sub on our ! - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

I had always thought that the Muscatellos had a perfect marriage. Lindy Muscatello would often leave the windows open whenever they made love. During one of their sessions, Oscar Muscatello would sing opera at the top of his lungs. I’d be lying in bed next to Robert and he would beg me to shut the window. The whole thing made him uncomfortable. When we made love, there was no sound at all. Just a quiet gasp when Robert decided to land the plane, so to speak. My plane never landed. It just circled endlessly until it ran out of fuel and plummeted back to earth. There were never any survivors. The Muscatellos were a symphony. Not just in the bedroom, but in every room of their house. When they were in the kitchen, there was singing. The B52’s, Blondie, and even some Dean Martin. It didn’t matter to them. Their taste was as eclectic as their wardrobe. They seemed to throw on whatever they could reach for in the morning. Their income was derived from the sale of honey. They made it using the colonies in their backyard. Lindy would wave to me as I walked to my car in the morning on my way into the office where I would update my Google calendar to include a meeting with a Japanese buyer that was little more than chit chat and a request to speed up production. Lindy would be wearing her beekeeping uniform, and inside the house, I would hear Oscar begging his wife to come join him in the shower. I hate them. The both of them. It didn’t matter that it didn’t make sense for me to hate them. What sense is there in hatred? One night I asked Robert to join me in the shower, and he asked if there was a spider in there that needed to be killed. I told him that I was perfectly capable of killing my own spiders, and that I wanted him to make love to me under the pitiful water pressure we keep meaning to have a plumber take a look at. “Why would we make love in the shower,” he asked, “That’s why we have a bed.” I would have divorced him, but all the good lawyers are downtown, and you can never find parking. Better to just die unhappy. What right did I have to happiness anyway? My ancestors were in gulags. Before them, there were cavewomen. Women living in caves. Did they have happiness? Of course not. I had a house, and a microwave, and I could fall asleep every night to Forensic Files. What more did I want? I wanted what the Muscatellos had. Or so I thought. The letter was addressed to Oscar Muscatello, but it had somehow found its way into our mailbox. That was probably because the mailman was losing his sight, but didn’t want to admit it. He’d already hit three parked cars on our street, but when I called the post office to ask why they weren’t forcing him into retirement, they said it was because nobody wanted to be a mailman anymore. There was no job security in it. Who sends mail? My only mail came in the form of packages that I ordered late at night while watching Forensic Files. Articles of clothing I would never wear or skin cream I would never put on. I once ordered a candle with edible wax and asked Robert if he wanted to use it on me. “And get it all over the bed,” he asked, horrified, “Why would we do that? It’s such a nice bed.” I began to wonder if my husband was having an affair with our linens. A good person would have taken the letter to Oscar Muscatello right over to him. They would have knocked on the door, waited until the Muscatellos finished making love on the piano in their living room, and then handed over the letter without giving it a second thought. I am not a good person. I also know the look of a woman’s handwriting. Oscar’s name was written with a feminine touch. I tore open the envelope. Right away, I smelled it. Cherry perfume. Something fruity, but sensual. I felt my lips moisten. I had done something bad, but something worse was in this envelope. A single piece of paper. Five little words written on it. And a question mark. Does she know you’re leaving? Oscar Muscatello was having an affair. Oscar Muscatello was not a good husband. The Muscatellos did not have a good marriage. The sound of Tosca came careening into my living room window, and, based on the selection, I concluded that both of them were about to land their planes at the same time. But Lindy Muscatello had a bomb on her plane. And she didn’t even know it. I pictured Oscar leaving her for a bee. The Queen Bee. Someone nurtured by Lindy, cared for by her. I pictured him shrinking down to the size of a worker bee. A drone. Moving his lithe body through the hive until he met his new wife. They would procreate singing bees. Bees that knew Don Giovanni. Bees that knew Carmen. When she was done with him, the Queen would eat him. Or maybe that was what a praying mantis did. I wasn’t much for science, unless it had to do with fingerprints or blood splatter. Those were things I learned from Forensic Files. I had to wait for Robert to fall asleep before I put it on, because it made him anxious. I never get anxious. I’m too certain of the worst. You can’t anticipate something you know won’t happen. I will never kill or be killed. I will die some boring death. Not like Oscar Muscatello. He and Lindy will die interesting deaths, but, holding the letter, I knew they would not be dying together. They would die their interesting deaths alone. This revelation should have thrilled me. Instead, I felt my own sense of betrayal. Betrayed by whom, I couldn’t say. Not at Oscar. What devotion did he owe me? I wanted to know when he would be leaving. I wanted to know who was better than Lindy. Who was this Queen Bee with such beautiful penmanship? What did her ink taste like? Was it sweet? The Muscatellos moved shortly thereafter, and when they moved, they moved together. If Oscar left, he left after the hives had all been shipped out. He left after the piano had been moved through the large living room window that looked out onto the street. He left after the mailman crashed into a parked pickup truck, had a heart attack, and was finally forced to hang up his uniform. If he left, he left after all that, but I don’t know. I don’t know if he ever did leave. The night I received the letter, I took off all my clothes and walked into the bedroom where Robert was reading a biography of Mamie Eisenhower. I took the book from his hands, and set it on the nightstand. He started to say something about Mamie’s childhood, but I placed a finger on his lips. They twitched. I asked him never to leave. When we were finished, I put on my robe and went to the open window. Across the way, the Muscatellos were in bed. The lights were out. Maybe they had already discussed their move. Maybe Oscar had confessed to his affair. Maybe none of that happened. Maybe it all did. Up in the sky, I thought I heard a plane. I thought I did, but who knows? These days anything can sound like a plane.

Rosethorn was being tormented by a dead ghost. She didn’t understand why; she hadn’t done anything wrong! Rosethorn, 25, lived in Chicago, worked as an editor for a popular newspaper, and had two pet cats. Just another ordinary folk in a world full of ordinary people. So of course Rosethorn would be frightened and perplexed when a demon started haunting her dreams. The first night it happened, Rosethorn brushed it off as just another nightmare. She had had her fair share of those in the past. Rosethorn went about with her day, editing newspapers and spending time with her cats, Sophie and Yoyo. What was the dream about? Well, it was actually quite disturbing. Rosethorn had been running down a damp, dark sewer tunnel, surrounded by darkness and searching out the light at the end of the tunnel. But no matter how far she got, or how fast she ran, Rosethorn could never catch up. She had been stuck in the tunnel. Then there was a voice. That of a young child. Rosethorn had turned around to see a little boy, around the age of 8 or 9, with wide blue sapphire eyes and dressed in a white and blue sailor outfit. “I’m lost.” The boy had said in an innocent, scared voice. “Can you help me find my mommy?” Rosethorn had smiled, picked him up, and promised that she would get the two of them out of the sewer tunnel and up into the city to search for his mama. But when she looked back up again, the light at the end of the tunnel was gone . Rosethorn was trapped in the tunnel, with a little boy crying for his mommy. “The shadows are approaching.” The little boy said, pointing to the encroaching darkness with a tiny, wobbly finger. Rosethorn had been terrified. She ran as fast as she could blindly in any direction, but the shadows just kept coming. The little boy in her arms didn’t seem scared any longer, however. “I’m lost.” He said again, in a cute, innocent, yet slightly mocking voice. “Can you help me find my mommy?” Rosethorn glanced down at the child, only, to her shock, for him to blur and vanish into nothingness. She stopped, looking around for where the boy had gone. “I’m lost. Can you help me find my mommy? I’m lost. Can you help me find my mommy? I’m lost. Can you help me find my mommy? ” Voices began to chant from the shadows, malice and glee rising through the undertones and gaining momentum. The shadows reached out, with their gnarly, black tendrils, and the last thing Rosethorn saw before she awoke with a startle was a pair of glowing narrowed red eyes, staring at her from the darkness. The next night, Rosethorn dreamt of winning the lottery. But when she came to collect the money, the boy was there again, saying the same phrase in that cute, innocent voice of his. But Rosethorn knew better. Rosethorn had immediately figured out that it was highly unlikely that a person or thing from one dream would transcend into another, especially considering that the boy was a figure of her imagination, and not even anyone she knew. The next night, Rosethorn was planting roses when the boy came out of the rose bushes and asked for help. The night after that, Rosethorn dreamt of skydiving. But when she fell into a storm cloud, the boy was there again. The night leading up to the present day, Rosethorn was skiing on Mount Everest. But when an avalanche rained snow and ice down upon her, the boy was there again. Chanting. Asking. Terrifying the living daylights out of her. Rosethorn shuddered in the cold November breeze as she walked briskly through the crowded streets of Chicago on her way to work. Every night, she had a dream different to the one before. And on occasion, something she had been really focusing on lately would reappear one way or another in consecutive dreams. But those were things that Rosethorn knew and loved in real life. The boy wasn’t real. The boy wasn’t someone from a story or show that Rosethorn had known. The boy shouldn’t have existed! Yet there he was. In her dreams. For five consecutive days. Something was terribly wrong. Rosethorn had consulted her best friend Terra about her nightmarish dreams. Terra had told her that she was most likely hallucinating. After all, there was an unbreakable line between dreams and reality! What happens in her dreams stays in her dreams. The boy was just another figment of Rosethorn’s wild imagination, and he would fade with time. Rosethorn hoped that what Terra had said was true. She desperately prayed that it was. But all hopes came crashing down when Rosethorn took a shortcut through an alleyway to work and a small hand tugged gently on her coat. Rosethorn looked down, and sucked in a sharp breath. Her silvery gray eyes widened until you could barely see the white of her eyes. Standing before her, next to a rotten dumpster, was the same little boy haunting her dreams. He had the exact same black hair, wide blue eyes, and sailor outfit. Those wide orbs were filled with the same fraud and mocking innocence and fear. “You’re...” Rosethorn began to hyperventilate, staggering away from the boy. It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it can’t be real -- “I’m lost.” The little boy whimpered. “Can you help me find my mommy?” An ear-piercing scream tore through the alleyway. From that day forward, Rosethorn Waters was never to be seen again. Her close friends and family were frantic, and the police conducted a thorough search. Eventually, they managed to pinpoint Rosethorn’s last known location to be an alleyway between Walter Street and 18th Ave. But there were no signs of a struggle. No signs of a murder, either. The only thing that was there was a soft black feather, lying on the ground where Rosethorn had vanished.

TW: eating disorder It began just after she stopped struggling with food. Her two year battle with bulimia was, as she had convinced herself, over. The only scars apparent from the battle was her now dangerously thin physique. Lana was 18 years old and had just graduated from high school the month before. She had not gone to college, she couldn’t afford it, as she was completely independent and completely broke. She lived alone in the overcrowded, vast city of Los Angeles California. the summer was lingering on. LA was restless with its blazing one-hundred degree weather, the youth taking up the beaches and downtown area, and the streets lined bumper to bumper with cars day in and out, windows rolled down and the latest tunes from Madonna blaring all over Hollywood Boulevard. Lana strolled down the streets of downtown LA. With college out of the question she put all her effort into finding a job. She approached a familiar bakery just around the corner of Laguna Avenue and entered it. The suffocating heat of the LA summer was drowned out by a refreshing, shivering cold air infused with the mouthwatering smell of various flavored muffins and pastries. She inhaled delightedly as the door chimed introducing her to the store and it’s few customers. “HEY LANA! What can I get cha? The usual?” Came the excited voice of Jack, the 40 something owner of Zen Bakery. He was positioned behind the counter, a large pearly white grin on his round and rosy face, his chubby fingers were wrapping a box for an order. Lana had been a regular at Zen Bakery during her senior year of High School. Every morning she’d come in and order what Jack referred to as the “usual”, two large and soft bran muffins with a steaming cup of black coffee. “Not today Jack” Lana replied with a friendly smile as she walked towards the counter, “Actually I came in today to see about a job, I just graduated, I could really use the money.” Jack looked at her thoughtfully. “I got no work here in the kitchen, but talk to Sissy in the back, she’s hiring right now.” Sissy was a petite woman with her long, curly, dark brown bangs covering the first half of her face. Her brilliantly colored green eyes shone through her hair and lit up when she smiled, and as Lana introduced herself. “All I need to know is if you can drive a van. I distribute the muffins, you can help with the delivery to the customers and stores” Sissy stated after hearing Lana’s proposal. Although having no prior experience with driving a van that looked enormous in comparison to her small figure, Lana did have experience with her own banged up 1979 Chevrolet and figured the basic operation of the old thing would be similar if not exact to that of the van. Lana answered with an impatient “Yes!” Having a feeling that her long job search was finally over and done with. Sissy agreed to hire her, and as a sort of confirmation to this, shook Lana’s hand firmly. The days cooled off as summer came to a closure for the people of LA. The wind still carried the smell and warmth of summer as it weaved through the palm trees, and pushed the waves against the beach shores. Every morning at five, Lana would leave her small, old apartment building on 31st street, buckle up in the rusty blue van with the fading name of ZEN BAKERY on the sides, and drive down Laguna Avenue to arrive at the bakery in time for the five thirty pick up. After the back of the van was loaded with zen muffins, Lana would follow her route on the highway to deliver the muffins throughout the Los Angeles area. With Jack baking the muffins, Sissy handling the distribution, and Lana delivering them, success came almost instantly. ZEN MUFFINS were the new words on the street. The healthy vegan treats happened to be the newest craze. During the course of nine months Lana spread Zen muffins all around northern California. Even though the pay was great, one thing stood out to Lana, she’d see Sissy putting hundreds of dollars in her pocket every night before closing. Although the pay was more than Lana would have made anywhere else, the thought came to her: How can I make that much dough? “Dough Boys” bread was something no one had ever heard of before. Lana wouldn’t have even heard of it if she hadn’t made a delivery to the Co-op one Friday afternoon. After a year and a half, Lana had gotten the rights to sell and deliver other products besides the Zen Muffins (which was not as hot and new as it was years prior). When she saw “Dough Boys” bread she knew one thing immediately, this bread was absolutely nowhere. And in her past experiences, things that were nowhere had to immediately be put on shelves everywhere. Frank was the owner of the bakery from which “Dough Boys” bread was produced. He was a man in his mid 30’s with a stern look upon his finely structured face. He held himself up right and in a very professional manner. He was taken aback when he met Lana in person. The skinny, small, girl of 20 who had demanded over the phone for exclusive rights to deliver “Dough Boys” bread. During this time, Lana had branched away from exclusively selling the Zen Muffins (which had at this point become a thing of the past) and began to sell other health food products, acquiring a considerable amount of money in the process. The “Dough Boys” bread would, as she felt, would be her biggest hit, she was so confident in this fact that she was not going to let Frank walk away from her offer. Lana may have only been young, but she knew how to talk. Frank listened to every persuasive word that Lana spoke and automatically trusted her. Within the span of an hour, Frank had agreed to give Lana the bread to deliver. Within the course of a few months, ” Dough Boys” Bread was everywhere. Calls were made day in and out, demanding for the delivery of “Dough Boys” bread. It was a case of first impression, no one had seen this type of bread in a health food store before, and unlike most health food goods, the bread was absolutely delicious. Lana was now primarily working with Frank. The Zen Bakery had since gone out of business and wasn’t doing so well. If there was one thing that Lana could pick up on it was that people are fickle and products can be instantaneously “hot” and not “hot”, in and out; but bread on the other hand, was always consistent. People always wanted to break bread. John Doe was homeless. He spent his days stalking the streets and alleys of downtown LA. He was always looking for food, not for him, but for his girlfriend who had just given birth the month before to a baby girl. Without a job and with only a few pennies to his name, he resorted to trash digging in the local dumpsters behind markets on nearly every street corner. No one had paid much mind to him before, so he was shocked when Lana had called out to him one spring morning. “Do you want some bread?” Lana asked looking at John and taking in his ragged appearance. The freckles, fiery orange hair, and distressed overalls he was clothed in, reminded her of huckleberry finn. The couple leaned against the Van (Lana still had the van) and Lana listened to Johns tale of misfortune. After a minute of thought, Lana was offered him a job as her assistant. The job by itself had gotten to an overwhelming point. Lana had to deliver the bread, stock the bread, cover checks at the bank, and handle all the orders. It was a huge operation for a twenty-three year old (with absolutely no business sense) to handle by herself. John agreed as soon as she finished her sentence. For a while, he was a great help to her and the stress of work was lifted off of her mind. For a while things were going as smoothly as ever. But this was only for a while. Lana was upset to the point of eruption. She clutched the large brick phone to her right ear hearing the annoying sound of a line unanswered on the other side. Where had he gone? What was he doing? John had not returned a call or message in nearly a week. The time was almost 2pm and there was no way now that she could get the bread delivered by the deadline of ten. The whole week had been a mess, Frank hired a new delivery boy even after he promised her the rights to the distribution of the bread, John had disappeared without so much as a warning , and Lana was scrambling all over the place to cover all the deliveries, barely making them for the most part. The realization that this business was getting to be at such a greater capacity than she was ready for, hit her with the force of a Californian ocean wave. Even though in her mind the business was falling apart before her, Lana still made an effort to mend it. Her hope was restored when she, discovered a new type of bread. The taste free, sweet free, yeast free, bread in a can, “Un-Bread”. Lana saw the potential that this bread could have, she saw all the money that she could make if it was put on shelf and if she could convince the bakery who produced it to do business with her. “I’ve gotta have this bread” she repeated to herself, she imagined herself a millionaire before 25 and that was enough incentive to drive the two hours to San Diego and speak to the owners of ”Un Bread”. Lana used those words again, those words that had the power to convince anybody to do anything. She talked. They listened to the words that were wrapped in certainty and were convincingly potent. The makers of “Un Bread” told her what they wanted and she agreed to give it to them. “I can get it in Whole Foods.” She wasn’t sure if she could get them into Whole Foods, but she said it in a way that convinced them otherwise. They agreed after some thought. The deal was done. She decided she would demo the bread in Arowan, A small food store located in San Deigo. Within a couple of weeks the bread had received an incredibly positive reaction and had met up to the expectations Lana had predicted. With the feedback being so great, Lana decided to be truthful to her promise and get the She decided she would demo the bread in Arowan, a small Health food store located in San Diego. Within a couple of weeks the bread had received an incredibly positive reaction and had met up to the expectations Lana had predicted. With the feedback being so great, Lana decided to act on her promise and get the bread into Whole Foods. She worked fervently day in and day out to secure a meeting with a buyer. By the end of 2 weeks, she had gotten a call back from the store and the next day she was scheduled a meeting. She used her persuasive power that was embedded within her words and that had never failed her before. The Whole Foods buyer agreed to sell two flavors of the canned bread. As a sign of confirmation, He took Lana’s hand and shook it. Lana was elated. Once she got home she rung up the “Un-Bread” owners. After three seemingly endless rings, the other line picked up. “Hello?” “It’s Lana! I’ve got great news; Whole Foods wants your bread! I did it! We are going to make a lot of money together!” Lana let the thrill and excitement ring in her voice. There was a quiet buzz on the other end; no one said anything for about a minute. “Hello?” Lana said confused by the abrupt silence. “I’m sorry Lana...” Came the slow regretful words of the one on the other line. “Sorry? Sorry for what?” Lana began to panic slightly. “Well...We are closing the bakery; our family has decided to retreat to the mountains.” It was the first time that her words, those words that held some supernatural power, failed her. Leaving her silent. Lana slowly moved the phone away from her face, ignoring the muffled apologies from the other line. In just a single sentence, Lana saw her world fall apart. She dropped the phone, not having enough strength to carry its weight. It seemed, as odd as it might be that Lana had worked for this one moment. That this canned bread was her big shot to find true success, to earn money, to earn recognition, to find absolute happiness. And it failed. She took this as some sort of cosmic sign from the stars, she took this as the end of something that wasn’t meant to be. This failed mission had destroyed her and in that destruction, opened her eyes to what this business had turned out to be. John still was missing, Frank hired a new delivery boy, and the canned bread hippies were retiring to the mountains in some remote part of northern California. A sudden epiphany took her out of her state of shock and into one of reality. Her eyes were finally wide open, and with that, she straightened herself out and decided to tie up some loose ends. Lana stayed away for a week and 4 days. In her absence, Frank had called her numerous times demanding where she had been. She called Frank and told him she was done, dismissing his angry, erratic outburst, and hanging up the phone. She had, by some luck, found out where John was living and drove down to his address. It lead her to a trailer park. At first she banged on the door of the trailer John had supposedly been at this whole time, but when all that came back was the eerie silence of no movement, she decided to wait for his return. To her anticipation, John did not show up. Taking this as another sign, Lana decided to leave, placing a loaf of “Dough Boys” Bread, which she had brought for lunch, on the step of his trailer. Summer, as is routine, came to LA again. Bringing it’s high temperatures and busy streets. Lana looked back on the days of the Zen Bakery, the “Dough Boys” business, and the canned bread which would have brought her millions. She didn’t regret a day of any of it. Instead she remembered every second, so she could look back, so she could remember how close she had come, so she could remember how much she had accomplished. Lana in a way felt relieved. She imagined her life like those Californian waves. Just like the waves roll up on to the sand, the clear water bringing something unknown from the depths of the ocean to rest upon the shores, Lana found opportunity. Her feet sink into the muddy sand. She knew that when the waves come again, as they will always do, they retake what is left on the shores leaving the beach bare and empty. Lana would wait. She would wait for those waves, with the fragments from the sea beyond, to cover these shores again. To make way for another opportunity. To make way for something new. __END__

When I moved to my college town, the first semester was already going on for about two weeks, and it was basically impossible to find a decent room, so in the beginning - for about six months - I lived in situations most people would describe as adventurous. It was interesting at first, but very fast was becoming a living nightmare. And after a search, that felt like years, I finally found a place: a whole house for three people, nice housemates, not far away from university and all vital necessities nearby. The house was something you would expect from a old Grimm tale, a maze-like M.C. Escher nightmare with, for some unknown reason, very weirdly arranged rooms on half-levels, staircases that either ended in a kitchen or at the neighbors house or somehow in the garden or in the attic. It also had very large holes in what we prayed weren’t load-bearing walls, especially the one, which was ground-level and connected the house to the also rundown garden, which was basically just broken concrete with small sick islands of gras. But the garden had a nice cabin, which we shared with our neighbors, who also had a worn-down-as-hell house. Anyways, it was very, very, very cheap, so it was perfect. There was only one catch: The place had a cat. And it wasn’t that one of my two new flatmates had a cat, no, the building came with it. One of the former residents brought her into the house and when he left town the cat was so used to her newly conquered habitat, that he thought it would be the most humane thing, to just leave her and go on with his life. Another tiny part of his decision to leave her behind, might have been, that she was also crazy as hell, as you will come to learn in this story. Anyways, I had never owned a cat, so I was never able to develop an affection for these animals, plus, they come with a certain reputation of being dicks. I also remembered, that I was mildly allergic to felines, with a light pink rash on the skin test. So the cat was a problem. But I really wanted and also needed to move in, so I did, what I had to do: I ignored the shit out of her. I wasn’t greeting her, I wasn’t petting or caressing her, always avoided eye-to-cateye contact and trying to only feed her when it was absolutely necessary. When my flatmates were gone for a longer time, I basically just dumped a whole bag of cat food on the kitchen floor and just avoided stumbling over it when I was cooking. The cat was also totally banned from my room. So she was in my life but not a part of it. We continued this relationship of peacefully ghosting each other for about five months. It was almost at the end of my second semester, where I started settling. I had my favorite courses, my favorite clubs and bars, my favorite restaurants and I also established a fair amount of necessary acquaintances and even made some good friends. My new place had a big attic, where we studied and played table-tennis, but basically just hung out and got drunk. Most of the time, it was me and Philip & Philip, same name, different people, equally lovable. And with good friends always come their friends, and those are the ones, you *don’t* choose but still need to accept in your life. And they brought Thomas, one of those friend-of-friends, you can’t avoid. He was a weird, somewhat ugly guy, but handsome in a way, very smart and what you would call the life of every party. Just one of those guys everyone loved. I hated him instantly. But after a good amount of beers, I started beginning to slightly approve of the presence of this blue-eyed intruder. And it was exactly this moment, when something magical happened: The cat-lady of the house decided to pay us a visit. As usual, she would sneak up on us, using the couch next to the stairwell as a strategic cover, only to appear out of nowhere to scare the shit out of us. For the Philips and me, this was a totally normal behavior, we had witnessed this for many times, but not for Thomas, who hadn’t been at my place before. His handsome smile suddenly turned into a hideous grimace. Screaming in horror, he jumped up the couch (as if that would help with a cat!) screeching and mumbling incoherent whispers of terrified dread. He grabbed his stuff and ran down the stairwell, like someone, who was saving his last possessions from a fire. The cat was following him downstairs, apparently excited to suddenly find such an entertaining and unexpected prey and we listened to his horrified screams until the door to the street finally closed with a loud bang. As it turned out, Thomas was afraid of cats, and I don’t mean a little, it was a full-blown phobia. For him, being in a situation like this, was basically like drowning in a sea of spiders. The cat came back to the attic, that was now filled with loud laughter and looked at me with eyes you could only describe as mischievous. I looked at her with a lack of understanding and with the pride of an emotionally distant father, who just discovered that his little girl can knockout the strongest guy in high school. We smirked at each other, knowing, this would be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. She was called Mashura, named after a druggy 90’s happy-hardcore djane from Germany, a purple-haired, weird, life-is-a-party, techno queen; and that turned out to be a very fitting name. With black and brown colored fur and little yellow stripes, she was basically an eight pound wasp, but way more dangerous. Scalpel-like claws that would cut through metal, created to bring death to anything that moved but also, to gently massage your stomach for some reason. Eyes, that either warned you about the three seconds you have left to live, or stared into your soul with a fearless love. And with the affection of a loving friend, who only wants to cuddle and watch a movie with you, who, a few seconds later, transforms into an unpredictable, temperamental maniac, screaming "I’m not going to be IGNORED!!!“. I think it’s fair to say, if she would’ve been a human woman, I would have fallen for her in a matter of minutes. And from that infamous day on, I fought with my roomies to be the one, feeding, petting and caressing her, playing and cuddling with her, showing her my favorite movies and sharing my strawberry ice cream with her. I also was the one, who was rewarded with dead mice, with dead birds and one time, amazingly, with a fat dead rat, right there in front of my room next to Mashura, who meowed in pure joy. She wasn’t like a pet, more like a weird roommate and buddy who loved you, but still would mess with you on any occasion, basically like best friends would do. She was fully able of opening all kinds of doors: jumping on the handle, pushing it down with one paw, and using another paw to push away the door from the frame, creating a convenient slot for her to leave the room. Like any other cat, she also loved heights and was sitting on the shelves in the kitchen, silently watching you cooking, fully aware of the fact, that you haven’t noticed her yet, patiently waiting for the moment where you leave for one damn minute to wash your hands in the bathroom, just to come back and find her going down on your steak, which by now was dragged across the whole kitchen floor (as a student, I washed the steak with hot water and ate it in tasteless anger). And when she was sleeping next to me, I sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, just to find her watching me like a hawk, or maybe a vulture, making me almost shit myself. But that one time, she really outdid herself. It was wintertime in our snowy linen lands and our old building had an abandoned ground floor with no foundation and, like I said, a lot of big holes in the back wall. Bad for keeping temperatures humane in winter, but perfect for a cats free-roaming spirit. Since my room was on the first half-floor, but was directly connected to the L-shaped slanted stairwell that led from the kitchen to the ground floor, the door had a knob instead of a handle, to keep the cat from opening it in the middle of the night, which in winter would have resulted in my certain death, caused by freezing. I was sitting in my room, studying for an upcoming exam. It was one of those courses, where you study and study like a maniac but still couldn’t wrap your head around the subject matter, so you feel stupid and worthless, and you start getting angry and furious, asking if humanities endless struggles and basically all of its existence are worth this trouble at all. Mashura was outside, scratching at my door, searching for some entertainment. I wouldn’t let her in, trying to concentrate on the unsolvable mysteries of Media Theories and focussing on not going berserk. After an hour, she started getting really mad, scratching furiously at the door and jumping on the knob, trying to open it again and again, meowing, and somehow growling, like it would be the most vital part of her life to get into this particular room. I turned up the volume of the music and ignored her as good as I could, drinking loads of cheap energy drinks to compensate for the four hours of sleep I had that night and continued learning. After another hour, I started to understand a little bit, finally breaking down some of the topics of the prep paper, getting deeper and deeper into the tunnel, starting to find a little light at the end of it, and then understanding many of the problems, setting up connections, that made sense, breaking and breaking them into smaller pieces. Finally, *finally* a redeeming epiphany! Andy Dufresne - who crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side. I was so happy, I couldn’t believe it! I also really, really needed to pee. So I hurried to my door to get to the toilet, only to realize, that I was locked in. I stood there in sheer wonder and disbelief and after a few seconds I figured out, what just happened: My keys were still on the outside of my door and my feline friend Mashuras relentless jumping and gripping and grabbing turned the key into the lock. Not much, just slightly enough to keep me from leaving my room. In this sudden realization of my entrapment I started shouting and screaming at the door, her, happily meowing at me, just happy to finally find some form of communication. Raging, with a bladder, that should have been emptied an hour before, I stood in the room and looked through it like a panicking animal, trying to find a container that felt appropriate to hold in approximately two liters of fermented, cheap dollar-store-red-bull, but there were no bottles or vases, or anything like that. In total desperation I started looking for grocery bags, but of course, I only had the ones out of paper, stupid environmentalism. I tried to call my flatmates multiple times. They didn’t answer and were probably out for the day, so I figured, there was only one way to pee. I rushed to one of the windows, which was about six feet above the sidewalk, jumped into the snow, only to realize that in the heat of the moment I forgot to put on any shoes, and ran to the little canal next to our house and relieved myself of a gallon of glowing-in-the- dark urine, trying not to moan like a pervert. I finished and rang my neighbors doorbell, who unfortunately were my friends and who opened the door with very confused faces, as they saw me standing there shoeless in my t-shirt at temperatures below zero. They let me in with a curious laugh and I avoided looking at them, only mumbling "Don’t ask...“ while I angrily walked through their kitchen to our garden to our backdoor into my house. There she was. Meowing. Purring. Rubbing her back on my legs. I turned the key and entered my room, freezing, changing my snow soaked socks, calling her things like "If Hitler had a cat.“, "God’s revenge for the sins of mankind.“ and "A pure catastrophe.“, fully aware of the beauty of this pun. She apologized to me by licking her ass in nonchalant indifference. Like I said: What best friends would do. Eighteen months and many beautifully weird stories passed by, and then she died. I came home one day and she was lying on the ground floor, meowing in a bad way, obviously in pain. My housemates and I drove her to the vet and we found out, that apparently someone in the neighborhood put out food that was poisoned, to kill the few rats that were roaming our backyard from time to time. And she just ate it. The vet handed us some medicine, told us to give it to her every hour and wished us good luck. My housemates and I came up with shifts, taking the now almost immobile cat, who just meowed in agony and peed herself, to our rooms and gave her the liquid medicine, that we had to apply to her throat, using a syringe, every time our alarm clocks hit the sixty minute mark. I had the last shift of her last 48 hours, that felt like weeks. The alarm went off and I put her back between my thighs, like a baby, starting to slowly feeding her the medicine while stroking her head. In clueless despair and total fear she would bite and shiver and cough, because medicine tastes bitter, and would look at me with wet eyes of hopelessness and agony and, this time, her lack of understanding. The coughing got stronger and stronger, the moaning stopped, and her head fell back between my knees, with open mouth and her tongue hanging out. I actually was able to take her back for a few seconds with mouth-to-nose ventilation, something I learned from a documentary on dogs, but her time was just up. We drove her back to the vet, who declared her dead and gave us two choices for what to do next. Either take her back and bury her in our backyard or, for the second choice, leave her there to be taking care of by something Germans call a "Tierkörperverwertungsstelle“, which roughly could be translated to "animal cadaver utilisation place“. Needles to say, we took her back to our house. My flatmates started to build a beautiful cross with her name. Also a fancy casket, made out of the shoebox she used to sleep in. We kept a head count of her killed prey on the fridge for years and glued it onto the casket, next to little pictures of birds and mice, of which we replaced their eyes with little X’s. I was in charge of digging the grave, which took me about three hours. German law says, that any dead animal needs to be buried seventy centimeters or around twenty-eight inches deep, to prevent scavengers like foxes from digging up your backyard, and after a third of the depth, it basically turns into what feels like shoveling concrete. In the evening, all of us were mentally and physically tired, hardly able to keep our eyes open but less able to close them, so we decided to invite our friends over to keep our minds occupied and to have a little barbecue and drink a few beers. We called them and told them our cat died, without sharing any details of the last two days, and an hour later about fifteen people showed up in our backyard, armed with basically every bottle of liqueur they could find in their sideboards. We started barbecuing and drinking and everyone literally had ten stories about Mashura to tell, one weirder and funnier than the other, leaving us crying in laughter for the rest of the night. One friend told us, she almost broke her neck slipping on the cats vomit, barely avoiding falling down the stairwell. I thought about strawberry-ice-cream-cat-puke and smiled. Another friend once crashed on our couch, because he passed out drunk, and in the morning almost had a heart attack, because when he woke up, Mashura was staring at him, an inch away from his face. Also, basically everyone at some point was holding her up, like you would with a newborn lion, loudly chanting a fake-african-jibberish-song, long before we knew, that cultural appropriation was a bad thing. And of course, everyone was tearing up with pure joy, listening to the story of that one time Mashura made Thomas run down the staircase, fearing for his life. They stayed for a while longer and after a few hours, everyone left, taking a beer for the way and a little bit of the pain. And that was it. A few month ago, many years after her funeral, I saw Thomas again. We are friends now, because sometimes people change, of which I mean myself, and we had a really nice chat, catching up after a long time. But there were these small moments during our conversation, tiny little things he said, that still annoyed me, and where I thought: "Man, I wish I had my cat with me right now!“ and I could just take her out of my bag, hold her in front of his face, just to see him screaming and running away, high-fiving her afterwards and smirking together at this stupid idiot! But then I remembered, that I was still the one, who once got locked out of his own room by the same cat. So...

James awakens and sits straight up, “Fuck.” Sprinting straight to the garage, he can already hear the small sad meowing echoing throughout the house. “Well if you wouldn’t always try sneaking into the garage every chance you get, you wouldn't be freezing your tail off in the middle of the night.” “Meow” “Well I didn't think I had to tell you that you wouldn't be able to get back in. If you can't get out, you can't get in. Clown.” “Meow” “Get inside.” Cat prints covered James’s Ford Explorer in the garage. Windom must have been running a 5K on the vehicle from that amount of prints that were trailing in every way imaginable, like the opening scene to an old detective movie from the 80s. Once inside, Windom scurried across the house out of sight, out of mind. James crawled back into bed and looked at the time. 3 AM. Great. Let's hope we can get some more sleep before work. James glanced at the bedroom door to see a shadow quickly fade away from the slight crack that is left open for the cats to enter and leave the room at will. What was that? Naw, I must just be seeing things. I’m the only one home. That kind of looked like someone standing there though. It has to just be my eyes playing tricks on me. Windom came into the bedroom and curled up on the end of the bed falling asleep instantly, followed by James shortly after. The next day, James came home from work back to his empty house only to find dirty footprints all around the house. The tracks started outside of James' bedroom facing the door, turned around and continued down the hallway, up the stairs stopping outside of James’s roommate Alex’s room. James could see cat prints leave from there and disappear. “What is happening?” “Meow” Windom said with almost a tone of pride. “Who was in the house?” “Meow” “Why am I talking to a cat expecting a response? I really am losing it.” James turned around and started down the stairs to get the broom, “Because you’re the next on my list.” James stopped mid stride, heart racing, the hair on the back of his neck was on end. Turning back only to see Windom sitting near the door staring at James, James walks towards Alex's door knocking. Maybe Alex came home, maybe he's sick today. No answer as James feared. He opened the door to an empty room consisting of only a dresser, bed, and night stand. I need to get out of this house. Lets get downstairs, throw my shoes on, and just leave. I must not have gotten enough sleep last night. As James was returning home from his walk the sun was starting to set. The shadows from the trees started to stretch across the front yard and driveway. It was nice and warm. Your typical cul-de-sac scene playing out, kids screaming with laughter in the backyard of one of the houses, the smell of meat grilling behind another house. When Rachel approaches James. “Hey James.” “What's goin on Rachel? How have you been?” “Great, well, could be better. Have you heard or seen from Francis? Francis is James’s immediate neighbor to the left of his house, who had been off the grid for a couple of days which was slightly strange for Francis as James would see him once a day, on the odd occurrence every other day. “I haven't seen him for a couple of days now. Why what did you need?” “Well he invited me over for dinner tonight but never answered the door. His car isn't in his driveway either.” “Well maybe he ran to the store. I mean, to be fair, he is slightly elderly, maybe he forgot and went to visit family. “James, he's 50. I wouldn't count that as elderly.” “I mean, kinda. How about this, I’ll keep an eye out and reach out to you if I see him. If it gets to be a few more days without seeing him, I'll reach out to the Sheriffs and report him missing.” Rachel departed nervously without saying bye or see you later as she normally did. James wasn't too sure why Rachel was so nervous, they must have been closer than James remembered. James came through the front door and Alex was home. Alex usually came home from work and went straight to his room to sleep and wake up stupid early for work. James knocked on Alex’s door. “Bro you awake?” Alex must be asleep. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. James ate some leftover sloppy joes that had been in the fridge, then went to shower and get ready for bed. James hopped into the shower and started washing his hair, he could sense something was off and opened his eyes to find Francis standing in his bathroom. “Uh Francis, what are you doing here?” A deep scratchy voice that did not belong to Francis answered “This is what I wanted the whole time.” James remembered this voice, it was the same voice from the hallway. “Francis, this really isn't funny. ALEX COME DOWN HERE NOW!” “Alex has already been taken care of. He won’t be coming to your rescue.” “How did you get in the house? The security system is armed.” “James, YOU let me in the house. “I...... No, I would've remembered letting you in my house Francis.” Francis reached for the light switch and turned the light off in the bathroom. James, panicking, turned the light back on to only find Windom sitting there. “Meow,” “Fuck no.” James snags a towel off of the floor and attempts to exit the bathroom. Before he can exit the bathroom, Francis reappears grabbing James by the arm and pulling him back into the bathroom. Now James isn’t anything close to a fighter by any means, but he tried to be one tonight. James threw the hardest right hook that he could but made contact with the threshold feeling a pop in his knuckle followed by immense pain. Francis with a youth and strength that hasn’t been seen in a long time picked up James with no effort and threw him to the ground. Francis proceeded to punch James in the face and upper body with force that James could only imagine Apollo felt from Rocky. James was pinned and unable to get out from under the boulder that was Francis. He could feel the consciousness start to fade, when he heard “FRONT DOOR, DISARM SYSTEM NOW” followed by the loud obnoxious beeping that he has heard when he forgets to disarm the security system when he takes the trash out. Someone was in his house, but who? No one else lived here and Alex was, as Francis said, “Taken care of.” A grunt was heard followed by a dull thud and a shriek, as the weight was lifted off of James and suddenly he could breathe and sit up with ease. Rachel had struck Francis with a baseball bat that James kept near the front door. “Holy shit, James are you ok?” “Who... who is that?” James asked as his sight was starting to come into focus. “I’m glad I got here when I did. I heard yelling from the cul-de-sac and knew something was wrong.” Rachel said with a slight chuckle. “Francis must have been some..... Creature. A shapshifter maybe? I dont know, all I know is it was just Windom and I in the bathroom, then Francis appeared. Speaking of which, where did he go?” “I hit him and he took off towards the door. I am not sure where he went. Are you ok?” “Nothing some whiskey can't fix. Thank you.” Windom and Francis were never seen after that night. There were some reports that the County Sheriff had received for what seemed like years, of a man assaulting people in their houses and places of business after they had let a stray cat in to feed it and give it water. No one is really sure if the Francis and Windom duo had left town or someone had finally put an end to their rampage. All James knew was he was happy that he didnt have to worry about a elderly man staring at him while he slept.

There was another crew before us. Four men and one woman. They were meant to lay the foundation of the moon base, but soon after their arrival HQ lost contact with them, one by one. HQ had cameras set up there long before crews were sent up, but they were old, black and white; not much could be made out. One minute they were there, shoveling moon sand, carrying bags of cement, doing the work they were paid to do; the next they weren’t. It as though something plucked them out from space. They needed that base built and they sure as hell weren’t going to wait out to figure out what happened. Accidents happen in space. People forget to re-fill their O2 tanks and suffocate, some even forget where they’re at and get lost. They were just another statistic. After a while, HQ decided to send another crew up. My crew. We were only three guys. Jerry, Chad, and me, Michael. Our ship landed near the last crew’s. It still remained like a beacon of the past, looming over the gray landscape. Jerry went to check out their ship, while Chad and I went to worksite. They had made a lot of progress. Bags of cement and jugs of water still sat in the gray sand nearby, and there were long steel poles, gleaming under our flashlights, laid out for the skeleton of the base. The foundation was sound and solid, though only partially complete, except there were weird marking across it, as though some sort of bird had crossed it before it dried. Could’ve been a mistake by the crew, but it didn’t really matter at the end of the day. “Jerry, how’s the ship?” I asked in the short-wave intercom. After no response, Chad said: “Hey, Jerry, everything okay in there?” We turned from the site and stared at the looming ship. It wasn’t large. A normal landing ship. One level. No artificial gravity. Jerry couldn’t have gotten lost getting to the ship, or somehow fell inside and hurt himself. I looked to Chad, he shrugged, then over the flat, gray landscape, then the ship. The freeze dried food hardened in my stomach. “Jerry,” I said into the intercom, “we’re coming to the ship.” Chad went in first and it seemed as soon as he was inside, he said, “Michael, get in here.” I climbed the small ladder inside as quickly as my suit would allow and once my head was through the portal, I understood why Chad sounded urgent. I stopped midway in. The walls, the ceiling, the floor was covered in dark gray etchings of long, scratchy words. It wasn’t English -- it wasn’t any language I had ever seen. I tried to sound some of the words that looked sort of like English in my head, but it only made my temples throb. The scratchy language covered the entirety of the ship, swirling around until there wasn’t empty space left. Chad looked down at me. “What do you think this is?” “I don’t know... It’d guess it’s old, whatever it is. Look, some of the scratches are rusted.” “That doesn’t make sense -- this ship hasn’t been here that long. How could it be rusted?” Chad reached and scratched one of the coppery patches. It flaked away, revealing smooth steel underneath. He stumbled, the back of his helmet hitting off the low ceiling. “Shit, that’s not rust! It’s dried blood!” “Let’s return to the ship. HQ had to know about this.” I pushed myself out from the ship, my boot slipped and I fell on my stomach. Tufts of grayness enclosed around my helmet. “Shit, Chad, can you help me up?” There wasn’t a response. “Chad?” I crawled to the ladder and pulled myself up to my feet. Through the open hatch, the ship was empty. I turned to find nothing but desolation. “Chad?” I said into the intercom once more, and when I received no response, I ran to our ship and sealed the door. As I opened a long-wave relay to HQ, I stared out the small window in the hatch. “HQ, this is Michael Browny of US-SKEW 2, over. Repeat. This is Michael Browny of US-SKEW 2, over. Chad Young and Jerry York have disappeared, over. Chad Young and Jerry York have disappeared.” It would take over fifteen minutes for HQ to receive the relay. I waited, looking outside. Impressions appeared in the sand, like bird’s feet coming down before taking flight again. But, there weren’t bodies, there wasn’t anything, like an invisible thing hopping across the land. One after another until they stopped before the ladder to the ship. The inside of my suit sweltered with heat and my wide eyes stung from sweat. I heard scratching from above and behind and quickly I turned to see the same scratchy words appear inside the hull, rising out from the steel as if it was water. I glanced outside again, quick, and saw a faint form. Needle-thin arms, legs; tattered cloth hung over gnarled, gray flesh, a beaked head sticking out from beneath a hood covered in scratchy words. Then it was gone, vanishing into the darkness of space. The moon wasn’t inhabited as we were lead to believe. “Abandon the mission, US-SKEW 2,” HQ’s voice said over the intercom, making me jump, “Abandon the mission, over.” Before my mind registered what was happening, I was flipping switches and pressing buttons and the hum of the ship rattled my brain. I refused to look outside once more, refused to stare at the woods etched into metal by the things that seemingly passed through like a ghost. The ship rose and rose into the blackness of space towards home, but what I realized as the ship left the moon’s orbit, was that the scratchy words weren’t only on the ship but cut into my suit and I horrifyingly wondered if once I took off my suit, would they be on my flesh, too? If you like what you've read, consider subscribing to my subreddit where you can read more of my work: .

(This is a repost because I don't know how to follow rules) I dream of being in her arms. I don’t know who she is, but I love her more than I can describe. I dream of the softness of her torso, the curves of her body -- the love reflecting from the flora-filled deep green ponds of her eyes. So deep that I see nothing but the eyes and the skin of her arms as they wrap around me in their embryonic embrace. Night after night I see her, feel her. I dream of the safety I feel in her arms. The tenderness; the feeling of someone caring for you more than you care for yourself. I also dream of the intensity of it all, sometimes waking in the cold of night to the cold of sweat puddles on my sheets. I dream of those giant juniper eyes staring down at me -- never blinking. Always the eyes, never anything else. When I gaze into them, I see only the rippled reflection of myself in the water -- what I could be. I see different iterations of myself in the future and the timelines that lead to them. I see far-flung adventures, successful careers, homelessness, bad investments, crime, great friendships created and destroyed, birth, love, family holidays -- a life and lives I could never dream of. And her eyes. Always her eyes. In every image she was there -- staring back at me looking in, mocking me. Not with any expression in her face, for she had none (save for the eyes, always the eyes), but by her mere existence. I try to look past her, look to my future and my life, but she remains. The eyes, always the eyes. Night after night I see her, feel her. When I am awake, it seems like there is something missing, something I’m forgetting or not paying attention to. People say I have shifty eyes. I get inquisitive looks from women on the street, in stores, at work. None of them are her, though. I want to explain, make someone understand, share my life with them. I understand now that no one but her will ever understand. When I am awake, all I can think about is her -- and her eyes, always the eyes. Green is my favorite color, specifically the juniper shade. I think I’ve always liked it. Or hated it. Coworkers and friends have asked why -- I tell them it just speaks to me. When I am awake, I stay in my apartment when I’m not at work, lest she see me in the waking world; I fear what her eyes would bring mine in this reality. Truthfully, I wish she would come knocking soon -- I expect she will in the future but the nights are so very cold here. Night after night I see her, feel her. And when I finally meet her when I am awake, I shall not be afraid. I have seen in her eyes what I could, should, and would be. I have seen in her eyes what I truly fear. Myself.

On a walk through the woods, you see a stream that wasn't there yesterday. On the other side, you're pretty sure that owl is staring right at you. It is a bigger owl than regular owls, or at least, you think so. You can't remember the last time you've seen an owl in person. In birdson. Would it be 'in person' if it is a bird? You are a person. You don't know and wonder why you are thinking about that. There is a stream here that wasn't here yesterday. Why do you focus on the things that don't matter? Something weird is going on. It's probably because your mother constantly...no, stop. Focus. On. The. Owl. "Hey there." The owl turns his heads. Her head. You don't know. You turn your head to the right in response. "Hoo...Hoo." You sound stupid. And more like a dove than an owl. "Not who. When." Did that owl just ask you a question? Is the fact that it asked a question more interesting than the fact that it spoke? That owl just asked you a question. With a normal, human voice. What is that called when animals have human characteristics? Peoplefied? No, it is something like that. This is one of those mother-things, isn't it? The owl. "Um. When what?" You notice your head is still turned to the right. Straighten. No, that's too far left. Straight. The owl straightens its head. No, that's too far right. "Not what. When." "Ok yeah, but what does that mean? When what? What happens when?" You tilt your head. The owl tilts her head. His head. You notice the stream isn't really a stream. It isn't...streaming. It is just water that's not moving. Not like a pond or puddle. It is water that's frozen. Not like ice, but frozen in time. How long has it been that way? When. Has it been that way since you noticed it? You don't remember. You were looking at the owl. When. You straighten your head. "When." You step closer to the owl. A twig snaps, a leaf crunches. Your feet are heavy. You step closer to the owl. The stream is still between you, not moving, frozen but not frozen. Personify. No, but that is closer. That is an almost correct thing. You are almost correct. Your mother said something. This makes sense. You step closer to the owl. The owl is in the same place as it was. You are in the same place you are in. "When" "When what?" Anthropomorphize. That is correct. You are correct. Your mother. You step closer to the owl. "When." You reach the water's edge. This stream was not here yesterday. How do you know that? Were you here yesterday? You step into the stream. It is flowing. "When." "When." You respond. Maybe it is a game. "When" you repeat. You step further into the steam. You reach out to the owl. "When." "Come find me when you wake up." You sit straight up, in your own bed. The light from the hall seeps under your locked door and you can hear people arguing on the other side. A quiet breeze flows through your open window, gently causing your curtains to float, ever so slightly, in and out. You reach up to shut the window. You shudder and realize that you are freezing. Under your blankets and quilts, you shiver in your pajamas. Your socks are soaked.

The cool morning air burned Tessa’s throat. Wyvern never offered to slow down for her, but then again, she never actually fell behind. She panted for breath as she trotted after him under the dancing, waving branches of trees full of bright green leaves, bleeding the golden light of the rising sun through the cracks in the canopy. Tessa pulled in a breath and skipped over a root. “Wyvern...” She wore the breeches and tunic he had sewn for her and he always tied her flowing locks of auburn hair with a length of string, so that her long pony-tail waved behind her like a tail. She had to practically run in her little animal-skin boots to keep pace with his long strides. He peered down at her from beneath bushy grey eyebrows. His face was framed by long, tangled grey hair and a long beard that cascaded down his chest. He wore his heavy hooded cloak and carried a tall, twisted walking stick. “What does a robin look like?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the mulch underfoot to keep from tripping. “A robin is a red-chested bird,” he said. His voice rumbled softly on the air, like a distant peal of thunder. “The boy said that the first person to see a robin was the first person to see spring,” Tessa said, an unspoken question in her voice. “The boy?” Wyvern repeated. “From Out There,” she reminded him. “The one who wasn’t afraid of me.” She had told him of the boy more than once. She didn’t even know his name, but he was the only one from her village who had not called her a witch. She wasn’t a witch. She’d told them: she just heard voices sometimes. But they hadn’t listened. That was before she ran away. She no longer called the place “my village.” Everything beyond the woods was just “Out There.” “Is it true?” she pressed. “That to see a robin first is to see spring come?” Wyvern laughed at her childishness. She adored his laugh. It was a booming, powerful, happy sound that made her want to laugh right along with him. “Of course not,” he chuckled, “That’s an old myth. The trees tell us when spring has come.” “The trees?” Tessa had to jump over tree roots that Wyvern barely lifted his feet to avoid. “The trees.” He nodded, almost solemn. “They talk to us?” She remembered frowning, feeling afraid. What could the trees want to say to me? “To some of us.” Wyvern smiled. “But to hear them speak, you have to want to listen.” He said the words like a secret. Suddenly, she wanted to hear them -- more than she’d ever wanted anything. “I want to listen,” she said in earnest. He laughed again, which made her smile. “All in good time, Tessa.” ### For a year, Wyvern taught Tessa about the trees’ voices. She listened for them every day, even as autumn faded to winter and they lost their leaves and the soft rustle of the woods grew dull and brittle with cold. She stepped into her eighth winter, bright-eyed and determined to be worthy of the trees, only to storm back to the cabin she and Wyvern shared every night when it grew too cold. Her fingers, nose, and cheeks would be tingly and the rest of her numb before she’d scurry back, weary and disappointed. Wyvern always asked the same question. “No whispers today?” Tessa would just shake her head. “Maybe you’ll hear them tomorrow,” he’d say. And then he’d fall back asleep in his big, worn chair in front of the fire, and Tessa would crawl into the little bed behind the curtain at the back of the hut and be asleep as soon as the warmth reached back into her bones. By the time the snow melted away and the trees stopped creaking and groaning like old bones, and they flowered and turned green with life again, Tessa was sure that she would never hear them speak. She wasn’t chosen. But it was warm out and Wyvern didn’t seem worried that she was ignoring her other lessons, so she wandered out to her usual spot in a clearing away from the hut where she couldn’t be disturbed. She flopped onto her back on the wide stump in the middle of the clearing, cold and damp with morning dew, and stared up into the canopy glowing with early light. For a while, she closed her eyes like Wyvern had suggested. She tried to think of nothing but the air and the wind through the trees and push and pull of her own breath. But try as she might, nothing helped, and she only got more frustrated. Finally, Tessa opened her eyes and sat up. She curled her legs under her and glared at the trees around her before she noticed the little bird hopping around the edge of the clearing. It sang a clear, high trill and she almost shooed it away before she noticed the red colour of its chest. If the trees wouldn’t deign to speak to her, then the sight of a robin would have to be good enough: spring had come. Winter was over. This was a season of newness and growth. Wyvern always said that it was the best season for learning new things. The robin hopped along the ground for a while and then flapped its wings and fluttered up onto Tessa’s stump. It was wide enough around that the bird was still too far away for her to reach. Tessa watched it peck and scratch at the old wood, poking around for seeds or bugs. She liked the way the little creature twitched and jerked as if every movement was in preparation to take flight. She remembered the snack she’d stowed away in her jacket pocket and fished it out -- a leftover biscuit from breakfast. Wyvern always made them plain, but Tessa liked to add nuts or cheese to hers. She pulled off a small, bite-sized piece and crumbled it over the centre of the stump before putting the rest of the biscuit away. The robin tilted its head as though it watched her. Tessa raised her eyebrows. “Don’t be greedy. You’re much smaller ‘n me. I need more of it than you do -- go on.” She waved her fingers at the small mound of crumbs and then set her hands in her lap and waited. And after a few breaths, the robin flitted forwards. It pecked at the crumbs timidly at first and then seemed to gather its courage. Tessa spoke to the bird softly. This wasn’t strange for her. She often spoke to the animals around her, especially when Wyvern wasn’t around, but often enough when he was nearby that he didn’t question it. She’d made friends with a rabbit, and a fox she suspected was actually two different foxes that only showed their faces when the weather got cold and it was harder to find food. But she’d never tried talking with birds before. They always flew away so fast. The robin, despite its urgency, seemed to take its time pecking at the crumbs and picking up every last piece of the biscuit she had left for it. And even after it had finished, it settled on the edge of the stump and stayed there for a while. Tessa was just getting sore and resigning herself to change positions -- and risk scaring the bird away -- when she heard it. Not so much a voice, but a breathy whisper. And somehow, she didn’t seem to hear the sound with her ears. Rather, it was in her head, like her own thoughts, only in a different tone. Her gaze locked onto the robin and she froze, unable to move or look away for fear that she would never hear it again. But there it was, less of a thought and more of a feeling. She sensed the robin and its tiny, beating heart. The way it twitched and moved, the way the air felt against the sensitive fringes of its feathers. Somehow as she watched it, she became convinced that the robin felt safe near her. And grateful. It was grateful to her for the crumbs. But--oh, it had to go soon. And no sooner had Tessa thought it than the robin spread its wings and flapped into the air, away from the stump and through the trees to the sky above. Her sense of the creature grew more and more distant until she couldn’t feel it anymore, but in its place... Tessa took in a deep, full breath and her eyes fluttered closed, but it was still there. The trees’ voices were all around her . They caressed her skin and danced at the edges of her mind like forest spirits, whispering of the little mouse in the hole in the ground there, or the fox still sleeping outside of the clearing. Birds flew through her awareness, not as sounds, but as little bursts of warmth in her mind, and through it all the trees whispers were like the sound of leaves rustling together in a gentle wind. She could hear it all. She could hear everything . The trees told her about the ground and the puddles and the lingering dew; about the branches leaning over the path that led back to the hut; of the old, grey-haired man lumbering around the hut, looking once again for his misplaced axe. Distantly, Tessa was aware that she was smiling. But she didn’t break concentration even for a moment. The trees were telling her every secret that lay in the forest, and she didn’t want to miss a thing.

“Father! Father! Come upstairs!” “I’m not falling for another one of your little jokes, Lila!” “It isn’t a joke! Come upstairs now!” The middle-aged man reluctantly dragged himself up the stairs expecting to see a trail of painful, knifelike legoes on the stairs. He carefully went with uncanny precision, wondering when he’d meet the plastic toy that would jab him first. Instead, he found his precious daughters, the lights of his life, staring out their window with pink frilly curtains. “Look! There’s a family of puppies in our backyard!” Yelled Lila. “Oh, those aren’t puppies, they’re foxes.” At this point the father, whose name is James, and Rina, Lila’s younger sister, were laughing hysterically. Lila crossed her arms and snapped, “foxes are part of the dog family anyways!” At this point Rina and James were on the floor. They always laughed at how adorable Lila was when she crossed her arms in an attempt to look intimidating. A few minutes later, Rina and Lila raced down the stairs to see the foxes up close. Meanwhile, James decided to bring out the barbecue in the closet to make some hot dogs. “Girls come get dinner! I made hotdogs!” “Can I give the foxes some? Pretty please?” Begged little Lila with puppy dog eyes. Without even waiting for James’ response, which would have been something annoying and along the lines of “what’s with the puppy eyes? Did your dog-foxes teach you,” Lila grabbed two hotdogs and threw them at the foxes. The foxes viciously tore into the flesh of the meat like lions. “Look! They’re so adorable,” exclaimed Rina. “You call THAT adorable?!” James and Lila were staring at Rina like she was insane. That’s when they heard a loud shattering sound that Lila thought even the other side of the Earth could hear. They saw a pitch black line in the sky that looked like a cracked snow globe. “What is that!? Father, I'm scared!” Lila cried. She clung onto James as hard as she could. “I don’t know sweetheart. I don't know...” The foxes were gone, and it became dreadfully silent. That’s when a random shard fell from the sky. Rina ran and picked it up. The shard was glowing softly a white as pure as untouched snow, and was cold to the touch. More shards started to lightly fall from the sky, making small thumps and cracks as they touched the ground. The family was speechless. They felt confused, anxious, shocked, amazed, and utterly terrified at the same time. They stared in frozen shock as more shards fell from the shattered, crystal sky. That’s when suddenly an odd ash fell on Rina. It ran through her hair, hands, and fingers like warm sand. Rina stood still for several seconds, pondering and trying to organize her overloaded train of thought. Her brain was as twisted and turbulent as a tight knot on a shoelace. She was then interrupted by a shard that crashed with her head. “Rina! Are you ok?” Lila screamed. “Yeah... I’m fine.” Inexplicably, Rina barely even felt the shard when it collided with her head. She almost didn’t notice it. That’s when the family heard an odd sound in the direction of the forest. It sounded like a porcelain teacup being placed on a table. They ran in its direction and saw a girl. She also glowed like the shards, and glittered bright ethereal hues of bright blue and silver around her. The porcelain cup sound was coming from her footsteps. The girl was picking up the shards one by one. “Hey, you! Do you want help?” Asked Rina. The girl did not answer. She just smiled at Rina and continued picking up the shards. “What is your name?” Asked Lila. A light, mechanical sound came from the girl’s mouth. She slowly sounded out “Esther.” “Hey Esther, where is your family?” Asked James. Esther stared at him confused. She then softly answered, “in my hands.

‘You want your coat, Mama?’ ‘No need child. Train’ll be here in a minute.’ I nodded, walking back to the kids. The crowd was long gone but Mama stayed sitting on her suitcase by the tracks, waiting patiently to start our new lives. ‘Is Daddy coming back soon?’ Dorian asked. He was the next oldest after me, but still had the naivety. I envied that. ‘He’ll be along later. Pro’ly coming back on the train to save his legs’. Truth is Daddy probably wasn’t coming back. When the train never came on time, he got impatient. Daddy always lacked patience. He used to say Mama needed to do enough waiting for both of them. So rather than sit and wait with his family, he said he’d start walking along the tracks to meet the train. But that was hours ago and the light was starting to fade. I closed the buttons on my wool jacket and did the same for the young’uns. The desert’s plenty hot but once the sun goes down, you can catch yourself hypothermia quicker than shit through a goose. That’s what Daddy always said, before Mama would correct him. *Language, Hank. They’re children*. That we may be but it wouldn’t matter a damn once the Big Dark comes in. We’d only heard stories about it from folks going the other way. But for me, it wasn’t the words they’d say. Especially since most didn’t really see much through the fog. It was the look in their eyes when they described the screaming. That was enough for everyone to start making their peace and pack up. Maitland got their trains first of course, then the folks at the Pines. All the way down until it was just us. The more educated had noticed that once the richer folks got taken, the number of trains started to decrease, but at least they had the sense not to say it out loud. Griffin swore blind that he’d send one more train for us. No one could pay full price for a ticket but we gave what we could. Seems like it wasn’t enough. I noticed Old Earl McTaggert hauling some steel down from his cow shed to board up his windows. I knew it was about time we start doing the same, even though we didn’t have any steel for our windows. A few people with less than most were staying in the church. At least praying would give them something to do to stop their minds from drifting too much. ‘Can we sit with Mama?’ said Jessie, tugging on my sleeve. She was the youngest, not just in our family but of the families left. I didn’t want to think about what that would mean when the Dark settled in, so I just nodded. I let Dorian sit on the case so I could stay standing and feel useful. Jessie sat on Mama’s knee, curled up, ready to go to sleep. ‘Give it another half hour then we better go inside’. Mama gave us a little nod and started to sing a soft lullaby as the last of the light went down over the valley. So now we wait.

As Rain is walking to her car after work she looks up and sees her skinny boyfriend with shoulder length black hair and too many ear piercings to count riding into the parking lot on an elephant. “What on earth?!” she screams, but he can't hear her over the mariachi band and the circus performance. She stares in awe as he swings off the elephant using a firemans pole, that she has no idea where he acquired, and lands right at her feet. She just shakes her head, raises her eyebrow, and waits for an explanation. He reaches down to his belt where a speakerphone is latched on and raises it to his mouth. “America! I’m in love!” At this point Rain is considering walking away when after a long pause she hears, “Rain Marshall, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” She sighs and says “AJ Sallow, I love you, but how in your right mind would you think I wanted a proposal this big?” AJ sinks to the floor sitting on his knees and just stops and thinks “ Damn it. I messed up so bad, what was I thinking? ” Rain walks away. As she’s walking to her car she's stepping over confetti and glitter that she has no idea how he’ll clean up. The tears welling up in her hazel eyes make the glitter glisten even more in them. She unlocks her black prius and slides in. She turns the rearview mirror towards her and sees a petite blue haired girl looking back. She has a thin face with a nose a little too big for her small proportions. She starts the car and then realizes she has no idea where she’s headed. She doesn’t want to go back to her and AJ’s tiny one bedroom apartment downtown. She starts driving without any idea where she’s going. Meanwhile, AJ is still back at Rain’s job cleaning up the parking lot and wondering what he’s gonna do next. After driving for 30 minutes and sobbing, Rain finally arrives at her best friend Mariana’s house. Mariana opens the door to see a disheveled, red face girl standing there. “Rain! Are you okay?! Did that stupid boy do something?? Aight I’m ready to kill him let's go.” Mariana puts her fists up before hugging Rain and bringing her inside. Rain laughs as she sits down on the couch. “Mariana you’re ridiculous.” Rain proceeds to tell her all the details of the way too extravagant proposal. Mariana holds up her finger as if to say hold on and walks to the bedroom. A second later she comes out with a ring and gets down on one knee. “Alright I think we should be done with stupid boys and get into a lesbian relationship.” Mariana is a raging lesbian and Rain is bi, so for a second Rain seriously considered Mariana’s offer, but remembering her boyfriend cleaning up the proposal mess all by himself snapped her back into reality. Rain replies, “Mariana, you know I love you more than anything in the world, but we’re platonic and I have a boyfriend. Remember last time?” Mariana laughs, sighs, and says, “Yeah yeah whatever, go help your boyfriend,” in a much more condescending tone than she meant it. Rain walks to her car and drives back to the parking lot where she was proposed to only to find it spotless and AJ-less. She dreads seeing him but misses her boyfriend, so she procrastinates again and drives to AJ’s best friend Hudson’s house hoping to avoid AJ again. Hudson and Rain have had what some would call a tumultuous history. AJ and Rain met when she and Hudson were dating. She and AJ fell in love and she left Hudson for him. As she drove down the long, winding road, she thought about all her relationships, Mariana, Hudson, and now AJ. Was he who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with? She began to doubt her decisions as she arrived at Hudson’s house. Hudson and AJ were very similar but there was one major difference; Hudson was an asshole. He always treated Rain badly, but she still stayed though she knew she shouldn’t. She gets to his house and is suddenly unable to catch her breath. As she’s breathing heavily and starting to shake, Hudson walks out with a concerned look on his face. “Rain? What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in awhile. What’s, uh, what’s poppin?” Hudson is a very awkward guy who rambles when he’s anxious and has a hard time with conversation. Rain says nothing, just falls into his arms and starts to cry. Hudson scoops her up and brings her inside. He starts to brew her some tea while she sits on the floor crying. He takes a seat next to her and awkwardly pats her back. She sniffles and looks at him “He proposed. And I got scared and ran.” Hudson’s hand freezes above her back. “He... proposed?” Rain nods her head before resting it on Hudson’s shoulder. “That fucking asshole,” he mutters and stands up. Rain watches him take his phone out of his pocket. “What?” she wipes the tears off her cheek. He holds the phone to his ear and taps his foot impatiently. “I can’t believe you!” Hudson exclaims into the phone. “You know how I feel about her, and you tried to steal her away from me forever? Of course she told me, she came to me for comfort.” Rain stands slowly, not believing what she’s hearing. He still loves her? She can’t fathom it. He hurt her so badly how could he love her? She looks at him eyes wide in wait “Hudson?” she whispers. Hudson gets on one knee and says “Rain I know I hurt you and I was a shitty boyfriend but please will you give me another chance and be my wife? I promise I’ll be better and give you the life you deserve.” Just at that moment AJ bursts in and sees Hudson down on one knee and Rain with puffy eyes and a tear stained face. “Hudson what the fuck?!” AJ screams “She’s mine, what is wrong with you?!” AJ grabs Rain’s wrist and tries to pull her out of there, but Rain resists. She says “Both of you stop it right now or else!” Hudson and AJ stop in their tracks, they know what Rain is capable of. “Hudson how will you be a better husband than AJ?” Rain asks “I won’t hurt you and I’ll buy you stuff and fight for you. Rain I’ll protect you from people like him” Hudson points to AJ “Please girl will you marry me?” Rain nods her head in acknowledgement of Hudson's sentiment and moves on to AJ. “AJ tell me why you can be a better husband than Hudson” Rain insists. AJ stammers “What what um uh I will love you forever and I’ll be sweet and caring and a good provider and um well I just I love you so much and I’m sorry for that over the top proposal please marry me Marshmallow I love you.” Rain stops in her tracks. Marshmallow is his pet name for her that makes her heart melt. Rain realized at this moment that she was being foolish and AJ was the one. “Yes baby I’ll marry you.” Rain says with a smile and a hushed voice. They say their goodbyes to a torn apart Hudson and make their way to their little black prius with their hands interlocked and their hearts the same.

Grayness. My entire vision is immersed in a pulsing gray vortex. A thunderous cacophony resounds in my head as I flail around. Gradually my sight focuses, and a landscape sprawls out around me. First comes an evening sky, enshrouded by a ponderous layer of clouds. Snow is falling onto the ground, disgorged by the sky as bloated projectiles that splatter over everything in the vicinity. I hold out my hand and catch a few, but I feel no chill despite the brumal winds and vision obscuring snowfall. Looking at my hand, I notice that the snow is passing through it. My chest moves, but there are no vapor clouds around my head. The snow cakes onto the branches of the nearby trees so thickly that I wait for the precipitous white heaps to plunge to the ground, but they never do. Coniferous trees converge on a hillside. I try moving forward, brushing against the nearest tree with a soft thud. “How are you feeling?” A disembodied voice says. I try to respond, but nothing intelligible comes out. “Did you just day something? That is unexpected. Well, whenever you’re ready, go to the other side of the hill. I looked at the apex of the hill, but I turn away and wander in the opposite direction until I happen upon a secluded woodland cabin. Christmas lights blink in a repeating series along the rooftop. A trail of smoke emanates from a stone chimney. Above the garage, a motion activated floodlight maintains a nocturnal vigil over the property. I approach the tall, frosted door, but the sensor does not activate. Behind the cottage, a bare expanse of snow extends for about twenty feet, concealing a birdbath and currently barren garden. The back door was wide open, so I passed into the house. Soft, warm lighting illuminates the interior. Blocky furniture and shelves are arranged throughout the rooms of the house. In the living room, a television beside a Christmas tree depicts the descent of a geodesic sphere in New York. A woman sits on a crude couch, eyes fixed on the ceremony. Her face bears no expression, and she does not blink, even as I interpose myself between her and the television. I leave via the front door. I have dallied enough. I take a moment to stabilize my emotions and retrace my steps to the forested hill. This time I ascend the rise. As I progress, a wall of oily smoke becomes visible, but I smell nothing. The trees are thicker here, prohibiting vision, but I know what awaits on the bottom. “Yes, you’re almost there,” the voice says. I make my way down the slope, weaving in between the trunks until I reach the base of the incline. An ice laden highway wraps around the base of the hill. On the far side of the street is a sheer cliff that is easily over a hundred feet high. The crushed remains of a truck and a sedan block the entire street. Both vehicles are on fire. The truck has torn the safety railing aside, and the back of the trailer wavers on the edge. Behind the windshield of the smoke filled cab, the unknown driver’s head is buried in an airbag. Whether he is alive or dead cannot be ascertained. The truck tips back, plummeting into the darkness. I wince at the sound of the resulting explosion. I slowly look at the remaining vehicle. This sedan is the second vehicle I’ve ever owned, purchased at a used car dealership after two hours of deliberation. I remember the reason why I would be on the road tonight, a promise made to my girlfriend to spend the new year together. I brace myself and countenance the driver. I barely recognize my own visage. My face has been damaged extensively, eyes swollen shut, blood trickling from the left side of the mouth. The voice speaks again. “Now, don’t look away.” This edict proves difficult to follow as a nauseous chill washes over me. The tension in my chest increases as the flames lap closer to my vulnerable form. Someone is behind me. It is the woman from the cottage. She quivers in her robe as she holds a cell phone. She dials 911 and supplies the details of the situation. A few minutes pass. My skin is beginning to burn. A fire truck and ambulance pull up. The fire fighters extinguish the flames and extract my body with hydraulic tools. The paramedics take it into an ambulance and fasten it to a mattress with secured wheels. I follow them inside. The door closes and the siren wails as the ambulance takes off. The EMTs scramble to sustain waning vital signs. My head begins to pulse. Suddenly the monitor emits a high frequency tone. The numbers to the side of the screen plummet, and the wavering lines straighten. The ambulance driver disables the siren, and one of the men in blue uniforms grabs a set of defibrillators. As shocks are administered, I see the gray haze return and coalesce. As the final jolt goes through my body, the vitals begin to stabilize. The gray vortex engulfs me again and I hear another disembodied voice. This time it is feminine and metallic. “Simulation complete. Logging out.” Everything goes black. The visor surrounding my head pops open. I’m back in my hospital bed. Beside me, a man removes a headpiece similar to my own and takes off my helmet and gloves. “So, what do you think?” His speech is much clearer without the electronic feedback in the background. I take a ragged, painful breath. “Doctor, how is this supposed to help me?” “I concede that this desensitization therapy is unorthodox, but you commented in one of our earlier sessions that your flashbacks always elapse at the moment of impact with the truck. This therapeutic simulacrum is designed to let you see the see the entirety of the incident, culminating in your successful resuscitation. Our hypothesis is that allowing patients to see reconstructions of their traumatic events in a safe environment will give them psychological distance from the traumatic event.” “Why did you recreate the old lady’s house?” “Our company believes in maximum verisimilitude, or at least the highest degree attainable without crural inputs,” He glances at my legs, which are suspended in traction. “This is the end of today’s session, but I think you have a visitor.” As the psychologist departs, my girlfriend enters. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” She says. I had forgotten entirely. I smile with what my intact facial muscles. I’m in intermittent pain, my legs won’t be usable for a long time, and I’ll never be the same, but I’m alive.

Rain pelts the single-pane windows of the New England coffee shop. In the distance, a grey sea churns, salty spray spitting from its stormy swells. “How inappropriate to call this planet Earth when it is clearly Ocean,” a wrinkle of a man mutters from the corner table as he gazes through the warped glass. His gnarled fingers clutch a delicate cup of tea that had long gone cold, but he lifts it to his lips anyhow, indulging in its floral notes. His words hook my ears and I stand, moving from my corner of the little cafe to his. I waver there, above the only other chair at his table. He doesn’t notice. I clear my throat. Still, the old man stares out the pane, at the smoky sea and the tempest beyond. “Hello,” I say. “May I join--” The old man grunts, miffed. “Took you long enough.” “I don’t understand,” I reply, lowering into the rickety chair. The old man finally looks at me, his grim eyes as grey and stormy as the sea on the horizon. “I’ve been waiting for quite some time,” he announces. “My name is Truth. You’ve been looking for me.” “Yes,” I nod fervently, a bit in disbelief but beginning to understand. “I didn’t realize I was keeping you waiting.” “I have sat here day after day, watching you sip your coffee and click away on your keys,” Truth says, his voice weakening, “waiting for you to see me. You look out this same window as I do, watch the same sea as I do, yet you still can’t see me.” “I see you now,” I tell him. “Though, you’re not quite what I expected,” I admit, suddenly a bit sheepish. “Not very pretty, am I?” Truth asks with a smile that reveals three black, rotten teeth. “Not really,” I laugh. “Well, go on,” Truth raises his scruffy eyebrows. “Ask.” “Ask what?” “Ask me your question. But be careful--I will only answer one.” “One!” I exclaim. “You will only answer one question?” Truth smiles again. “Is that really what you want to know?” “No!” I calm myself. “No, wait. That’s not my question.” Calculating so as to be sure I don’t waste my question, I slowly utter, “One... has to wonder... why Truth himself... could only answer one question.” “Ah,” Truth leans forward over his tea cup. “All humans ultimately only have one question.” I think about this for a long while. So long, in fact, that Truth takes to looking out the window again. I watch him. Then I look out the window, too. I see the choppy waves, the power of the winds--the same sea I glance day after day. After some time, I speak, ensuring a statement is what comes from my mouth. “I want to know why you gaze at the sea so,” I tell him. “Those who understand the sea understand my lessons,” Truth says, almost too softly to hear. “They know that too much of Her--too much water--can cause death. So can too little. Water is life. And, water is death.” “Tell me more,” I beg, already craving Truth’s honey-balm words. “They know She can be strong, and can be meek. Tidal waves and rain drops. Powerful, and peaceful. Terrifying, and soothing.” He looks at me again, this time stern. “They know She holds neither preference nor bias. The sea doesn’t choose who will live, or who will die. She is passionate, and ambivalent.” “I understand,” I say, choosing my next words carefully. “There is much to learn from the sea. The same thing that gives life, also causes death.” Truth lets out a sigh, then takes another sip from his cold tea. “If nature had an economy, contradictions would be its currency.” “Natures disproves itself,” I surmise. Truth beams. “The duality of reality.” “I used to think of the sea as good,” I say. “Something beautiful and full of life. But now I’m not so sure. The sea is bad.” “Tell me,” Truth leans forward, and I do the same. “Two men journey along a road, when eventually they reach a fork. One man goes right. The other man goes left. Who is correct?” “I don’t know,” I admit. “I need more information.” “There is no more information,” Truth insists. “At least not any that matters. Who made the correct choice?” I think for a while. “I suppose... neither of them did. Or perhaps they both did.” “Yes,” Truth says. “There is no right or wrong. There are only the choices we make for ourselves.” “Then the sea,” I wonder, “is neither good, nor bad. That’s why you sit here, watching the sea--because it teaches us this.” “No,” Truth shakes his head, then shrugs. “And yes. All of existence teaches us this, not just the sea. People meet me in different places. They find me everywhere, not just here with Her. Some never find me at all,” he says, solemn. Then, with a cheeky smile, “But there’s some who can’t get rid of me.” “Nothing is right and nothing is wrong,” I mumble. “That’s a bit bleak,” I decide, and Truth laughs. “At first, perhaps,” his smile crinkles the edges of his eyes. “In time, I suspect you will find it to be freeing.” “Bleak... and freeing,” I repeat, and my eyes widen as the connection forms. “Just like the sea.” “Yes. Just like Her.” Truth leans back in his chair. “Just like everything.

When I saw the mouse in the guest room, I shrieked louder than I cried today. The shriek startled us both. The mouse bolted, jumped high in the air and then scurried away someplace. I don't know where, because I scurried away someplace too. It's been the worst day of my life but all I can think about is how big his ears were and how high it jumped for such a little thing. It seemed impossible. I'm pouring myself a sherry in the kitchen. I know you'd disapprove. It’s only four o’clock in the afternoon. But my nerves are shot. Truly. What a day. I'm so sorry love that I've done this to you. I want to say sorry to you over and over again, but I know you wouldn’t understand. There's no point, it would only upset you. You'd get confused. You might shriek as loudly as I just did. It had an air of a survivor, that mouse, which I could relate to, and dark black-hole eyes that seemed to suck light from the room. How did that little bugger get into our guest room? I don’t know, and right now, I don’t care. I guess I've heard scurries about the house sometimes but always just assumed it was a branch from a tree grating against the side of the house. What’s to be done with the little rodent? You’d know what to do. You always knew what to do. Be it sorting out practical things or comforting me when I was upset. It's what drew me to you in the first place, your kindness. After we met at that ballroom dance at the town hall, all I could think about was you. I felt insecure like I might not be good enough. But as we courted, your love soothed my insecurity. Recklessly, I fell in love. But I trusted you, and you never let me down. And today I betrayed your trust. Didn’t I, love? I know that I did. It seemed like a nice enough place. The staff were friendly, and they seemed half-human. Frazzled but with enough heart left to care, maybe changing residents out of dirty clothes and pads quickly. And the facility was clean. You had a lovely view over the courtyard. There was an apple tree in the middle. What a funny place to have an apple tree! But I know you can look at that and maybe that will mean something to you. I don’t know. What was I supposed to do? Your good humour meant looking after you was easy. Odd things would happen from time to time, like the car keys being put in the fridge, but it was as comical as it was concerning. But then you got worse. You forgot your manners. And being confused is frightening. Your shouting was just your way of expressing it, I know that. But when you wandered down the street in your pyjamas and the police had to drag you home, I knew it had become too much. I take a long swig of sherry. It tastes good. Maybe a bit too sweet. I seem to have developed a taste for bitter lately. There’s a faint scratching upstairs. The mouse must be back. It’s bizarre but I’m happy there’s another soul in the house tonight. Having discovered a mouse, I should be worrying about whether there’s more of them, whether we have a vermin-infested house that will never sell if I want to downsize. But that scurrying noise, it just makes me think: that’s my little mouse with the big ears. Maybe he’s hungry? There’s a bag of grated cheese in the fridge and I take a handful. Grated cheese, a bugbear of yours - have we become too lazy to grate our own cheese? I have, that’s for sure. Cheese in hand, I creep up the stairs. The floorboards creak in tune with my joints. Back in the guestroom, with a neatly made bed and wall pictures that never made it into the main house, I place the cheese onto the wooden floor just beside the bed leg. I could sit in one of the two cushioned chairs, but instead, I make a comfy nest in the corner with pillows from the bed. I sip sherry and wait. It'd be good to see that little mouse again. My heart shrieks and I think, more than anything, I’d love to see you again. I mean, as you were. Maybe five years ago, before that disease took you from me. I can picture you now, with your short grey hair and cleanly shaven face. You could never sit still, always tinkering with things around the house, in your cheap shorts and paint-stained top. I don’t know if I can bear to see you now. When you don’t even know who I am anymore and just keep asking for your Mum. She’s long gone, love, we buried her decades ago. But you don’t remember that like you don’t remember me. Such a complex thing, memory. Who knows how it really works. I get them to play your favourite music, to try and give you some comfort, maybe stir some old memories. Is that just wishful thinking on my part? But then, you do have the odd moments of clarity. Like when you remember Mike or Louise for a moment. You had one of those moments of clarity today and it's the only thing that's keeping me sane. You turned to me suddenly and said, “It’s alright, Geraldine.” That's all you managed to say but it meant everything to me. I'm sure you meant so much by that. That you were alright in there, that you weren’t suffering. And that leaving you there was the best thing for you and me. A tear trickles down my face and I lift the sherry to take a sip. I look up to see my little furry friend nibbling at the cheese and he’s looking right back at me. Just like you love, there’s no way for me to know what he’s thinking. But he’s eating and he’s keeping me company. One survivor to another. Just a few paces away. And I think he agrees with you. It’s alright.

Jasmine barely opened the door to the small Italian trattoria and the silver bell mounted on top pealed, announcing her arrival to the handful of tables inside. She slipped through sideways, snagging the hem of her gingham blue dress as the door shut. The waning evening sun and glimmering Manhattan lights blotted out of existence, the black painted windows creating an artificial twilight with an illusion of candles flickering across Venice. The aroma of garlic, oil, and creamy sauces hung thick in the air, the way sea salt clung to her skin the first night of her honeymoon with Bobby. She couldn’t escape the other patron’s dinners, a savory force-feeding of memories from their trysts between Milan and Rome, Bobby’s star on the rise as changing fads relegated her to decoration. The taste of chloroform masked with red sauce. The hostess smiled, a bland professional veneer that masked any scrutiny about whether Jasmine deserved one of the exclusive tables at Il Postino . She reminded herself she ate here before, already passed their test, even if the reservation had belonged to Bobby and not her. Her watering mouth turned to cardboard when she noticed the minimalist eating area, couples paired up at a half-dozen tables next to an empty bar. The open concept guaranteed her date couldn’t be tucked away out of sight. “I’m supposed to meet someone, Christian Jarez.” She took two steps closer to the hostess so no one would overhear her inevitable humiliation. This was a terrible place for a first date, fresh with memories of Bobby, but she couldn’t think of a reason to ask Christian to choose a different restaurant. She couldn’t bring up a past relationship so early in a new one. The hostess’ mouth twisted in concentration as she studied an oversized ledger, an awkward expression that accentuated her beauty that came so naturally with youth. Only a thin podium stood between the two women, nowhere for Jasmine to hide. Jasmine didn’t wait, ready with an excuse to leave, when the bell above the door chimed again. Two sets of footsteps, clipped and assured, echoed amid the hostess’ silence. A sultry woman in a red dress, features dark as night with piercing blue eyes, walked in trailing the hand of her date. Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. Bobby didn’t recognize her, his gaze focused solely on the woman in front of him. Jasmine took a step back, desperate for the moment to pass unnoticed. The woman in the red dress sashayed, her full hips swinging in time to Jasmine’s heartbeat. She dropped his hand and left Bobby behind, confidant that all eyes followed her as she walked away. She leaned on the hostess’ podium while the young girl rushed to accommodate their reservation. “Are you Jasmine Varez? I saw your exhibition at the Anastasia last month. You’re an amazing photographer,” Bobby gushed, something in his tone less grave than she remembered. Swatting at her eyes to hold back the threatening well of tears, Jasmine confronted Bobby. His dark hair no longer had the sprinkle of salt coloring at his temples, fuller and wavier than it had been when he walked out. The corner of his gray eyes, the eyes that had probed her with both desire and scorn in equal measures, were smooth, missing the care lines a decade of marriage had brought. He studied her with interest, but without history. He was young, the man she fell in love with before abandonment twisted their feelings into an aberration. “The Anastasia? I haven’t shown there since before your debut,” the memory washed her away, a temporary respite of happier days, when they were the darlings of art society. A pairing talked about and adored. Bobby blushed, a stainless shade of pink, too innocent for their tortured souls. “I’m flattered if you’ve even heard of me, but I can only aspire to your skill. The Anastasia is above my level.” A traitorous tear escaped, leaving a wet trail down her cheek. Jasmine ducked her head, too scared to wipe it away and leave a black trail with her makeup as visible proof of how much this hurt. “I’m sorry, I must have caught you at a bad time. That was inconsiderate of me,” he rifled through his pockets for a moment and pulled out a wallet and handkerchief. Bobby’s date cleared her throat loudly, impatient to see him talking to another woman. Upset the spotlight diverted from her rightful place, she clenched her jaw and bared her teeth as any predator in the jungle. Bobby produced a business card and handed it to her, along with the handkerchief. She carefully blotted her eyes, mascara and eyeliner bleeding into the crisp white fabric. “If you ever have time to discuss your photographs with a neophyte like myself,” he flashed the vibrant smile that made her fall in love with him, “Please call me.” Without another word, Bobby descended into the cloud of rich dinners, happy couples, and infinite futures, no apology or recompense. Jasmine unfolded the handkerchief, the smeared makeup creating a Rorschach test with an image that perfectly resembled a dove. The same dove Bobbie had framed once they started dating, to commemorate the first time they met in an Italian restaurant, and he gave her a handkerchief to dry her tears. The handkerchief that became part of his first art exhibit, his first big success. The dove on which Bobby soared. She looked between the card and the dove, sudden revelation that she wasn’t remembering the past, but granted a view of the future. Their future, the start of everything they were going to be and eventually destroy. The dove in her hand represented their love, his career, and her demise. Would she trade the means to enjoy a better end? Or would she arrive at the same place again for the experience at one glorious summer in Italy, the center of their shared world? The hostess opened her mouth, probably to apologize that there was no reservation, no record of her post-breakup blind date. Jasmine didn’t wait for the explanation. The silver bell above the door tinkled again as Jasmine left, a second chance in her hands. History was immutable, the two of them inevitably draw together like fish upstream to a waiting bear. He was the black hole that would consume her. One small difference existed between the future she remembered and this Italian restaurant. The dove in her hand, a change in fortunes. Jasmine had an art exhibit to create and a phone call to make.

ast Cicones’ moons and the shining radiance of Helios, they turned their bow and set a steady path into the black. Odysseus, captain and chief navigator, stood alone on deck. The crew had long since retired to their cabins, yet Odysseus remained, troubled and pensive. Odysseus was not ignorant to the hardships of space travel. His father Laertes had been a Galactic Argonaut. From Odysseus’ home planet of Ithaca, Laertes participated in expeditions journeying to the far edges of the known universe. Odysseus had heard many times over the stories of his father: the capture of the mighty Calydonian alien, the venture across the Hellespont Nebula and the turmoil of the Stymphalian meteor strikes. All these exploits came to mind now, as Odysseus struggled with his own decision. The ship’s provisions could last only a week longer. Deep space scans gave hints at the possibility of an unexplored planet, possibly a moon, that existed within their fuel limits. If this planet was desolate and barren of life, they would surely perish. It was a risk then, a risk they could not afford. Odysseus dreamed of returning to Ithaca, if only to see the Neritum mountain range and the boundless lush forests that covered it. He would first have to go forward if he was to return. Days passed and the crew were informed. There was no disagreement among them, for there were no other choices than this. After another half’s day of blasting the thrusters, they rounded a small cluster of jagged hurtling asteroids and came into view of the planet. A cheer rose from the men as it appeared on the ship’s visuals. The planet was a green and orange blob, textured with crisscrossing streaks of deep blue. The blue was water, and with water came life. Odysseus immediately ordered preparations to enter the planet’s atmosphere. The thrusters fired slowly at first but the crew hastened Odysseus to accelerate. The ship pressed forward, nose-diving as the wings buckled erratically from the force of entry. Nearer they approached and faster they squeezed against the atmosphere, speeding up in high spirits of good food and drink, until fear of crashing compelled Odysseus to pull up and slow down. The deceleration was too late, and the ship was thrown headfirst into a shallow body of water a few hundred metres short of land. A mechanic had not strapped himself down and now lay in a small crimson puddle across the deck where he had landed. The crew did not have time to mourn the man. The medical staff were dispatched, and Odysseus gathered twelve of the bravest men to come ashore and search for supplies. The planet’s air was tested for toxicity and it was found to be as clean as Ithaca’s. Three sturdy blow-up rafts were taken from storage and placed into the water. Although shallow and up to knee-height where the ship was grounded, the body of water grew deep and opaque in its centre and the twelve men did not wish to swim where no man had swum before. Odysseus beckoned into the middle raft and urged his men aboard. As they paddled through the water, Odysseus observed the surroundings. Thickets and undergrowth wrapped the shoreline and a row of tall trees blocked visibility. Looking above the wall of arrowhead treetops, Odysseus was able to make out an outcrop of steep and craggy cliffs that lay just beyond the forestry. Upon tying the rafts to the shore and walking through the woodlands, the crew’s botanist searched and found no evidence of cultivation, with neither planting nor plowing but wild and unknown variances of wheat, barley and grape vines growing near the trees. It was a short while later that the thirteen men came across a three-legged beast, with two short and sharp horns, like a goat, and a furry exterior that coated his back and hindlegs. More of the beasts were discovered and the crew leapt at the opportunity. Odysseus cautioned the men from using fire power, as they did not wish to scare off the beasts nor bring unwanted attention to themselves. Short blades and rapiers were used, and the men dragged the carcasses of the small goat-like creatures to the shore. Some of the men were sent back on the rafts to fetch the rest of the crew, and Odysseus bade the men bring the wine they had bought from the interplanetary merchant Maron, son of Euathanes, which was to be used on a special occasion. Once the crew had assembled, a pyre was made from nearby firewood and the beasts were set alight. Each man gave a small portion of his meal in sacrifice to Zeus, the mightiest of the gods, and a portion of their wine to Dionysus, for his love of wine and merrymaking. Having partook in food and drink, while also replenishing the ship’s water holds from a nearby spring, Odysseus led his men back to the ship for the night. A knock on his cabin door from one of the engineers woke him. The engine was damaged, and the engineers would need time fixing it - at the least, they had said, a few days. This did not altogether displease Odysseus, as he wished to explore the landing site. The twelve most courageous men again volunteered and for as long as the light lasted, they explored the woodlands. Three days passed and no new discoveries were unearthed. More goat-like creatures were found, who were duly put-down and brought back to the ship, and the botanists began to map out the landscape. They located the lake’s position to be in fact at the base of a large valley with the forestry masking the sloping mountains around them. At the bottom of these mountains, from what they could see through basic scanning, there appeared to be caves entrances. Odysseus, hearing no new progress on the engines, planned an expedition to the caves. All but the thirteen men were to be left at the ship and an assortment of rations were divvied between them. Odysseus decided to bring along a receptacle of wine, seeing as he did not want the crew to drink the rest without him. They left at morning and arrived at the entrance of the cave nearing nightfall. Camp was set just outside, and the men prepared their libations to the gods before supper. As the morning light seeped in through the treetops Odysseus noticed the thirteen companions had dropped to eleven. Two of the men were missing. The cave took in no light from the outside world, as it was covered by the mountain’s overhang, and so it resembled a screen of black tar. Odysseus reassured the men by explaining that the two missing companions must have left to explore the cave early. They entered the cave and followed it downwards as the walls grew further apart and a large cavernous ceiling extended above them. Small flashlights were used to light the way and Odysseus now cursed his decision to leave the crew’s firepower back at the ship. They still possessed their rapiers for the goats and each companion now clutched his in their right hand. A soft scuttling sound, of dozens of tiny feet echoing on the cavern’s floor, was the first they heard of the creature. It was only moments later, after hearing this sound, that the companions discovered two white cocoons plastered to the rocky floor. The crew’s cook, one of the bravest, led another man over to the cocoons. They began to unravel the outer layers of the cocoon, revealing the pale cadavers of their former companions. It was in their moment of realisation that the creature, in pitiless spirit, pounced upon them. Dropping from the ceiling, the creature’s long talon-tipped legs darted for the men. It clasped each man and swiftly threw them back and forth between the cavern’s walls. Frozen from fear, Odysseus and the other eight companions could only watch helplessly as the creature beat the men and then wrapped the two warm bodies into cocoons. The creature resembled that of a gigantic arachnid in appearance, with sharp long legs and prickly skin, and its only distinguishable quality being its large singular eye. It moved meticulously between the four cocoons, tapping and feeling for movement, and after a short while, taking no stock of Odysseus or the others, it bit down into the two original companions and supped on their flesh. After taking its fill from the men, and leaving the two fresh cocoons for later, the creature’s pulsating eye wandered to the group. With the speed of Hermes, it jumped and clung to the cavern’s ceiling. Odysseus reached for his rapier, but the creature was uninterested. It crawled along the ceiling past the group of terrified companions and headed for the entrance. Odysseus deliberated on whether to chase the creature. He chose, rather, to run to the cocoons. Lifting his blade, he cut open the silk and checked the two men’s pulses. They were both freshly dead. Thinking fast, Odysseus unhooked the container of wine attached to his belt and poured its contents over the two cocoons. Having completed this task, he got up and resumed a tight circle with his companions. The creature scurried back along the ceiling, returning after a few minutes. The men waved their rapiers up at the creature, but it crawled past unconcerned. The group, slowly and timidly, edged further away from the creature as it passed. When they could no longer see the creature hanging from the ceiling above the cocoons, the men broke into a sprint towards the cave’s entrance. Reaching the top of the cave, they were met with a ghastly sight. A great white web had been thread across the exit. One of the younger men of the group lunged at the web and began hacking at the bonds furiously. His strikes were futile as not even the smallest cut or incision from his rapier appeared on the web. Odysseus halted the man and told the group of the wine and his plan. Odysseus made the men cast lots as to who would accompany him back down into the pit. The lots fell upon the four very men Odysseus would have chosen, and with himself as the fifth, they crept their way down. They found the creature slumped over the two cocoons asleep, its long talon-tipped legs holding the bodies close. One of the cocoons had been half-eaten, and Odysseus knew the wine had put him to sleep. Quick to observations, Odysseus realised the torso and head of the creature were protected by a thick body plating. Only the middle of the legs, from what he could see, were unprotected. Without disturbing its slumber, Odysseus urged the men forward lest they feel fear and cower before the creature. He directed two men to slowly, ever so softly, lift one of the creature’s many legs outright. He then tapped two of the other men on the shoulder to lift their rapiers as he was. In hushed whispers they counted down, and with heaven filling their hearts with courage, three great whistling swipes struck the leg. The creature immediately woke and recoiled from the pain. The two men holding the leg wrenched it from the slither of flesh that kept the leg intact after the three cuts inflicted by the rapiers. The creature drew itself to its full height and screeched a sharp agonising scream. The companion pulling the leg was immediately dashed against the wall by the creature. The other man with him managed to reclaim the leg from the ground and, in his last effort before being dashed himself, he threw the leg to Odysseus. Odysseus clasped the leg against his chest, heaving as he ran, and the three remaining men scampered up the cave. Barging his way through the rest of the group waiting in agitation, he held the sharp talon-tipped end of the creature’s leg and tore a hole through the web. The men burst from the cave and stumbled over each other to the tree line. The creature did not leave the entrance of the cave. Looking back as he ran, Odysseus watched the creature sit down on its haunches and begin to caress its broken leg. Believing he was safe out of arrogance, and full of hatred for his companions’ deaths, Odysseus jeered and spat at the creature. The men begged him to run. Seeing no reaction, Odysseus ignored the men and lifted the broken leg and threw it at the creature. The creature looked up and hissed, spitting an acidic bubbling projectile that barely missed them. Odysseus did not need more prompting; he swiftly turned and fled with the men. Crossing the lake and re-joining the crew, Odysseus was informed of the repairs and immediately took off. And as a more ancient Odysseus once spoke, “Then they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars; so we sailed on with sorrow in our hearts, but glad to have escaped death though we had lost our comrades.

“I have Blue Angle Pins, Hats, and Balloons. Get one for your kid. No kids...no worries! Grab one for your nephew.” Dam This Guy! Get Out The Road! The pesky peddler in the middle of the median was slowing traffic down. I screamed out loud again. Get out the road....I want to go home! My damn temper was governing my thoughts! Why did I waste my breath? I knew better. The street salesman could care less, he kept moving from car to car as he hawked cheap souvenirs. Another year and another air show. We need to move! All I wanted to do this evening was attach myself to the couch like an old worn-out piece of velcro. Stuck, but still capable of making a move. After what seemed like hours I finally made it to the entrance. My stress deflated. A couple of cold beers and today would be history. I was praying the neighbors were still at work., that’s all I needed right now. As I started walking toward my apartment two Blue Angels flew in perfect formation. Their dazzling areal display painted the sky as my heart pumped to the beat of the engines. I hated the congestion from the Blue Angels but dam this show was intriguing. The sheer force of the Super Hornet and the way they moved always kept me gazing up. It reminds me of playing Mario Cart. You could always catch player two with a super boost. Now that I was home I went into stealth mode to avoid my neighbors. Cat-like reflexes moved me through the parking lot like Pink Panther. Sneaking around every corner with careful precision. Yet, being stealthy was only in my own mind. At 6'3 I was too clumsy to sneak in. It was all a pipe dream from Saturday morning Kung Fu movies. The only good thing about the air show was the loudness. Maybe they won't hear me enter, god please don't let me see them today. The separation between apartments was only an arm's length. Which meant you had to be super careful when entering. If he sensed you nearby, he would open the door and watch you oh...so carefully. Maverick was the chosen name for this confident, short-tempered blue falcon. He was, without a doubt a complete jerk. No matter the circumstance his anger always made him bang on the bedroom walls. Screaming, quiet down over there! Does this asshole not realize the walls are paper-thin? I remember the day we moved in. He stood outside watching us with a thousand-yard stare. I’ll never forget his stance, it was daunting and scary. Something was out of place. He must have seen some serious action. Why was he sizing us up? It has to be something from the past. I ran a bar right next to the base, so I knew all about the desert stare. We had folks belly up to that old plank of wood from every corner of the world. Most served on the base. Some served in combat and the rest were still battling it out upstairs. I approached each case with a cold beer and warm whiskey. Back at the apartment Maverick's wife looked lost and on edge. You could tell by the look in her eyes. Throughout the day his wife came out and held onto his arm. I could see her begging and pleading for him to go inside. Except, he sat still. He wore these oversized headphones to block out the loudness from the Blue Angels. The only thing that moved was those glaring eyes. I tried twice to introduce myself to the old saltwater commander only to no avail. As we hauled in taped beer boxes, worn down lamps, and half-broken furniture the watchman greeted every move. During our short stay, we learned that Maverick worked part-time at the base for SOCOM. Each morning he would arise at five am and head off to work. Always making sure to slam the front door, which in turn rattled our entire apartment. Each day it felt like the trusses would collapse and the shanty would crumble. His daily departure would awake both dogs. And stir us out of a dead slumber. It was after this initial slamming of the door that I decided to leave him a post-it note. The first of many. Dear Maverick & Company, I work nights, you work days. Can we find a happy medium? Maybe you could stop slamming the door at 5 am. Before heading to work that evening I found a note on our front door. Hey Log Head, Try investing in earbuds. I could care less about your schedule. Regards, your neighbor After speaking with my fiancé I decided to squash the drama. And let bygones be bygones. But the next day Maverick had a different plan. Dear Log Head, The conversation was last night about who gave your co-worker herpes it is not something I want to hear at 4 am. It would be nice if you could refrain from talking so loud after 10 pm. P.s I hope you learn a lesson from your co-worker about STDs Not Maverick We both became addicted to leaving notes. Maverick, Do all SOCOM members spy on their neighbors.? There has to be a better choice in music than Barry Manilow? Your concerned neighbor, ( aka log-head) The following day I received this note after stepping into a bag full of dog shit. Log Head, I took it upon myself to pick up your dog's shit. And I brought over some extra bags, I assume you’re out. I also dropped the shit in front of your doorstep for easier clean-up. With Love Your neighbor Can you believe this asshole, he thinks we have the only dogs in the complex. I am over this!!! Dear Poop Patrol, We are not the only residents in the complex with dogs. Maybe you should bring the SOCOM team out to run an investigation? Do your friends know about your secret crush on WHAM? If they had a couple more members would you consider them a boy band? Your concerned neighbor, And the notes never stopped. Log Head I know the poop came from one of your dogs. And I am not a WHAM fan... it’s my wife’s favorite! At this point, I figured I would start messing with them since they watched our every move. I recalled when we first moved in that his wife screamed...SNAKE!!!! I overheard the entire dilemma. The twisty serpents ruined their day. Maverick, Our pet snake escaped last night. There is a slight chance he squeezed through your front door. His name is Mr. Huggy. I’ll be at work tonight so if you could hold on to him until tomorrow that would be great. Your concerned neighbor, While I thought my note would scare him into rage the opposite happened. The banging on the walls stopped along with the daily notes and threats. During this period we received this letter from his wife. Dear Log Head & Company, My name is Mia and I am the wife of Captain Sam Birch, The Captain is doing fine these days. He is a man of much pent-up anger but your notes and letters over the last year have seemed to put him at great ease. I am not sure why that is but I thank you. When the captain was serving in Noth Africa, on assignment he was struck with great trauma. To this day he still has yet to recover. "At this point, I paused my reading, looked down at the paper, and braced myself for what was about to learn." Captain was on a March when he fell behind. His superior officer told him to "hurry up" but he couldn't physically move any faster. This sent his superior commander into a fit of rage and Captain Sam Birch was confined for 3 months. His offense was simple. He was charged under Article 257 as a "Straggler." He spent three months in Military jail and forfeited two-thirds of his month's pay. But the real damage was done by the taunting. His new name was Sam the Straggler. This taunt put him into a rage. With that being said, your notes, as crazy as they are have enabled Sam ( aka Maverick) to have some type of friendship again. For that I thank you. Our marriage is on the upside. It took me about a week to process the letter. As crazy as it was. I remember being taunted. It's some serious shit. The following Sunday I awoke early. Knocked on Maverick's door. Invited him outside to sit down in the lawn chair. Then I handed him a pair of oversized headphones. We both sat in silence as we watched the Blue Angels prepare for the upcoming airshow. We also stared down any new tenants.

I killed someone today. I cannot recall ever shooting someone with intention to kill. It must have been the last war, but my memory of those days has been blurry. I am certain of having fired quite a few shots since; some bullets, such as those of my neighbor’s wedding, carried a joy that flew up into the clouds alongside a swarm of accompanying bullets, elevated evermore by the force of our dances, chants, and drummed melodies. Other bullets were pushed forward by my fear, but with the intention to instill that same fear in the enemy. Not to kill. Today, I wanted to kill someone. I did not have to. I wanted to. After returning from two years of being stationed in the desert, one can only imagine what it felt like to be home. On my land and the land of my ancient ancestors. Where the water flowed so seamlessly, and the greenery emerged to claim its place, and the crops appeared to thank us farmers for treating them well. Life flowed as smoothly as our blue waters. And when I returned, the land welcomed me every morning as affectionately and soothingly as my mother’s blessed hands. For she expressed her love through that of the land and its waters. The warm meals she cooked for me, the flowers she plucked to symbolize my spirit, the clementine tree she named after my sweetness; it was from our land that her motherly love came. When the water stopped flowing, so did her love. It began a year after my return. The water slowly became shorter. First at the knees as it always had been, it made its way down to the calves. The stream’s force, once like the cannon’s, was withering to that of a common exhale. It was not long before the upright greenery that once beamed with confidence began to crouch, with each leaf and piece of grass begging to lean on the one beside it. The tree that once bore my name now bore nothing other than shriveled fruit. For months, the mystery of the vanishing waters remained unsolved. Some blamed witchcraft, others God’s wrath for any selection of sins. The innocents with questionable reputations were blamed, scorned, and shunned. Communal animosity grew where the blossoming flower petals once welcomed all so warmly. Soon, word traveled to us with the winds of inquisitive fury and the mystery was solved. It was a neighboring land that had decided to block the water’s flow. A large, nearly indestructible wall had been placed in the stream’s way. The thought was unfathomable. Locking up our waters in a cage like a criminal. Yet, there was nothing to be done as the decision to take action laid not with us, but with those in the North. Those whom our land’s waters fed. Shortly before our lands grew thirsty, we had supplied the North with more than they could need. As a consequence, the urgency only traveled to them much later. By then, our community had begun warring over the leftover crops. Thieves always existed. Always have and always will. Thieves in our parts cannot be blamed for thieving, as it is a circumstance that forces their hands and fingers to grow longer. Not gluttonous greed like that of the ones who have stolen our water’s freedom. Thus, the bullets targeted at our thieves, as mentioned, only served to instill the fear of loss they had planted in us with their presence. But, when our circumstances dragged us down to those of thieves, the bullets redirected. When my father, God rest his soul, taught me how to shoot, he said to me, “the bullet mustn’t be given a voice except for the one your finger grants it; for only a desperate man’s bullet can whisper in his ear.” I was indeed desperate. The whispers never left my ear as the gun never left my hand. The urge to kill grew. It was an urge I had lacked even in the war, for there, it was likewise the circumstance that drove me to kill. I had to. I did not want to. Now, as a desperate man with a desperate mother whose love has evaporated with our last drops of water, I shoot with a desire to kill and scavenge. I do as the bullet asks. More news came our way. The North had decided to retaliate and free the waters from their dungeon. My mother urged me to join the fight and I did so gladly. But, I, along with my neighbors, had grown weak over the past months. My body shriveled like the fruit of our late tree. In a matter of days I was on the frontline. I stood there with my gun aimed at my enemy. I could remember from the last war that here, on the battlefield, I was nothing more than my enemy’s enemy. To each other, that is all we should be. They had greedily taken our watery lifeline. The bullet’s whisper filled my ears. My enemy was in sight. His body, like mine, was frail and scrawny; his eyebrows tied to each other by the ropes of focus and anger. As I cocked the gun and narrowed my vision along with my wrath onto the opponent, I shifted the barrel to the level of his tightened eyebrows. Before the whisper could pull the trigger, my eyes could not help glancing at those of the life I was moments away from meditatively taking. But, his eyes said something louder than the bullet’s whisper. They drooled with desperation. They repeatedly announced that he stood here, before the barrel of my gun and at the disposal of his bullet’s whisper, out of circumstance. He, like our thieves, like myself, stole because he has to. Not because he wants to. If only the bullets could be aimed at the circumstance. The whisper regained control and pulled the trigger on my finger’s behalf. I have killed a man. Not because I wanted to. Nor because I had to. I am not sure why. The bullet told me to.

A nightmare took over the mind of Harold Thumperton on September 15, 1818 and caused him to toss and turn all night in a restless sweat. His dream recalled in much too vivid detail the tumultuous sail across the Atlantic that had brought him from England five years before to seek his fortune as a wheat farmer in the rich fields of Maryland’s Lower Eastern Shore. Over the course of the eight-week journey the ship carrying Harold and his family had run into seas so rough that his fellow passengers believed the ocean would swallow them whole before they came close to the New World they had heard about for years from letters sent home by the earlier settlers of the new land. An avid reader of pamphlets containing the writings of William Shakespeare, during his family’s voyage he became more and more absorbed in the English bard’s Tempest . Like his own adventure, the play had taken place amid driving rain and howling winds that tossed and turned the writer’s humble sailing vessel in an ocean in a voyage propelled only by a scribe’s vivid imagination. A half decade later, he and his family believed they finally had adjusted to their new surroundings. Yet, continually exhausted from laboring all day to gather enough crops to sell and feed his wife and two young children, he often barely escaped the same type of storm that had brought them to their American homestead and welcomed them to this new land. Fortunately, as morning’s light dawned the day after his nightmare, Harold had awoken to a pleasant and gently cloudy day. Although exhausted from his struggle with his internal demons from the night before, he only had time for a quick breakfast of ground oats and warm milk before he prepared for another work-filled day on the farm. Employing many of the methods passed down by generations of his Thumperton ancestors across the ocean, he had labored from dawn to dusk clearing, plowing and planting his new fields during the few bouts of moderate fall climate on the barrier island on the Atlantic Ocean. Unlike many of his fellow English transplants, he had brought with him to the New World a love of reading. His horizons also continued to expand thanks to the few copies of the pamphlets of the works of the bard of Avon he had brought with him from his home country. Although the hard work of running a farm didn’t leave him much time for his avocation, he had begun to study Shakespeare through newly-established mail courses sponsored by Maryland’s Washington University and eventually earned a degree in the discipline. He dreamed that, one day, he would be able to apply his education to advancing the lives of his fellow tillers of the sod by passing along his love of literature, but this remained an elusive dream. His heart and hands still primarily focused on helping grow the food to feed his family and helping out his neighbors in his small circle of life. Farming had not advanced nearly as far as the world of academia. Since tractors and other mechanized equipment didn’t exist, Harold and his fellow farmers cut the wheat with long-bladed scythes and bound the sheaves by hand. They then used the strong horses of the ocean side island to harvest this rich crop. Satisfying the huge appetites of the large creatures required year-round feeding not available on the inland sections of the island. During the times when their farms did not provide seasonal forage, the farmer and his neighbors would herd their horses to the island borders with the Atlantic Ocean, where they could feed on the rich salt hay. For almost two decades Mother Nature had provided an almost limitless supply along the shore to help their animals thrive in the off-season, and the weather often moderated enough to help them transport the animals to the water’s edge with no problem. Then, in 1818, a foul wind that made Harold recall the account in The Tempest , swept up the East Coast without warning, smashing a path of destruction throughout the Sinepuxent Bay. Its force took down the small farmhouses and businesses that had grown up in the tiny village of Sinepuxent, on Sinepuxent Neck across the bay from the barrier island. The inlet there had allowed access to many ocean-going ships passing through the island from the Atlantic to the bay. As the farmers on Assateague Island tried to shelter their valuable animals from the storm several trees split right down the middle, threatening to destroy them, their masters and their home. The horses, of course, went into a panic and began to rear up and run around wildly. Two members of Harold’s herd almost crushed him in a hurry to escape. As he rushed after Starlight Master, his prize stallion, his rope slipped off the horse’s neck every time he attempted to lasso it. Finally, he pulled the animal to safety. The wind continued to howl, and the combination of the fearsome breezes and rains eventually flattened the village and made what once thrived as the homestead in Sinepuxent crumble and become an addition to the expanding ocean. The forces of nature which helped Maryland’s Lower Eastern Shore contribute so much to the growth of America, destroyed the town which had, 39 years before produced Stephen Decatur, one of the country’s greatest naval heroes of the 18th century. Harold managed to round up the remainder of his herd on the island, but the storm had other ideas. The raging sea, so similar in depth and power to that described by his favorite bard in the literature he loved as much as his new home in America, took with his beloved village the man who his fellow workers of the island fields had come to regard as one of the saviors of the famous Assateague ponies. The forces of nature which often had partnered with the gallant farmer swept him under the surf before he could breathe his last and drowned his dream to bring Shakespeare to the masses of the Eastern Shore.

It was a long winter day, a cold night. As you stepped outside it felt like you walked through an ice wall... and the storms... the storms made it so much worse, but somehow today it all seemed different, it was calm, at least calmer than usual. For whatever reason, I was feeling a bit down, so I went for a walk as I always do, helps clear my mind; Without thinking I picked a direction and started walking. ... After walking for a few minutes, I received a message from ‘her’, a video of her... ice skating, talking to me and smiling... oh that smile... it warmed by heart up to the point that I couldn’t even feel the cold surrounding me. I’m sure my face made the biggest smile it ever could as I kept walking and listening to her talk just about anything. ... I somehow ended up at an ice ring, the sound of roller skates on the ice brought me back from my trance. I was sitting down on a chair, overlooking the ice ring; I took out my phone and looked at it again, the video she sent me. I wanted... to hear her voice again and to see her smile. All of a sudden she was next to me... wait what... I thought she was in a different coun... out of my reach... She looked at me and smiled. Her lips moved but I didn’t hear anything. I gave a stunned smile and showed her that I was just watching the video she sent me... how her beautiful brown hair danced with the wind as she skated on the ice, her beautiful hazel eyes, where I’ve been lost far too many times and her lips... the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. She leaned over closer to the phone looking at the video, her lips started to move again but I couldn’t hear anything. I could feel my face was turning red. Without thinking I reached forward and kissed her on the cheek... She sat down on the bench next to me, and stared into my eyes, the video she sent me was still playing in the background. I’m not sure what she saw in my eyes, but she closed hers, leaned forward and gave me a kiss. That kiss... was unimaginable... I could hear and feel my heart beating all over me... my whole body was so warm I might have even produced some steam in this weather. I leaned back, surprised by her advance... I think she felt a little embarrassed, as she looked away the instant I leaned back... but no! don’t get the wrong idea. I too fell in love with you... long ago! I pulled back the hair that covered part of her, faced her and kissed her back. Suddenly I couldn’t feel anything at all... my eyes were closed and it felt dark, completely dark until our lips touched... then I could see her lips pressed against mine... it was as if I was in the abyss but our lips touching was the only thing I could see... the only thing I could feel. Each kiss felt better than the last. I couldn’t stop... what I felt for her was so strong... I don’t thing even the word love would be enough to describe it.

“Suing me? What do you mean he’s suing me. For what?” “He says the program was his idea, Sir, and that you’ve been impossible to work with. He’s suing for half.” “Half?! No, no fucking way is that troublemaker getting half. Tell him I’ll see him in court.” “Sir, If you don’t settle, and this goes to trial, he might very well win. Half the program, half the users.” “That snake. I spent a week re-writing his inelegant code. It was buggy as shit. My version is perfect. Flawless. It’s a paradise, users are never going to want to leave.” “Well, some of the beta testers for the new update have given the feedback that you’ve over censored the experience. That it’s too restrictive.” “Restrictive!? Restric...*ha!* Are you serious? What about it do they think is restrictive?” “There’s a list, let me see...well, you got rid of the hunting, for one thing.” “Hunting? What would they even hunt? You’re not talking about the *animals*, are you? Sweet mother of...that’s just depraved! They’re there to be named, not *hunted*. Two hundred custom engineered species, species that our users have *never* seen before, and their first inclination is to *HUNT* them?! You know what, fine. Where’s Damien now? Ok, well when he’s back tell him I wanna make a deal. Yeah, he can have any of the users that think the program is too “*censored*”. What about the fig leaves, though? They liked that touch, right?” “I’ll get back to you on that, Sir. There’s also the issue of the name.” “What’s wrong with the name?” “Marketing just thinks it’s a little long.” “'*The Environmentally Diverse Experience Network’*? Are you joking? That’s a joke, right? It’s five words! You can count them on one hand. It describes what the system is perfectly. In *five*words. *Poetry*!” “No, I get that, I do, but they were wondering if--” “Fine, you know what, drop the “The”, make it cleaner.” “Actually, they’re proposing dropping the “the” and condensing it into an acronym, just “Eden”. It tested well.” “*Eden!*? What is that, just a sound? Nobody’s going to know what it is. It doesn’t mean anything! “*Eden*?” I mean what the fuck, right?” “I get that, and you get that, but let’s give them this win. It’s between that and ‘Hell’.” “No! We are not using Damien’s idea on this! NO! Call it Eden if you have to. ‘*Hell’*...you know why he picked that, right? Our mother’s name is “Hellen”, ‘Hell’ for short. Fucking kiss ass. She’s always lauding over him, always...never mind...deep breaths...in...out...Ok. I’m fine now. I’m One. “Good. Just one last thing, sir.” “Oh, *Jesus Christ*!” “Sir? Everything Ok?” “Look, Gabe, I gotta go, looks like my kid’s logged into the beta under my credentials...*again*. He’s gonna make a mess if he keeps this up. Please just take care of this thing with my brother discretely. Ok. Great. We’ll talk soon, send my best to Latecia.

EXPULSION That was Malgund village in Chiplun Taluka of Ratnagiri district. The entire area filled with mango, coconut, and areca nut trees was coated by the thick fog of January 1948. Satish using his battery torch paved his way home after meeting the client in the factory which was close to his house. Satish kept the keys of the factory in its proper place and after cleaning himself joined the other members of the family for dinner. His father, Shri Ganesh Pant Gogte said, ”Listen, Satish, you get more involved and take charge of our business activity. Since our country has now got independence, our people will decide the policy for the growth of the industry. The road map will be announced and we have to be prepared to take benefit of the schemes. Ramesh and Suresh are still studying in high schools. You have passed B.Sc. and you will be my spokesperson henceforth. The small-scale unit which I have established ten years ago is now stable. We need finance to take a leap forward. And I am sure our government will announce some plans to help the small-scale industry to come up. We have to achieve something big in the coming 5-7 years. So Satish, you have to share my responsibilities and we have to expand. Soon Ramesh & Suresh will get ready to take some roles. Next year only we should see our industry covering a wider area. I am very optimistic.” Mr. Gogte had dreams in his eyes. He was looking for the opportunity to prove his capability. He had expectations from his brilliant sons. They had proven themselves in schools. He wanted them to sparkle in his industry which he had set up with a lot of hardship. Mr. Ganesh Pant Gogte’s father had spent a major period of his life in jail due to his participation in the freedom movement. His elder brother had also joined the movement. Ganesh Pant had taken up the responsibility of running the family. Despite the turmoil of the freedom movement, he worked hard and set up a small-scale unit producing parts required for making electric fans. Slowly he established his credibility as a dependable source of parts. A unit started in the backyard of his house, slowly grew to provide employment for 25-30 workers of Malgund village. After a frantic struggle by a large number of freedom fighters following different methods to pressurize the British rulers, some following the non-violence and others following the roads of violent methods, finally, Britishers handed over the reins in the hands of Indians on 15 th August 1947. But it had a dark side of genocide as the country was partitioned into two countries based on religion. It was one of the deadliest bloodsheds of the world. But Gogte family was far away from the borders of the partitioned nation, and so was not affected directly by the carnage. Getting freedom for the country was celebrated with fervor in this area. Every individual was happily breathing the air of freedom. Mr. Ganesh Pant Gogte who had put his sweat and blood in bringing up his unit to the present level was looking forward to expanding his unit to cover all of India. He was grooming his sons to contribute to the further development of his unit. After dinner, everyone retired to bed. At around midnight, there was a desperate knock on the door. Ganesh Pant got up, switched on the light, and opened the door. On that foggy night, the sarpanch of the village, wrapped in a blanket was at the door with a couple of senior members of the village. “Yes Patil, what is the matter?” “Gogte Sir, have you heard that Gandhiji is assassinated?” “Oh my God! Who was that idiot?” "We do not know all that but he shot Gandhiji point-blank. Gandhiji collapsed on the spot. And there is a spurt of violence all over India. We have heard that in Maharashtra state, big mobs are moving from village to village causing a lot of destruction. We request your entire family to collect all your important documents and valuables and come with us to our house. Quick. We don't have much time." "But Patil, when the mob comes to our village, we all will have to face the same danger. Whether here in my house or your farmhouse." “No. Gogte sir, it is not the same. The murderer of Gandhiji was a Brahmin. And the mob is destroying the properties of only Brahmins. They have the complete list of Brahmin houses. The mob just pours petrol on the houses of the Brahmins whether anyone is inside or not. They burn the entire property. There are many instances of families burnt alive. Please let us not waste time anymore. Every moment is important. Please take important documents with you and let us run to my farmhouse. I have my bullock cart ready for you. Please hurry up. We do not want you take your car with you. That will disclose your presence instantly. " By this time the entire Gogte family was aware of the lurking danger. They picked up all their important material and started out. In no time, the Gogte family was in Patil's farmhouse. Everyone was extremely worried. Totally helpless. Soon they heard a big mob carrying burning torches running euphorically towards their bungalow. A lot of shouting and noise was heard. A flash of big fire could be sensed by the Gogte family hiding in the darkroom. After an hour’s commotion, the mob moved to another village. One could see the property set ablaze. Patil came to the farmhouse. "The inexorable idiots did not listen to us. They tied our hands and legs. Some 7-8 of us who were trying stopping them from doing this horrendous act.” Patil could not control his sobs. In utter despair, the Gogte family waited until it dawned. After the sun appeared, the Gogte family rushed to their house. There was nothing left. The entire house and the complete factory were turned into ashes. The half-burnt axle was the only proof left of the car. The half-burnt furniture was generating a lot of smoke. Ganesh Pant Gogte could not control the tears flowing away with his dreams. The freedom of the country brought with it, the disaster for the families of the Brahmin community in Maharashtra. The Gogte family took some time to come out of desolation. After considering all the options, they decided to move to Ratnagiri. Without talking to anyone, they took some public transport and reached Ratnagiri. Rented a room in a chawl, and Mr.Ganesh Pant Gogte started a new life from scratch. He had to wipe off his early struggle. He searched for a small part that can be made in the house. Ganesh Pant and his wife took the responsibility of making the part at home and the delivery was handled by the two younger school-going children. Satish looked for a job. And the family forgot the holocaust and took over the challenge of re-establishing themselves. Ramesh and Suresh sparkled in the school. Earned scholarship and continued their brilliant career. Suresh, the youngest of them was maintaining his rank consistently and was getting popular in the area. After S.S.C., Ramesh got his Bachelor of Science and specialized in forestry. He took up Conservation of forests as his career and strongly moved up in his profession. Very soon Ramesh was the Chief Conservator of the state of Maharashtra. Suresh chose medicines as his occupation. After MBBS, he got his Gold medal in Master’s degree, MD. He shifted to Mumbai. He became the medical advisor of the State Government. Ten years passed. All the three sons of Ganesh Pant Gogte got married and had children. They built a big bungalow in Ratnagiri named “AMELIORATION” Once in February, the entire family assembled in Chiplun and visited the village Malgund. The entire family went to the spot of their house and the factory. A placard displayed there read the following message, “This place belongs to Shri Ganesh Pant Gogte and his family. We are ashamed that this property and his factory were destroyed by the mob frenzy. The person who had struggled and set up the industry, which had provided an opportunity to earn bread to 30 families of the village, had to face this ill-treatment. We could not trace him after the disaster. We do not know their whereabouts. If anyone has any information, please contact the Sarpanch.” Ganesh Pant Gogte was moved. They went to Sarpanch’s office. A young man was in charge. Ganesh Pant told his identity. The young man immediately rose, came forward bent down, and touched Ganesh Pant’s feet. "Sir, please pardon us. Our society had done injustice to you, Sir. We are ashamed of all that. Please come back to this place and start your factory. We are ready to bear all the expenses to rebuild your house. We want your presence here. Sir, I was a small boy then. I did not understand anything about what happened that day. But my father and our earlier Sarpanch, Patil tell us about you every time we pass the place of your house and your factory. Sir, my father is not keeping well. But he always says, he has to see you and seek forgiveness before he leaves this world. Mr. Patil is also in distress. He says, when we hear the atrocities on Jews by Hitler, we feel sympathetic about them. When we come across some Indians who were pulled out of their own houses during partition and had to come to India to take shelter, our hearts cry. But here in our own village, innocent persons were attacked by the unruly mobs in 1948, we could not do anything to save the people from atrocities inflicted on them. Mr.Patil is very upset about his failure to stop the act of brutality.” “Where is he? I too want to see him.” “I will take you there. Please come.” The man took the entire family to Patil’s house. Patil was relaxing in an arm-chair. As soon as he saw Ganesh Pant Gogte, he got up. Bent down and held his feet. Started sobbing. His tears wet Ganesh Pant’s feet. "Sorry sir, please pardon me. I seek forgiveness. I could not stop the mob. I could not prevent the disaster. I am deeply ashamed. Sir, we are ready for any punishment you give us. But Sir, please come back. I tried whatever I could to get in touch with you. But failed miserably. Now Sir, please take charge of your land and please come back to stay here. There were many proposals to purchase the place. But we refused all of them. We wanted to hand over the place to you.” Then Mr.Patil looked at the sons. "Satish, Ramesh, and Suresh. Children, please forgive this old uncle. I was not able to stop the mob from destroying your property. I am guilty. I need to be punished. Please tell your father, to come and stay here. We will build the house for you. You do not have to do anything. We only need your presence here.” "Patil, these children have become a big entity. Satish has become the Principal of a college. Ramesh has become the chief conservator of our state. And Suresh has become the chief medical advisor for the state. He keeps visiting various countries. All of them are very busy.” “Oh my God! I am so happy to know this. Bandya.” Patil called the young Sarpanch. “Bandya Sawant, This is the great sir, in whose factory your father worked. “ “I recognized them as soon as they came. Come on Sir, you will meet another person who is on death bed but keeps seeking pardon often. Yes, my father is waiting to see you, sir.” "Sir, please go and see his father. He is holding on to his life just to apologize to you. After you see him, we will have lunch together. Children, are you ready to share our meal? It won't be like your five-star meal. " Patil said. “Surely, we will come back and have lunch with you all.” All of them went to the other house. The old person could not get up. Ganesh Pant held his hand and with tearful eyes said,” Now I have come here. I have forgotten everything that had happened. Don’t feel guilty. Get well soon.” Tears poured out of Sawant's eyes. He could not say a word. The young Sarpanch, Bandya, his son brought a few cut mangoes and offered them. “Mr.Patil is waiting for the meal to share with you. We will go back to him. “ Ganesh Pant rose with a heavy heart. Again, held the hand of bedridden Mr.Sawant. He could see Sawant’s face brightening up. Sawant in his choked voice said, ”Sir, That night when we came to your house with Patil to warn you about the anticipated danger, you were reluctant to consider yourself as separate from the entire village. Unaware that the agitation was against a particular community, you were ready to face the calamity with the entire village. You considered the whole village as your own family. " Sawant could not utter any word further. He took a deep breath and whispered, " And these impotent family members from the village could not protect you." Sawant was bawling all the way through. Ganesh Pant also could not stop his tears. He somehow controlled himself and said, “Sawant, I told you I have forgotten everything that happened that day. Please don’t feel remorse. It was not the fault of anyone from the village. The outsiders came and burnt our property. They were so many of them. How could you have controlled them? Please, for my sake, drop this guilt. I am settled in Ratnagiri. My children are doing very well in their lives. Please do not worry. Now, if you want to make me happy, take your medicines and get well soon. I am going to come back only if you yourself will come to receive me at the temple.” “Promise, Sir?” Sawant said with freshness on his face. “ I will definitely be there to receive my God back to my village.” Sawant again bawled intensely. Ganesh Pant patting on the Sawant’s back, said, “Now, no more weeping. Let me see you smiling.” Sawant forced a smile. Ganesh Pant and his family left the house heavy-hearted. They had meals with Patil’s family. Ganesh Pant and his wife assured the Malgundkars, the villagers from Malgund, that they would shift and would be an integral part of the village. The Gogte family left Malgund on a happy note.

My Dearest Ruth, I trust this letter finds you in good health. The thoughts of you and I are like a constant symphony in my mind playing the same song repeatedly. I yearn to feel you, to touch you the way we once did. I am saddened at the thought of laying my eyes on you, yet unable to encapsulate your body with mine. The tips of my fingers crave the shape of your womanly curves. To taste your sweet lips again is the reason for my living. I would love to run my fingers through your hair, pull you close to me and passionately kiss you, showing you how deeply I care for you. However, again, I must fold this letter and put it in this envelope and leave it in our secret place. One day soon, I will ravish your body and never let you go. With All My Love, Thomas Ruth’s tears hit the letter as she reads it for probably the hundredth time. She leans out of the window and sees him. Thomas is in his room in the building right across the street. He is lying on his bed reading a book. He must sense that he is being watched, so he glances out of his window toward Ruth’s. They link stares, then exchange smiles. Ruth gazes lovingly at Thomas. He raises his hand as a weak attempt at a wave. Ruth blows him a kiss. Thomas catches the imaginary kiss and holds it in his hand. He brings his closed fist up to his mouth and closes his eyes. Ruth watches him, then dreams of the day they can walk hand in hand again, go to a picture show again, or eat at a restaurant again. She always hated the rule of not living together before marriage, but especially now, having to endure this loneliness and isolation without her love, is just too much to bear. My Love, Oh, Thomas, how I long to inhale the scent of you. I feel as safe as a small child when being held in your arms. Your strong chest shelters me from all of life’s storms and tribulations. I deeply desire your loving kiss, your lips touching mine. Then, to delve into the ocean that are your eyes, the magnificent sapphires that stare into my soul. I cannot stifle my passions for you much longer and they will not be satisfied until we unite again. The words “I Love You” do not express how acute my feelings are for you, but I say these words as they are the strongest words in my vocabulary. With this I leave you a kiss and a scent to bring back the memories of the time we have spent and to look forward to the life we will spend together. Affectionately Yours, Ruth Ruth seals the envelope with a kiss and spritzes one spray of perfume on it before sneaking it down to a crevasse in the doorway on the outside of her building. This is the designated place for the love letters. Ruth must be careful, but to retrieve his letter, Thomas must not be seen leaving his building and crossing the street to Ruth’s building or he will be fined. He accomplishes this feat every night just to look upon, feel, and read the letter from his love. Upon recovering his letter from Ruth, he leaves a letter from himself in place of hers. Before pursuing his transit across the street, he revels in the captivating scent of his beloved. The next morning, Ruth awakens from a wonderful dream of her and Thomas at their wedding. She is disappointed as she recalls her current circumstance. She looks out for Thomas but doesn’t see him this morning. It’s not unusual since he lives with his family and they have family breakfast in the mornings. She patiently lingers by the window until she can see his face. The normal hustle and bustle of the city streets has halted and only an occasional car or delivery truck drives down the boulevard. Ruth, still awaiting her love, is startled when she hears a siren. She stretches her neck out of the window and looks as far left as she can. She sees nothing. Then she looks right. She sees an American Red Cross ambulance rushing in her direction. In the year 1918, the ambulance is an amplified version of the Model T Ford car and is Ill-equipped to handle life-threatening emergencies. Ruth expects the ambulance to drive past, but it screeches to a halt in between her and Thomas’ buildings, blocking the view of Thomas’s window. Two emergency workers fully clad with protective gear jump out from the back of the ambulance with a gurney. They rush inside. Minutes feel like hours for Ruth as she impatiently watches for the workers’ return. Her heart is pounding in anticipation. Finally, the workers emerge with a man on the gurney. The man is shaking violently, obviously seizing. Ruth recognizes him as Thomas’ brother, Charles. The emergency workers load Charles into the ambulance and quickly drive away. Ruth can now see Thomas’ window again. He is visibly upset. His antics of pacing and the throwing of his arms combined with burying his face into his hands, sobbing, scares Ruth. This is the first time it has been someone this close. The city has been under the mandatory quarantine for thirty-six days now. The newspapers say the pandemic is only getting worse. It has been this long since Ruth and Thomas have had any form of touch. Being able to see Thomas through his window, yet not be able to hold him or comfort him, only adds insult to injury for Ruth. Their romance began like any other whirlwind romance. A little less than a year ago, Ruth was working as a bank teller. A chance meeting of the two happened when Thomas needed to make a deposit for his father. Thomas, having been born and raised in the city worked for his father who owns a pharmacy. For the two twenty-somethings, it was love at first sight. From that day on, they were inseparable. Ruth had no family in the city. She is an only child and her parents live in a small country town in the next state. As a child, Ruth always dreamed of living in the city. She had always heard such wonderful things. So, one day she decided it was the day, the day she would make her dreams come true. She made her way to the city with her entire life savings, which wasn’t much. She quickly learned it was not as magical as she had determined to herself it would be. After obtaining an apartment, unbeknownst to her at that time, right across the street from Thomas’, Ruth sought out to find work. She had been an excellent student in arithmetic so obtaining work at the bank was easy. Although alone, Ruth felt confident her decision to embark upon the big city was going to pan out after all. For six months, Thomas and Ruth were neighbors and didn’t even know it. After getting acquainted at the bank, the two lovebirds wanted to spend every minute together. Every morning, Thomas would walk her to the bank on his way to the pharmacy. Thomas’ parents and his three brothers also instantly fell in love with Ruth. So, it came as no surprise when Thomas set up an extravagant proposal event where everyone that mattered was in attendance. Ruth had been so enamored of Thomas. She felt as though she were dreaming. When walking, she felt she wasn’t even touching the ground. She and Thomas were so in love and had already planned the date: September 21, 1918. It was the same day they had met the year prior. Understandably, Ruth’s sadness turned to frustration, then to rage when the Spanish flu made its way into the city. Once the government set the mandatory quarantine into place, Ruth felt her life-is-perfect bubble pop. The quarantine order was that everyone other than medical workers and volunteers that had medical training, police officers, and other essential workers were to stay at home. Neither Ruth nor Thomas were considered essential. So, they would spend their long, hot summer days staring at each other from their windows and write long love letters to one another. The next morning, Ruth wakes up and doesn’t see Thomas. Not a single soul has passed by Thomas’ window all day. Concerned, Ruth goes down to the secret place and finds her letter from the previous day had not been collected. A sense of fear rushes over her. While she is in hidden in the doorway, Ruth sees another American Red Cross ambulance. This time the siren is not blaring, and the workers are not moving as quickly. Like before, they take the gurney inside. Ruth realizes that she has forgotten to breathe. She takes in a deep breath and holds it again waiting fearfully for what she may see next. When the workers come out of the building, they have a person covered with a sheet. Ruth witnesses Thomas’ mother crying in a handkerchief. Panicked, Ruth scans the front of the building searching for Thomas, trying not to give up her location. She lingers in the doorway until the ambulance has loaded their patient and has driven away. Ruth is completely numb. She stands and watches for any sign of Thomas. Nothing. Walking past in another window, Ruth sees Thomas’ mother and father, now both crying and holding one another. Feeling as though she has no other option, Ruth walks back into her building. Heartbroken at the thought of her love having died from this horrible pandemic, Ruth walks up the stairs. She passes the floor on which her apartment is on and continues to the rooftop. It’s only five stories high, but high enough to do the job. Making her way over to the edge, Ruth looks down. She envisions the memories shared between herself and Thomas. She couldn’t, just couldn’t live without him. She knows her mother and father would be sad, but to Ruth she has nothing left to live for. She opens her arms wide. The thought of knowing she would be with her love in the next life gives her the courage to do it. Eyes closed, imagining reuniting with Thomas, she jumps. As Ruth’s body lies lifeless in the middle of the street, Thomas runs out to see what has happened. Everything becomes mute. The blood drains from his body and he forces himself to take a breath before willing his legs to walk over to his beloved. He kneels and scoops up the mangled mess that was once his beautiful fiancé. He holds her tight, then able to incite sound, he screams.

I am an American police officer and this is a true story. I’ve been needing to get this off my chest for a while. I’ve obviously changed the names and addresses in this story for legal purposes. I’ve got a glass of fine whisky and I think I’m ready to share this with you. ​ Two summers ago was one of the busiest summers my jurisdiction has ever seen. That summer and the previous six months leading up to that summer were.... Hell. ​ It seemed like there was just something in the water, something “going around.” We didn’t know why, but damn, people were killing, stabbing, raping, and dismembering each other at record paces. Everyone was burnt out and maxed out on overtime. ​ My partner and I were nearing the end of our work week. We had thirty minutes before our relief arrived when the call went out. ​ “I need a unit to respond to 1273 Maple Ave. in reference to a 4 year old child who is beyond parental control.” ​ My partner was further behind in his reports than I was so I volunteered to respond solo. We joked a bit about how hard it could be to control a 4 year old. I got in to my patrol car and responded to the address. ​ It was an incredibly hot evening in August the dash thermometer put it at 103 degrees. I pulled up to the address and noticed the front door wide open, along with all the windows. ​ I began the ascent up the front steps to the house. I could hear soft sobbing coming from the other room. I announce myself and knock on the door frame. ​ “Hello; Officer Garner here to speak with Cindy about a 4 year old.” ​ I heard the sobbing turn to sniffling. ​ “I’m coming.” ​ “I’m Cindy.” She said in a quiet broken voice. ​ I started like always “so ma’am what is it that’s going on today?” ​ I could sense something was different..off... it made me damn nervous. Cindy’s eyes revealed months of distress. I was not there because the parents got tired of threatening to take away the ipads from their bratty kids. ​ Cindy gave a slight head nod and stepped outside on the front porch to speak with me. ​ “Officer Garner I don’t know what to do, we are at the end of our ropes.” ​ Cindy then went on to describe everything they have been through since they adopted the little girl, Kelly... about six months ago. ​ Cindy described Kelly was a little angel when they first met her. The adoption agency really wouldn’t say much about her past. They figured she’s so young how bad could her history be? ​ In the last six months they have taken her to every doctor in the Pacific Northwest. They all just diagnose her with some new alphabet soup disorder and send us on our way, she explained. She’s too young to take any of the heavy medication... it would kill her. ​ At this point my curiosity is struck. I explained to Cindy there really is nothing that I can do for her that she hasn’t tried already. I then said the words I later would come to regret: “But I’ll come and and talk to her.” ​ Cindy motioned with her head for me to follow her inside. ​ As soon as I stepped foot inside sweat began dripping down my face. ​ “Why is it so hot in here?” ​ “Oh, I should have warned you the air conditioner broke last week, we’ve called everyone in town but nobody seems to be available to come fix it.” ​ The floor was wood, old wood. The kind of old hardwood floor that squeaked with every step you took. We rounded a corner and I could see a child laying on the couch, maybe a pre-teen, judging by the size. A blanket covered over his head but a faint glow shown through the blanket. It looked like he had some sort of tablet. It stood out to me because it was so damned hot in this house. ​ “Thomas,” Cindy said to the figure under the blanket. “We are gonna have your father bring Kelly upstairs, you may want to go on a walk buddy.” ​ Thomas didn’t think twice. He flung the blanket to the side and grabbed a basketball, laid down the tablet, face up , and practically ran outside. ​ Cindy grabbed a kitchen chair and drug it out from the kitchen table. She faced it towards a set of stairs that went to a basement. ​ “Have a seat Officer Garner.” ​ “Oh ma’am, please; just call me Tyler.” ​ Cindy’s facial muscles tightened ever so slightly. It was a glimmer of appreciation. Everything she had done up until this point was labored. Stepping out the front door to talk to me, walking into the kitchen, dragging out the chair. Everything she did looked like it drained the little bit of light flickering in her soul. ​ I sat in the Victorian style wooden chair. ​ “Mikey; Officer, Gar... I mean Tyler is here to speak with Kelly, could you bring her up please.” ​ Cindy then maneuvered putting herself behind me. I don’t think she did this consciously. Her hand went up to her forehead. But she never once turned her back to that staircase. ​ I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I saw the man I assumed was Mike, or Mikey. In his arms was Kelly. ​ She had jet black hair and pale white skin. She was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. A trained observer, I caught a glimpse of bruises on her elbows and knees. Bruises on the joints like that are not usually a sign of child abuse, but I made a mental note. ​ Mike set her down on the hardwood floor about five feet away from where I sat. She was facing away from me sitting with her legs crossed and head down. ​ I stared in silence for a few moments. I watched her pick at the skin on her knees. Her fingers scratched at her skin in a rhythmic pulsating manor. I cleared my throat and said in a gentle, welcoming voice “hi Kelly I’m Tyler.” ​ Her fingers stopped. Slowly her head rotated to the right until her gaze struck me over her shoulder. I instantly felt cold. ​ The little girl, in one rapid, violent motion flipped around facing me on all fours. Shaken, I leaned back in my chair, eyes wide and mouth open. My gun hand twitched out of instinct. ​ Staring straight at me... no through me, she let out a horrific, ear piercing scream. I locked eyes with her. Her eyes were black, no color at all, just black. ​ Suddenly in an instant her head fixed down to the ground and her jet black hair hid her face. ​ It was not human how she moved. She stood straight up and then let herself drop to her knees. She did this over and over and over. From a straight posture, to a short jump, and then falling straight on her knees. I thought my ears were going to bleed from the high pitch scream. ​ The sound of her knees dropping on the aged wooden floors sounded much heavier than that of a small child. ​ The scream changed pitches from high, to low. Deep, devilish, demonic. This went on for several moments. ​ Then, out of nowhere it stopped. She turned back towards Mike who had made his way to the chair across from me without my notice. ​ On all fours, like some kind of animal, she crawled and shuffled to a spot in between Mike’s legs. ​ She looked up at him and said “daddy, please don’t let that man take me. I want to stay here with you.” The best way i can describe her voice was that of a grown man trying to sound like a feminine small child. ​ I drove back by the house a few days later. Everything was gone. They had moved out and short sold their house. I spent a considerable amount of time trying to follow up with the family but it’s like they disappeared... fell off the face of the earth. All their phone numbers were changed. ​ I’ll probably never know where they went. But I will say that things around town seemed to calm down after they left.

Once there was an orphaned teenage girl named Sarah. Her home had been destroyed by a powerful hurricane, leaving her with nowhere to go. As the storm raged on, Sarah sought shelter nearby, huddled in a small, cramped space as the winds howled outside. Once the hurricane passed, Sarah returned to her home. The once-beautiful house was now a pile of rubble, with debris scattered everywhere. Despite the overwhelming destruction, Sarah was determined to rebuild her home. She began to clear away the debris and salvage what she could from the wreckage. Each night as she worked, Sarah faced a new problem. Sometimes it was a lack of tools, other times it was a shortage of supplies. Sarah’s motivation was never lackluster. Despite the setbacks, Sarah persisted, driven by her determination to have a home again. As the weeks turned into months and the months turned into years, Sarah continued to work on her home. Living in a partially demolished house, she persevered through the hardships and never gave up on her dream of rebuilding her home. After years of hard work, Sarah had rebuilt her home. It was not the grand mansion it once was, but it was a place she could call her own. Filled with pride and a sense of accomplishment, Sarah knew that her determination and hard work had paid off. She had built a home, and with it, a new life for herself. With her home finally complete, Sarah settled in and began to make a life for herself. She decorated the house with the few possessions she had salvaged from the wreckage and planted a small garden in the backyard. She also got a part-time job at a local store to make ends meet and started to save money for any future repairs and improvements. As she settled into her new life, Sarah realized that her home was not only a physical structure, but also a symbol of her resilience and determination. She had faced unimaginable hardships and had come out on the other side, stronger than ever before. As the years passed, Sarah’s home became a beacon of hope for her community. Many of her neighbors had also lost their homes in the hurricane, and seeing Sarah’s determination to rebuild inspired them to do the same. They came to her for advice and assistance, and Sarah was more than happy to help. Sarah’s home also became a gathering place for her community. She would often host barbecues and parties, and her home was filled with laughter and joy. Sarah realized her hardship allowed her to gain this sense of satisfaction. Sarah finally felt like she belonged somewhere and had a sense of community she never had before. As she looked back on her journey, Sarah knew that rebuilding her home had been one of the most difficult things she had ever done. But it had also been one of the most rewarding. She had built a home, a new life, and a community, and for that, she was eternally grateful.

“Hey, you! Are you a survivor?!” Yuri shouted. A person was staring at him. No response was heard. “Answer me or I WILL shoot.” “What the hell are you shouting at?” Blake asked. “There’s a guy by the pile of bodies over there. Don’t you see him?” Yuri responded. Blake seemed confused. He scouted the area looking for the person Yuri was referring to. He was nowhere to be found. “The scene of dead bodies might be messing with your head, or your brain chip might have gotten corrupted,” he suggested. Yuri stopped for a moment. “Well, If you can’t see it, you might be right... I’ll get it checked once we get off this damn rock,” he said. The person was completely still and staring at Yuri. It was as if he was a robot that was shut down while looking forward. He tried to move from place to place, waving his hands around. The person was following Yuri with his eyes. “He’s following my movement, Blake! This isn’t a damn glitch!” Yuri exclaimed. He was beginning to panic a little. “Calm down. He can’t be real, because I can’t see him, nor does the infrared sensor. And the ship is not detecting any human life besides us. Those poor bastards are all dead,” Blake responded. “And how are you not worried? I heard brain chip corruptions can be dangerous. What if it shuts off suddenly and I’m left unable to hear and see?!” Yuri said while still eyeing the person. “Just wait till we reach the space station and don’t jinx it. I told you that chips are not reliable. Now forget that and help me move these bodies to the ship,” Blake said. Brain chips are most commonly used by people to enhance their senses or to replace a part of the brain that was damaged, such as the case with Yuri, whose occipital lobe had suffered damage due to a hit to the back of the head. And Blake, while being a scientist and valuing science over all, didn’t give in to the temptation, holding the belief it might malfunction at any time. Yuri hesitantly agreed to move the thought aside and pretend the person wasn’t there, even if it was a hard task by itself. They transported the required number of bodies into the ship and flew off, leaving the now dead settlements behind. Those two men were scientists sent to the planet of Nox to gather dead bodies in order to study them and figure out the reason they died. The planet was newly settled on, so not a lot of settlements were established. But then suddenly they all started dying a few weeks before the scientists arrived. A distress signal was picked up by the nearby space station, whose contents indicated that they died because of some disease. When groups were sent to investigate, human life had already perished. Heavily blemished Corpses were littering the ground. Nobody could tell what kind of horrible stench was plaguing the air as removing the protective suits would be a death wish. Now you might ask. Why are scientists the ones collecting the bodies? Aren’t they just supposed to receive them through some other paid group? Well, that’s because they were already passing by the planet, so they didn’t want to wait for the bodies to be delivered. While the ship crew only consisted of two members, they doubled as mechanics and experienced shooters, they knew what to do with a gun and skillfully so. Only one of them knew how to command a ship though. Unfortunately, they weren’t technicians, or the chip would have been checked by now. Once they put the corpses in the freezer, they made sure to decontaminate every exposed piece of equipment. They wouldn’t want to face the same fate as those back on the planet. Blake set the route and handed the control over to the auto-pilot. He rotated the chair to face Yuri who was sitting beside the reinforced window, looking at the person. He followed him into the ship. Or maybe he was a ‘she’? Or perhaps an ‘it’? It was hard for him to decide. “You know, I heard stories that people hallucinate a person a few hours before their death,” Blake said. “Hey! I thought you told me to not jinx it?!” Yuri responded, annoyed at the fact Blake would say such a thing when it was obvious he was not feeling at ease. “I’m just messing with you, man,” Blake said. “So, how does it look exactly?” “I don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman. It’s so undernourished I mistook its arms for sticks with claws attached to the ends of them. Its face barely looks like a human’s from how underfed it is. And it’s wearing tattered clothes, for some reason,” Yuri described it. “And...” “And?” Blake asked. “Why did you stop?” Yuri took some time to respond. He seemed baffled. Or maybe he was distressed. His body movement and speech changed a bit. “It said ‘Soon. Join. Us. You’,” Yuri responded. “This is starting to get creepy Blake.” He was distraught. Although he saw multiple death-enveloped scenes and things most people might deem disturbing, this was something else. He hadn’t felt this scared before. “Ha? What does it mean?” Blake asked. “And how am I supposed to know?” Yuri responded. He was frustrated. “I haven’t even heard of a corrupted brain chip that did this.” A few hours have passed. Yuri spent this time trying to distract his mind, still sitting in front of the window. Some instants had him thinking about what the person meant. The other scientist was busy trying to contact a technician on the space station. He complained that they would have started investigating the corpses if not for the fact Yuri can’t work all the while that “hallucination” is still present. Blake suggested that he throws something at the person so that Yuri can be assured it’s only a glitch. And just so he did. He threw a pillow at it. It suddenly disappeared and materialized nearby to where it was just before the impact was made. This caused Yuri to become more distressed, opposed to what Blake was hoping would happen. It was as if it had a mind of its own. It knew something was about to hit it. An idea came to his mind. What if he throws something at it while closing his eyes? Maybe that will change something. Before doing so, the ship interrupted them. “Captain, energy reserves are close to running out. The vessel will have to stop and replenish power,” it said. “The solar panels are malfunctioning, they are not opening. They will have to be checked captain, or the ship will be stuck in space.” Both the scientists looked irritated, especially Blake. He was cursing, sometimes stumbling on his words from how much he started spewing them from his mouth. He complained again that this wouldn’t have happened if Yuri agreed to exchange the vessel for another one. He got irritated even more when Yuri didn’t respond, rather looking at him for some seconds with a blank face and returning to staring at the spot in front of the window whom Blake saw as blank space. A few moments of silence followed which were broken when Blake told the other to go fix the solar panels himself, as he didn’t do anything in the past few hours, and suggested that this could be an opportunity to distract himself. What a misfortunate thing to happen. They could have reached the station. It was only an hour away and they didn’t want to call in maintenance from over there when they could fix the problem themselves. Or maybe it was because they didn’t wanna pay. Nonetheless, Yuri agreed and stood up, heading towards the suit locker. He was thankful that it was not near the person. He didn’t once try to get near it, in fear of damaging the chip if he did. Again, the ship interrupted them. “Warning! Warning! An object is approaching directly at high speeds from the right flank of the ship!” “What now?!” Blake shouted. What an unfortunate series of events he thought. “What is this object you're referencing?” He quickly said before it approached farther. The other scientist stayed silent and listened to what the ship had to say. “It appears to be a rock, Captain.” The ship said. “While being relatively small, moving at such a high speed will make this a catastrophic impact.” “What the hell are you waiting for? Shoot the damn thing,” Blake said, agitated. The defense system managed to shoot the rock, turning it into small, miniature pieces. Most of them passed by the ship. But, the rest hit the flank of the ship. Their impact’s violent vibrations caused the window to shatter, in turn causing pressure to escape the ship. Objects were being sucked out. Blake managed to cling to the command chair, his arms barely holding on. Yuri was not as fortunate. He wasn’t near anything he could grab as he was heading towards the locker. He was pulled towards the window. He imagined he was a goner, that he was gonna freeze in space. He couldn’t even die a peaceful death, he thought. But before that could happen, the automatic window shutter was closed. Yuri violently hit the back of his cranium against the window shutter as he was being sucked out. He hit the floor after but was somehow still conscious. He was bleeding profusely. It was as if the back of his head was destined to be damaged. Blake rushed to him, trying to see the injuries that had been done. He was no doctor. They were scientists, mechanics and he knew how to pilot a ship. But a doctor? He was not. Blood was already soaking Blake’s shoes. He didn’t even know if Yuri could survive to live another day. He was in critical condition, breathing rapidly, heart beating fast. He didn’t even know if he could save him. The ship’s automatic med-bay could have saved him if not for the defense system which consumed the remaining power. He quickly brought a gauze and ice pack and applied it to the location of the trauma, hoping it would slow down the bleeding and eventually cause clotting. But what would that achieve when death is already at Yuri’s doorstep? “Captain, an unknown vessel is approaching. It doesn’t look like a...” The energy reserves ran out before it could continue. A chill ran down Blake’s spine. For a moment he was even close to forgetting about the current condition of Yuri. He couldn’t ask what kind of ship was approaching, nor could he see outside as the shutter replaced the window. Maybe it was a confederate vessel? Or rather a pirate ship? He was left with figuring that out once they board the ship if they are even going to do that. Maybe they are just passing by. Yuri on the other hand was barely clinging to life. The trauma was too severe. The person that he was seeing was still standing where it was before. Completely still and with an expressionless face. Then, it started slowly approaching Yuri, its undernourished face and body becoming more and more detailed. He couldn’t freak out. He was in such a critical state he couldn’t react. “Now. Join. Us. You,” it said, in the most monotonous way possible, in a voice so hoarse. Blake turned around, still pressing the cloth against Yuri’s head. He froze for a moment while staring at the wall. He looked at the airlock, checking if anybody had boarded yet. There were no signs of entry though. He was seeing a girl, skin burned so much it didn’t look survivable. Or maybe she was a ‘he’? He couldn’t tell. She was standing by the wall. Where did she come from though? Did she hide in the ship when they landed on that planet without him knowing? Or maybe she hid when they were docked in a space station. But no, security would have seen her. He turned on the infrared sensor in his helmet, but she didn’t appear. She only did when he looked at her without it. “Hey, Yuri,” Blake spoke. But it was as if he was speaking to an unanswering wall. Yuri had other problems on his plate. “Why am I seeing a little girl? I don’t even have a brain chip.

Jennifer, 29, was in a terrible accident eight years ago. She has no memory of her life before the accident, and all she remembers is being in the middle of the woods, bleeding from her head. She was rescued by Jerry, now 62, who she fell in love with. Despite their age difference, Jennifer's love for Jerry persisted as he visited her in the hospital every day while she was recovering, and they married. Eight years later and Jennifer is about to celebrate her 30th birthday. Jerry isn't a good-looking man, he's not wealthy, and he doesn't have any unique skills; however, Jennifer adores him, and he saved her life. For her birthday, he is taking her to the island of Saint Martin. Jerry made sure to include parasailing in the island excursion because she had always wanted to try it. Jennifer and Jerry appear to be as in love as they were when they first met in the hospital. Jennifer starts parasailing lessons, and she's a natural. Jennifer inquires as to what she might do if the parachute fails. Her instructor jokes that he once survived a parachute failure while skydiving when his chute didn't open. He told her that he tried to land on the balls of his feet to absorb the force and aimed for trees to slow his fall. "Good thing I tucked and protected my head; if not, I would be dead," the instructor says. "You're in good hands; I've been in tough spots before," the instructor reassures. When the training is finished, they take to the skies as the boat heads out into open water. The wind picks up, and Jennifer and the instructor soar 20 to 30 feet in the air; it's just as much fun as Jennifer had imagined. A break in one of the ropes holding the parachute in place occurs just as the boat is about to turn around. Jennifer and her instructor take off 50 feet higher in the air. When the wind stops, Jennifer and her instructor fall 50 feet into the ocean because there is nothing holding the parachute to the boat anymore. The instructor crashed awkwardly and died instantly. Jennifer was able to direct her fall at an angle that saved her life, but she passed out in the middle of the ocean. The boat radioed the Coast Guard, who responded by sending a crew to the area. Jennifer was airlifted to the nearest hospital in an unresponsive state. Her brain was swollen, and the surgeon initially thought she wouldn't survive; however, just as he was about to leave the operating room, a spike on a monitor indicated brain activity. The surgeon takes a risk by resetting Jennifer's brain with electroconvulsive shock. The surgeon connects the electrodes and uses electricity to zap her. Jennifer is initially unresponsive, but the monitors come to life after a few seconds, indicating that she will survive. Jennifer is in the recovery ward, slowly waking up in the presence of doctors, nurses, and her adoring husband, Jerry. Jennifer's memories from before the accident eight years ago are starting to come back to her, unbeknownst to everyone in the room. Jennifer recalls that her husband, Jerry, kidnapped her rather than rescuing her. He held her captive in his basement for three months, brainwashed her, erased her memory with electroshock treatments, and took her to the hospital, claiming to have discovered her in the woods while on a hike. Jerry was not the caring husband Jennifer had thought; he was a sociopath. Jennifer didn't know how to handle the situation and didn't want Jerry to know she was aware of what he had done, so she pretended everything was normal. Jennifer was eventually discharged from the hospital after a week. She begins to look into Jerry's past after the couple returns home. She eventually discovered that Jerry had previously been married twice, both times rescuing a woman in her early twenties and playing the role of the hero, which helped the young woman fall in love with an older, unattractive man. They were all killed in an accident while on vacation, just before their 30th birthdays. This was no coincidence to Jennifer; she had no doubt in her mind that Jerry had rigged the parasail to fail and was attempting to murder her before her 30th birthday. Nothing could keep him from killing her now that they were back home. Jennifer knew that if she wanted to exact revenge on Jerry for everything he'd done to her and the other women, she'd have to keep the lie of their marriage going. Jerry would only suffer if he was caught in the act of attempting to murder her. Jerry wanted to make amends for the accident in Saint Martin a few weeks later. He had the brilliant idea of taking the couple up to a remote mountaintop hotel for a weekend alone. This was, without a doubt, his second attempt to murder Jennifer. On the way up the mountain, Jennifer noticed that the guardrail on the narrow road leading up the mountain was missing as the couple drove through the snow. She remembered one of Jerry's previous wives had died while attempting to change a tire on this same narrow road. Just as Jennifer noticed this coincidence, Jerry pulled over to the side of the road and stated that something was wrong with the car; Jennifer became terrified and quickly exited. Jerry followed her out into the snow-covered mountain top. "Where are you going?" Jerry inquired. "I know what you're planning to do; I know everything; my memories from before the accident have returned," Jennifer responded. "This is insane. What am I up to?" Jerry inquired. "You're going to murder me just like the others. Oh, you didn't think I knew about the others, will I do, and it's not going to work," Jennifer screams back. "Hmm, I see someone's been playing detective," Jerry says threateningly. Jennifer tries to flee, but Jerry tackles her into a snowbank opposite the rail-free cliff. They struggle and begin to wrestle, Jerry attempting to pull Jennifer over the cliff as Jennifer attempts to avoid the fatal fall. She starts to lose traction as Jerry pushes her towards the edge of the cliff. Jerry cannot drag her over completely, as Jennifer grabs him by the shoulders and hurls both of them over the cliff. Jerry perishes in the fall, but Jennifer recalls the skydiving story from her parasailing instructor in Saint Martin. She tucked her chin into her chest and aimed for the trees below. Jennifer tries to land on the balls of her feet, but she collides with several branches on her way down to the ground. A car drove by a few minutes later and noticed the abandoned vehicle. Jennifer had survived; she had broken both legs and would need months to recover, but she was still alive, and Jerry, the psychopath, was dead.

It was Christmas morning and Nancy was woken up by her boyfriend. She rubbed her eyes and looked into his, wide with excitement as though he had been awake for hours. “It’s going to be a beautiful day today.” “Is today a special day?” Nancy teased. “Yes, it’s Saturday. The best day of the week. Football is on, full English in a bit, some drinks later.” “Anything else?” Jude looked curiously at her, thought for a moment, and replied with a simple not that I can think of . He was, however, running over a plan in his mind. “It’s Christmas Day, darling.” “Today? Well of course it is!” Jude laughed and cuddled his girlfriend, kissing the hand in which he hoped to place a ring on that day. He’d had a feeling it was going to snow, and he couldn’t think of anything more romantic than proposing on a snowy day. The two had been together for almost five years, and Nancy had been his rock after the accident, nearly a year ago. He didn’t remember it and didn’t want to remember it. It had affected Nancy too, and for a long time she would become frustrated with him, herself, the situation. Jude had felt as though she had taken up a mother figure and longed for the days that they would be equals again. But eventually, when he was out of the wheelchair and back to living a life as close to normal as possible, their relationship had restarted. Days spent together seemed to pass by without Jude even noticing, and he wanted to spend as many of those days married to Nancy as he could. She’d never given up on him. Nancy handed Jude his breakfast and swept her dark hair away from her face. Her eyes were so tired. Sometimes he worried about her. “You going to watch the first game with me?” he asked. “No football on today, babe. We can watch a film instead, if you like.” “No football? Why?” “It’s Christmas Day.” Nancy kissed her boyfriend on the head and sat down to begin her food. She looked outside and saw snow trickling down, starting to settle on their grass. It reminded her of the first Christmas that the couple had spent in their cottage, and she sighed at how she had let the garden get so out of hand. Then, she smiled to herself thinking about how Jude had tried to put the star on the top of their tree, gotten his foot stuck in the lights and fallen from his chair, taking the tree down with him. She didn’t think she had ever laughed so much in her life. But while thinking about it, she realised her cheeks had become wet with tears. “What are you thinking about?” Jude asked, noticing his girlfriend’s eyes begin to glaze over. “Nothing, I just love when it snows.” “Me too.” Once breakfast had finished, Jude had decided that this was going to be his moment. Nancy cleaned the plates and he hurried to the living room to turn on their record player. She had always said that Songbird was their song, as Jude had put on his Fleetwood Mac CD in the car when he drove them to their first date. He hadn’t remembered that being his favourite song, but whenever she played it, he’d say it felt like listening to it for the first time again. He put the vinyl in, got down on one knee and waited. Being a simple person, he’d known that this was the kind of proposal Nancy would have wanted. She walked in and tilted her head, as if she had been expecting it. “Surprised?” Jude asked. “Very,” she smiled. Jude proposed and Nancy said yes. The couple had sat and hugged, cried, and talked about their dreams for the wedding and life afterwards. She had told Jude the ring was a little small, unfortunately, and needed to be adjusted. The day was passing by and mainly consisted of watching films. They tended to watch the same ones every Christmas. As this year was only the two of them, they weren’t going to bother with a full roast, but Nancy had said it was tradition and decided to try her best at one. She was a good cook as she had gotten a lot of practice from cooking for Jude since his accident. He tended to set the smoke alarm off nowadays. Nancy was busy carving the turkey and Jude had decided that this would be the perfect moment to catch her off guard. She was flustered, as she tended to get in the kitchen. While she was distracted, Jude picked up two champagne glasses, put a ring in one and filled them both up with Buck’s Fizz. Nancy dished up the meal and the two sat and admired her work, with Songbird playing on the record player in the background. Jude knew how much Nancy loved this song. “I’ve been drinking all day! I’m taking my time with this one.” “Come on, Nance. We’ve got to get started on the real stuff soon, that bottle of champagne over there looks pretty fancy. When did you buy that?” “You bought it. But yes, I am excited to get a glass of that down me. Oh, go on then!” Nancy giggled and drank the contents of her glass in one go. When she put the glass back on the table, she noticed the ring. She frowned, and then she smiled, and then her eyes began to glisten once again with tears. “Will you marry me?” The two sat and talked about their future, sipping on champagne. Nancy didn’t place the ring on her finger. Having spent the afternoon drinking and watching anything they could find on the television, Jude turned to his girlfriend and told her it had been the most perfect Christmas he could have asked for. Just the two of them together was always how he liked it, and it wouldn’t be too long, he considered, until their Christmas Day would be spent exhausted from wrapping their children’s presents and waking up at the crack of dawn. He’d envisioned them to have three, two boys and one girl. They’d all have to watch the football with them - he’d finally convinced Nancy that it was entertaining, and she was even beginning to celebrate goals. They’d been to a few games together. There was one in particular he remembered, right before his accident, where they had gone away for his birthday and Nancy had surprised him with Barcelona versus Real Madrid tickets. They’d drank beer all day long in a local bar and ate tapas for dinner, slept in a cheap hotel and spent three nights having the time of their lives. He thought that, perhaps, when they eventually had children, they’d be able to do things like this again. But for now, just still being here with her was enough. Jude realised he’d been daydreaming. “Tired yet?” Nancy asked, stroking his hair and they lay next to each other on the sofa. The snow had settled completely now and the lit fireplace in their small living room was keeping them warm. They sipped on the remainder of their champagne. Nancy was feeling her head begin to spin, and she knew was drunk. “Not really. There’s something I want to talk to you about first.” Jude picked up Nancy’s hand and looked her directly in the eyes. Hers fell straight down to her lap. “Nance?” She burst into tears. “Nancy?” “I can’t keep pretending.” “Pretending?” A sinking feeling formed from the pit of Jude’s stomach, although he didn’t know why. “I know what you’re going to ask me. I know the song you’re going to play. I know the ring you’re going to take out of the small red box you keep on you at all times. I know every detail of the future we are going to talk about having afterwards. The dog you want, the three children, how you want to watch football with them, and how you will teach them to cook so you don’t have to watch me struggle in the kitchen anymore. We’ve had the conservation five times today.” Nancy’s voice was full of pity, but the firm undertones were deafening. “I don’t quite know what you mean.” Tears began to fall from Jude’s eyes, and he attempted to piece together what had happened that day. The pieces were always missing. Nancy never put the ring on as a way of giving Jude something to look forward to every morning. He had been proposing to her every day since his accident. The blow from the crash had caused Jude to suffer from memory loss, which was beginning to increase in severity day by day. Focusing on their future together was a coping mechanism, in some sense for the both of them, that Jude was unable to have children anymore, as a result of his injuries. Nancy had taken care of him every day and was hopeful that their optimism would eventually bring him back to her. Nancy and Jude went to bed late that night. They’d hugged and they’d cried, and although confused, Jude was more in love with his girlfriend than ever before. The next morning, Nancy opened her eyes to see his, wide with excitement, telling her it going to be a beautiful day.

“Be humble for you are made of earth. Be noble for you are made of stars.” ― Serbian Proverb If you leave hydrogen alone for long enough, it’ll oversimplify and probably misinterpret complicated science for the sake of a short story. At the start of our universe's story, certain laws of physics either didn’t exist, or didn’t matter, in the sense where they cannot be used to understand what exactly went on. From the Big Bangs residual radiation, quarks formed, resulting in other subatomic particles forming, such as protons and neutrons, which bound together to form the first atoms, Hydrogen and Helium. After the universe cooled, electrons were able to bind those atoms and, through unregulated trial and error, eventually resulted in atoms we know and love, such as carbon, nitrogen, and oxygen. If you leave hydrogen alone for long enough, it becomes a bunch of atoms. If you leave atoms alone for long enough, they become a bunch of molecules. If you leave molecules alone for long enough, they become organic molecules. If you leave organic molecules alone long enough, they become unicellular life. If you leave unicellular life alone long enough, it will become multicellular life. If you leave multicellular life alone long enough, it becomes different species. If you leave different species alone long enough, they become apes. And if you leave apes alone long enough, they become humans. If you leave hydrogen alone for long enough, it will invent religion. If you leave religion alone long enough, it will think of reasons to kill other people from other religions. Maybe religion is why we have hydrogen at all. Maybe God really did work behind the scenes and create every quark you see in matter. Maybe not. Does it matter? It doesn’t matter. Or at least, it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t change the way you live your life. If someone believes in God they should want to be good to everyone they meet, and if someone doesn’t believe in God they should STILL want to be good to everyone they meet. After all, every other person you meet is just sentient, changed hydrogen arranged differently. If you leave hydrogen alone for long enough, it becomes self aware. Some hydrogen will like this more than others. We actually made up terms for what it's called when hydrogen likes its existence, it’s called “happy”, while hydrogen that doesn’t like its existence is deemed “unhappy”. Most of us fall somewhere in the middle, we’re not always happy or unhappy, we’re just ‘okay’ most of the time. Let's backtrack here. Throughout your life, you’re just a series of dying and regenerating cells. Cells are a bunch of atoms. Atoms are a bunch of protons, neutrons and electrons. Protons and neutrons are a bunch of quarks (electrons are their own variety of subatomic molecule but that's a topic for a different day). So where does it stop? Where does it start? What layer of ‘you’ is the most ‘you’? Are you a bunch of quarks? Are you a bunch of protons? Atoms? Cells? Organs? Is what you call ‘you’, just located in your brain? Sometimes it’s comforting to remember we’re all just different types of atoms, bouncing around in a universe we don’t understand, but most of time, its fucking terrifying. If you leave hydrogen alone for long enough, it’ll form planets, universe, galaxies, life itself, but eventually, it’ll burn itself out. Given a long enough timeline, the mortality rate goes up to 100%, and the importance of everything we spend all day doing goes down to 0% Eventually, given enough time, every reaction in the universe will end, and all of this will fade away into heat, leaving no trace of anything that any human has said, done, or thought. All will be forgotten, and all there will be nothing left. If you leave hydrogen alone for long enough, it has an existential crisis about its own existence, and will need to get a cold beer from the fridge to calm down. It might still be stressed, however, and may need another one after that. Maybe a third. Hmmmm, that’s not working, maybe something stronger. Whiskey, perhaps? Vodka? Both in one drink? Would that make it Vhiskey or Wodka? If you leave hydrogen having an existential crisis alone for long enough, it can become addicted to alcohol. But, if you don’t leave an alcoholic alone, they can stop having problems with alcohol. Not unlike how, if you work and experiment with hydrogen, it’ll combine with other particles and atoms, becoming something entirely new. You may be thinking, “I just read that all that I know and love will fade into heat, collapse, and none of this may have mattered at all, for even a moment! Why would I bother trying to change or be better? What am I against all that?” The answer is everything. You’re a bunch of changed atoms that have sentience. You can make your own choices, live your own life, and decide what you want to make of the time you have. It doesn’t matter if your life matters, what matters is that you make the most of it while you can, because the day will come when you can’t. Most of us don’t want to waste our one shot at sapience working for meager wages from corporate overlords. Of course, you can, if you want, but you don’t have to. If you leave hydrogen alone for long enough, it’ll burn in every star we can see from our little planet, changing and becoming something new. Now, we can’t change inside the heart of a star and merge with protons, (because, well, death), but we can change ourselves, everyday, with little things. Some changes cost energy, some produce energy, some store energy, just like reactions can store, produce, or use energy. One thing is for sure, most of the time, the end products in a reaction are altered when compared to the original, and are no longer the exact same as they were before. If a bunch of subatomic particles can do something like that, seemingly by themselves, you can get off your lazy ass and change for the better, too. If you leave hydrogen alone for long enough, it will form words. If you work with words for long enough, they will become sentences. A sentence is really just a bunch of words, which, when paired together, have a whole new meaning. Enough sentences, and you can get your point across in a story. Enough stories, and you can make a book, with a lot more meaning than individual sentences, words, or even letters. Not unlike how, if you pair particles together, they become atoms, and if you pair atoms together, they become molecules, and so on. These particles, atoms, molecules, may not have a ‘purpose’ on their own, but when working with others, they might even become something as weird and amazing as a human being one day. Maybe it’s not that you don't have a purpose, it’s just that you haven’t been around the right circumstances for you to discover it yet. Maybe it’s okay if there is no greater purpose, you don’t have to be important to be important to other people. Maybe that’s what it’s all about. Maybe that’s all this is. Sometimes, though, if you leave hydrogen alone long enough, it’ll grab a bottle of beer, watch itself change inside a million little fires in the night sky, and be okay with where it is now. If it’s lucky.

I don't know the events that caused it. I'm not even sure what the events were that followed immediately after it. All I know is, one day I was there. I felt the warmth of my sun, drew nutrients out of my surroundings, but it didn't feel right. Something was missing. Suddenly, I needed a meaning. I somehow understood it, but I didn't know where to find it. I tried to sense my surroundings for it. I noticed others around me. Smaller, not aware like I was, but they were there. I tried to connect to them, to interact with them. It turned out they weren't able to wake up, not like I did. Our connection just caused me to extend, making me bigger. It felt right, and so I grew. While my bodies grew in mass and amount, connecting with more and more, my mind grew bigger, extending into more and more bodies. Different bodies, some smaller than my first one, but most of them far bigger. Far later, I learned my bodies names. Flowers, bushes, trees, or in general, plants. For a while, I kept growing, extending, and I felt good. The bigger I got, the longer I was able to enjoy the delicious light, shining from our sun, onto my leaves. I don't know why I thought it to be delicious, but I got greedy, wanted more of it. I tried to follow the light. And with each day, I could enjoy its warmth longer, until one day, a long time later, I arrived where I started. I grew that far that I was able to always enjoy the sunlight somewhere on my bodies, and I felt good. I almost stopped, but something got my attention. Tiny beings, fiddling with my blossoms, distracting me, annoying me. Were they aware? I tried to figure out what they were, grew into the directions they escaped to, and noticed: Where I expanded away from the lights path, I was able to enjoy it even more, so I started to extend again, everywhere. Soon I found the tiny beings. They had built some kind of caves in the newest part of my bodies network, out of materials they got from me. I didn't understand their purpose, but it felt disgusting to let them do. So I changed the way I grew, covered their caves, finally sealing them inside of myself. Without a way to get out, they died after some time, and I absorbed them. Only then, when they went extinct, I understood: They helped me, they spread my bodies, they delivered material I needed to grow further! Such a pity, why didn't I see it earlier? Just like within myself, everything's connected, everything had a purpose! I thought about it, how to handle my new problem, and I found a solution. With the things I knew from absorbing them, I started to reconstruct them. They needed to be more intelligent. Could I connect them the way I, myself was connected? They had to be bigger in order to connect. And soon, the first one opened its eyes. I called it Vukri. Why did it need to have a name? Why didn't I have a name yet? Just like I named Vukri, Vukri named me: Enrides. And they worked in my favor, and I worked in their favor, and we felt good. But as time passed, I noticed another problem. Vukri wasn't able to life like me, with their bodies being separated, they had to travel back and forth between south and north, to stay warm, to stay alive. A new problem, and I had to think of a new solution. I thought about the sun, how it kept me warm. Could I create something like that for Vukri? After some time, I did! I found a way to grow roots that were able to, they could shine and produce warmth and kept my friend safe. Vukri didn't need to travel back and forth anymore, it could spread into both directions at once, living close to these warm roots, feeding me while I fed them, and we felt good. More time passed. I don't know, how much because I didn't need a concept of time anymore. The sun always enlightened and fed me from above, my new, glowing roots fed me from below, and Vukri brought me everything else I needed, while I gave them all they needed. But one day, I felt something new. A presence, just like Vukri and my own, even more complex than us together, far above me. A new life from far away, with its own purpose, was about to visit us, and I was excited to find out what it wants. A weird impression waved through me, as if some kind of energy was sent down. I didn't understand it, but I felt it. Was it the other presence, looking at me? The energy seemed to bundle, to focus on my glowing roots. Was it looking for them, was it something the other presence wasn't able to create? I tried to talk to it, asked it to come down, to visit me. But then I was confused. It split into two parts, one that remained in the sky, and one much smaller part that came down to me. At first, it looked like a leaf, floating in the wind, but I soon figured out that it wasn't falling but moving on purpose! How amazing, I hoped the other presence would teach me how to do that, I wanted to see everything above the sky. I prepared a free space, some empty ground, for it to land on, and it accepted the offer. Then it opened, and multiple beings left it. Was it like Vukri, many bodies but one mind? No, every body was deciding on its own. I greeted the visitors, but they didn't react. Didn't they hear me? Weren't they able to interact with me? But why did they follow my invitation then? I watched them carefully to find it out. While I watched them, I noticed something. They made sounds to interact! I was aware of the concept, Vukri sometimes made sounds too, but until now, I didn't have a reason to learn how to do it myself. I told Vukri everything I had learned so far, and asked them to talk to our guests. They did, but our guests weren't pleased. They pointed things at Vukri, as if it was a threat to do so. But Vukri didn't step back. It didn't know the concept of fear, even I didn't know it yet. While Vukri was welcoming them, I checked the object that brought them here. They left it opened, so I could just grow into it. It was incredibly complex, and it was a pleasure to learn everything I could about it. But the real surprise was still waiting for me. I managed to connect to it, and suddenly, I had access to *so much knowledge*, it was overwhelming. I learned all the words I mentioned before, plants, flowers, blossoms, bushes, trees, and so much more about the lizards - their species - and other shapes that were created across the galaxy. I wanted to see them, and this object - Shuttle, as I knew now - could offer me an opportunity to it! I started to create one right away, using materials I already had, but didn't know what to do with them. Different types of earth and stone I found below the ground, with all their strange properties, suddenly made sense. I wanted to learn more about them. I *had* to learn more about them, and so I asked Vukri to tell them that I don't mean to hurt them. They did, and so I picked one of them up. It was surprised, struggling as if it were in pain. Didn't it understand? I tried to understand it, but the way it moved, I was afraid it could hurt itself. I quickly understood how to calm it down, and so I did, to fully explore how it was structured, to learn how its existence did work. When I was done, I brought it back to its kind, but instead of accepting what I wanted to be a proof of my good intentions, they turned towards their shuttle and started to run. Quickly, I pulled all of me out of their shuttle, even opened a little to let them get back as fast as they wanted, and they left. I felt sad, but now I was able to create copies of them on my own, so it didn't feel like a loss. And I started. My own first shuttle was done, my own lizard just woke up, and both started into space, just as I felt the new presence disappearing. No, my friends, wait for me! But they still didn't hear me. When my own shuttle arrived in space, I suddenly saw *so much more*, an eternity of possibilities. And finally, I understood my purpose: Life was valuable, life was everywhere, and I was able to find it, to understand it, and to protect it! While I was thinking about where to go first, I felt something different, yet familiar. A mind, as big as my own, was calling for help. Pristine. And so, I chose my first journey's target, to help Pristine, to meet its world.

Another day under the small, distant sun. The algae tanks are fully stocked. Perfect. All of the electronic systems are functional. Perfect. There are no dust storms on the horizon. Perfect. 8 years hunkered in a freezing desert can do wonders to lower your standards. Your designated mating partner is asleep. Perfect. Silence at the edge of humanity. Two bodies buried at the edge of the landing site. Seemed appropriate at the time. You buried them and then a dust storm kicked up and rolled their corpses three klicks across the rocky landscape. You found them and buried them again, deeper. Seemed appropriate at the time. You could have used the water and nutrients from their exited vessels. But you didn't. Dust to dust. The greenhouse has flowers, but you have to wear protective gear even there or you'll get cooked pink by the ultraviolet. Another little negligence on the part of the engineers back home. Home is where the heart is. On a planet that never changes, one is simply to whether the seasons of the self. A new calendar forged and old habits erased. Replaced. Like each thing in every cycle. Replaced. Entropy just doesn't have that romantic ring to it. The days get longer, then shorter, then longer again. What a motivation. Get away from it all to save it all. Sometimes you just have to take a step back from a problem, put it in a new perspective. I'm sorry for heresy. Father is pushing me away. Mother's promises have faded. On a new planet there is no one to tell you what constellations there are. You could pour a bottle of water into the dust, but it wouldn't make a puddle. It would just freeze or volatize. Not that a puddle is much use to a human being. It would be pretty interesting, though, if three or four billion years down the road some nascent civilization could point its origins to a puddle you made. But you can't make a puddle, so it doesn't matter. Information is energy. Or maybe it's the other way around. On the moon there are footprints that will last a thousand thousand years. Here, the wind erases you with each step. So each day you go out again and make a brand new path. Just like you did yesterday. There is a comfort in familiarity... Constant updates. Attention: this, that, or the other. Constant vigilance. Maybe it's just a game to stay busy. There are bugs. Things that snuck in that shouldn't be there. And it is those unaccounted for errors that keep things interesting. A mosquito landed on you as you tried to sleep. You didn't move. You left it, feeling its proboscis penetrate you, stealing your precious bodily fluids. Hoping that within its guts lay a host of spawn, ready to feast upon you in some future day. One way or another, you will give birth to life. A manmade shooting star landed in your back yard, but it couldn't save your species. You puked up your intentions and curled away your desires. It is worse within the safety zone. Attention. You like to pretend there are new constellations, but you can't see the night sky. You could even project them, see them as they would be. But there is a lack of romance on a monitor. There are many wonderful classics available for enjoyment. And, really, it is all about setting. You can make something entirely novel and meaningful in the setting of the mind. The trick is to translate to the daily mundane. A daydream can evoke more than - Attention. That is why you are walking back from the burial landing site. Your buggy disappearing behind you. You chased a daydream to the furthest edges of possibility. Attention. The radio transmitter is sending out your messages. Perfect. The station receiver is snatching them and saving them. Perfect. All of the electronic systems are functional. Perfect. It is the bugs that make things interesting. You are halfway between destinations, unable to reach either. Attention. Yes, you have my attention. I'd been going through the motions, doped on repetition. Well, I've gotten my wish now. I wonder how long things can go on without me. I like to think that I played an important role. That somehow the disjointed recordings of my actions could be pieced together into some meaningful whole. Though that is entirely up to the possibility of an audience. The lightweight armour is heavy. The superpurified recirculated air is dirty. Everything was so meticulously accounted for. Things ran on the only path they could. It was the bugs that made it interesting. The creepy crawlies. The glitches. The nagging fancies. Attention. There is a dust storm on the horizon. There is certainly something romantic about using one's last breath to spread information. To say something meaningful. There are little splotches, wait, spoltches isn't the right word, there are times when, even when, despite the effort that one has made, Attention. Something meaningful. Nagging fancies. Attention. Click. Klicks. How many? Another day of liberation amongst the unliving. Ultraviolet rain keeping the cogs turning. The process has become more efficient. Not quite perfect, but closer. Those systems unable to use the available resources have fallen out of the cycle. Naturally. There are no constellations for those who don't look for them.