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Allura 50

This night, I am a sardine, riding the stuffed subway. The atmosphere is a mix of hot salami breath, boozy exhalations, overboard perfume, and the intrusiveness of freshly smoked weed. People pressing, gravelly coughs, wonky ringtones, shuffle shuffle shuffle. No place for the anxious or the introverted or the healthy. My brain buddy says to me, by way of consolation, *There there. At least you aren't in India.* Or China, or London, or.... Yes, I have seen the photographs. People squished against glass doors, and professional train stuffers that won't take no for an answer. In this, my lifelong town, we haven't come to that pass yet. *Hey, if you pass out, at least you won't fall.* We careen through tunnels of semi dark. On a curve, I am prodded by elbows and my foot is stepped upon by a hard heel. In the jostling, I can't tell whose, and no one says sorry excuse me or anything of the like. From my forced vantagepoint, I fix on a pair of female hands but I cannot see their owner. They rest upon her skirted lap, and, oddly, they don't hold a phone. She moves them in peculiar ways for a young person, cupping one hand within the other and rubbing slowly back and forth as if in arthritic pain. Joining her hands, she then raises and lowers them in seeming prayer or supplication. Finally, she reaches into her pocket or purse, brings out a small circlet of paper, and slips it onto her ring finger. I see that it's a cigar band and I chuckle to myself, having seen this sort of thing in the movies where the boyfriend asks the girl to marry him but can't afford a ring. She plays with it for a few seconds, turning it round and round, then takes it off, as if to put it away. She drops it on the floor, then quickly picks it up. I glimpse a head of long straight tawny hair, and her young face in profile. She sees me and I redden a bit, smiling sheepishly. Apparently conscious of an audience now, she stops fidgeting. One hand rests flat upon her knee, and the other is closed loosely in a fist. With two more stops to go before I reach mine, I begin to sidle towards the doors, but stop for a moment as I draw close to her. She's unaware, I think, because she has her head down and is toying with the ring again. Slips it back on once more, then looks straight ahead. She sees me, and gives a Mona Lisa smile. I feel like her decision's been made, and I smile back. The doors open and I push my way out onto the platform. I stop for a second, thinking. Yeah, I knew it. I know it. This girl, who is now a woman, I have seen before. Her life of running away is no more, and I'm so happy. Yeah, I'm happy.

They killed them. They killed mummy and daddy and big sis and little sis. Little sis always looked like a pig with that nose of hers and she squealed like one too when they split open her tummy. She tumbled over and looked right at Marcus, but not at him. Through him, like he was a ghost or not even there at all. And then big sis was dragged by her feet into the stable and she screamed and screamed and screamed. *I couldn’t stop them. I was afraid.* Marcus would have died too if daddy didn’t get in the way of an arrow. It struck him in the neck. He gargled blood and spattered all over him. But he told him to run. So he ran, the bad men yelling after him. He had always liked running. But where to run? To get to the nearest village he would have had to run through the bad men. He couldn’t go back that way, he would die. So he ran to the forest. The forbidden forest. The forest he was told to never enter. The forest was death. He had always padded the waters though; running along the tree line and picking up branches for the hearth back at home. It didn’t seem that scary. Peaceful if anything. But if he turned back he was dead. How bad could a forbidden forest be? The air was strange in the forest. The canopy was thick and light struggled to get through. Tree roots and shrubs and vines snaked along the forest floor so he had to watch his every step. He slowed down just a little, but still kept pace, running as fast as his feet could carry him. A scream in the distance. He stopped dead in his tracks and turned around, looking every which way. A scream in that direction, and then that one. Screams of pain and horror. But he couldn’t see anything. Nothing but trees. “Are they your friends, child?” The voice echoed inside his head, hollow and ethereal. He looked around once more, up and down, left and right, searching for someone. “Speak. There is... no reason to be afraid.” He felt dizzy, tired, thirsty, and hungry all at the same time. The air felt hot against his skin and his sweat ran cold, yet he spoke with a calmness he had never felt before. “No. They are not my friends. They killed them. Killed them all.” More screams in the distance. “Who did they kill?” “My family. Mummy and daddy and big sis and little sis! The bad men killed them!” “Is that so?” An apparition appeared out of thin air. It was tall, and ghostly at first but it quickly gained corporealness. It looked human and talked human, though it talked funny. It wore no clothes; its body was wreathed in twigs, roots, and leaves in intricate swirls and patterns. Marcus couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. “We have all lost much to bad men.” “Yes. All my life I have been picked on by bad men who are bigger than me. I’m sick of it!” The thing paused for a moment, it’s face absent of all emotion, the blood curdling screams ever present in the background, then spoke again, “What if I helped you?” “Helped me? With what?” It half smiled to reveal a row of razer teeth. “To get revenge.” The forest sprung into life. Trees rocked back and forth as vines whipped across the sky. Something wet and sticky splashed against Marcus’ face, and then all was calm. In front of him were three men, wrapped in vines, hanging suspended upside down a few feet above the ground. Their skins were split and crisscrossed with cuts, the muscles cut away from the bone and hanging loose. Entrails drooped freely from the belly of the middle man who choked on his own bile and excrement. A thin vine was wrapped around each of their necks, taut enough to prevent them making anymore screams, but, from the sounds of their exasperated breaths, not enough to suffocate them. The thing stepped forward with wild eyes and a mad grin. It spread its arms out wide. “Revenge, served freely.” It handed Marcus a dagger carved from bone. He took it almost without noticing, his eyes transfixed on the men in front of him. “Do it, Marcus. Vengeance is sweet. Sweet like honey.” *I can’t. I... can’t kill these people, Can I?* Images raced through his head. Of playing with big sis and little sis in the sun. How they teased him for always getting the muddiest and getting the most hurt. How his mother would always tuck him under the covers before bed. His father who was not the strongest, but always tried the hardest. And then the memories were washed away in waves of blood and fire. His home alight, smoke billowing into the air. The laughter of the bad men echoed in his mind, over and over, louder and louder, until he felt his skull cracking. *No! Make it stop!* His knuckles were white as he gripped the dagger. With a roar he stabbed the men. In the neck. In the face. The chest. As high up as he could reach, everywhere he could stab he stabbed. The vines loosened as he did so; the men shrieking cries of despair. They fell silent. His rage spent, Marcus’ fell to his knees and bawled and wailed. The thing put a finger to his chin and tilted his head and peered into his eyes. Its eyes, black but sparkling like the night sky, were mesmerising. “You have blessed and watered these grounds with the blood of your-” he stopped himself, “no, our enemies. Please, accept my invitation.” “Invitation?” his voice was croaky and distorted. “To meet my kin.” Marcus nodded and stood up. He followed the thing further into the forest, leaving the men behind. *The forest is death. But not for me.

INT. - OLIVIA’S AND HER ROOMMATE TIM’S APARTMENT - SATURDAY EVENING Phone rings. OLIVIA (Answers phone) Hello Jane. JANE Will you answer when I’m in a car crash and calling from a stranger’s phone? OLIVIA If I don’t recognize the caller ID, I don’t answer. And if you’re in a car crash, I hope you have the sense to dial emergency before calling me. JANE Don’t ever let me use you as my emergency contact. Olivia huffs. JANE Speaking of emergencies, I have been summoned to Scranton. Can you stay here with Babs until Sunday? OLIVIA Well, I guess I can cancel my date. JANE You’d do that for me? OLIVIA I’ll be there in 30 minutes. Olivia hangs up. She scrambles to pack an overnight bag. Her cat, Percy, watches from a chair in the corner of the room. OLIVIA (Talking to her cat) Mama’s gonna be gone for a while but I’ll be back soon. Percy purrs and Olivia's shoes clack on the hardwood floor, the door closes and locks. EXT. - OLIVIA’S AND TIM’S APARTMENT INT. - JANE’S HOUSE - SUNDAY MORNING The bed creaks as OLIVIA sits up and yawns. She shuffles to the bathroom, turns the water on and off, then ambles into the kitchen and steps in a puddle of urine. OLIVIA Whoa, good morning. Ignoring a dog in the morning is not a good idea. Where is Babs anyway, hmm? I’d hide too if I were her. Olivia gets down on her hands and knees and crawls to the antiseptic wipes on the shelf under the sink. OLIVIA (Grumbling) Why couldn’t they have gotten a cat? Olivia pops the top on the container of antiseptic wipes, pulls out a disposable cloth and scours her foot. She pulls out three more wipes to mop up the mess, her face grimacing with disgust. OLIVIA Bring on the coffee. Olivia opens several of the cupboards searching for coffee while mumbling to herself, then crouches to rummage under the sink. Babs, the dachshund, trots over, ready to play. OLIVIA (To Babs) There you are, I wish I could share your enthusiasm. -- Doesn’t your mommy drink coffee? Olivia scratches the dog on the rear, stands and nearly collides with the bottom edge of an open cabinet door. She quickly jerks her head to the side but inadvertently connects with the corner of the ajar cabinet on her left. OLIVIA Ow, damnit. She winces when she feels the sting and massages the area with the heel of her palm before slamming the open cupboard door shut in a flash of fury. OLIVIA (Trying to remain calm) Okay, no coffee. (Sarcastically) Do you drink milk? Olivia opens the refrigerator and chuckles when she sees the coffee. OLIVIA Found you. She grabs a filter and scoops the coffee into the machine, breathing in the comfortable, robust scent. OLIVIA (Inhaling) Ah, that’s the stuff. While it trickles into the carafe, she scoops and pours kibble into Babs’s dish and refills her water bowl. OLIVIA And one-half cup of chow for Babs. The dog chomps, snorts, and laps up the water. OLIVIA (To Babs) Be right back. Olivia patters to the bedroom. She changes out of her PJs then returns to the kitchen and fills a to-go mug with coffee. She tucks a plastic bag under her arm. OLIVIA Don’t forget the poop bag. Come on buddy. The twosome takes a short walk around the block. The sun is scorching, so Olivia decides that she will take advantage of her neighbor’s pool. She stops at her apartment to put on her swimsuit, Babs in tow. When she enters the bedroom, Percy looks up from his chair. OLIVIA (to Percy) Just checkin in buddy. Percy mews and lowers his head, eyeing Olivia and the panting dog suspiciously. Olivia puts on her swimsuit while talking to a growling Babs. Then... OLIVIA Come on Babs. See you later. (To Percy) The door to the apartment closes and Olivia returns to Jane’s house with Babs. OLIVIA And we’re back. Olivia removes Babs’s leash and Babs trots away. OLIVIA See you for dinner, I guess. Babs trots over to her bed in the corner of the living room, twirls, and settles noisily into contentment. Olivia strolls across the room and grunts as she tugs the sliding glass door open, then steps onto the warmth of the patio. She sprints toward the inground pool, feet slapping against the cement, and dives into the water, torpedoing to the opposite side. When she emerges, a miniscule, worm-like creature inches its way toward the injury behind her ear and wiggles through the puncture wound. She hoists herself onto the sidewalk, grabs the skimmer, and drags it across the surface of the water in an effort to catch drowned insects and fallen leaves in the net. OLIVIA (Humming) When she is through, she dives into the water and swims a few laps. She climbs on a floating raft. Soon her stomach begins to rumble. She rolls into the cool water before toweling off and going inside the house by way of the sliding doors. She throws a Hot Pocket into the microwave and the buttons beep as she starts the timer. She and Babs hear a vehicle trundle onto the gravel driveway. The dog darts from her bed, nails clicking on the slate tile of the foyer. She sits in front of the door, willing it to open, her tail whipping to and fro. Her ears perk and she freezes as her master’s voice approaches. Olivia opens the door and Babs yaps with delight as Jane pushes past her. OLIVIA (To Jane) Hey, welcome home. JANE (To Babs) Make room for the suitcase buddy. Jane drops her duffle bag and hands Olivia flowers before picking up Babs. Babs licks her face. JANE (To Babs) I missed my Babsy. We’re so happy to see each other. Yes we are. JANE (To Olivia) I forgot your favorite flower so carnations will have to do. OLIVIA How’s the family situation? I hope all is well in Scranton. JANE The situation has been solved. Microwave beeps. OLIVIA Oh, I popped in a Hot Pocket. JANE Stay, eat. Glad you made use of the pool, the water needed to be stirred a bit. OLIVIA Actually, I’ll take my meal to go. Percy is going to think I abandoned him. Olivia caresses the dog. OLIVIA I enjoyed your company, Babs. EXT. - JANE’S HOUSE INT. - OLIVIA’S AND TIM’S APARTMENT - MONDAY MORNING Percy pounces on Olivia's chest and yawns. OLIVIA (Open’s her eyes.) Phew, tuna breath. Home sweet home. Percy leaps to the floor and Olivia throws back the sheet. She saunters to the bathroom and looks into the mirror while folding back her ear to check her wound. OLIVIA (Yelling) Tim, can you take a look at something? I’m in the bathroom. TIM (Yelling) I told you that we need to keep this relationship platonic. OLIVIA (Yelling) Ha ha, just get your ass in here. Tim stands outside the bathroom door. TIM Yes ma’am? Olivia Does this look infected? Tim examines Olivia’s wound. TIM It’s a little swollen, there’s a puncture wound on the tip of the lump. (Chuckling) The lump has a tail, like a polliwog. Put some triple antibiotic on it. OLIVIA What, a tale? TIM Not a literal tale, there's like a bald spot trailing the lump about an inch long. OLIVIA Yeah, ok. I need to get ready for work. Olivia shoves Tim out of the bathroom and shuts the door. After getting ready for the day, she walks to the kitchen, pours a cup of coffee, and pulls out a chair. OLIVIA Butternut muffins and bananas, yum. TIM Anything exciting happening at the Institution today? OLIVIA You mean the assisted living facility? I’m planting trees in the nursery. TIM Nursery? Does calling a garden a nursery make the old people feel younger? OLIVIA Ask your mama. TIM Oooooooo burn. Olivia finishes her coffee and feeds Percy. OLIVIA (To Percy) Have a great day baby. TIM (To Olivia) You to Sweetie. Olivia slams the door. EXT. - OLIVIA’S AND TIM’S APARTMENT The assisted living residence where Olivia works as the seasonal landscaper is less than a mile away, so she hops on her bicycle. Later, when she arrives home, she sags on the stool in front of the vanity mirror in her bedroom. INT. - OLIVIA’S AND TIM’S APARTMENT Olivia sags on the stool in front of the vanity mirror in her bedroom. OLIVIA Mirror, mirror, on the wall. She takes the pins and elastic out of her coiled bun. Several loose hairs catch in the nylon bristles of her brush. OLIVIA Huh, well, they say you lose a hundred hairs a day. She frowns but braids her hair as usual before showering and going to bed. EXT. - MONDAY INT. - TUESDAY MORNING Cat yowling. OLIVIA (Sleepily) I’m coming, hold it for mama. Percy’s body repeatedly jerks then he vomits. By the time Olivia cleans it up, she is running late for work, so she doesn’t take the time to unravel her braid from the night before. TIM (Yells to Olivia as she rushes out the door.) Have a great day. Door slams. After work on Tuesday, Olivia collapses onto the stool in front of the vanity mirror and unlaces her messy braid from the previous night. Several strands get tangled between her fingers. OLIVIA What the...? That’s more than a hundred hairs. This can’t be good. Not wanting to fuss with her hair any further, she leaves it loose, showers and goes to bed. EXT. - TUESDAY On Wednesday morning. Percy wakes Olivia by kneading her ample breasts. OLIVIA Hey Percy cat, careful with the claws. When she lifts her hand up to pet him, he leaps from her chest and her hand flops onto something silky and sleek, like a cat’s tail. Her eyes shoot open, and she sits up in a dreamy panic. Tassels and tuffs of Olivia’s hair cover the pillow beside her OLIVIA (Astonished) What, my hair? She hurries to the bathroom mirror. OLIVIA (Voice escalating) No, no, no, no, no, no... Tim runs from the kitchen. OLIVIA (To Tim) Shave my head. TIM What? OLIVIA Every day I lose more hair. I look like a freaking witch. (Hesitates, then sighs with frustration) Never mind. Olivia opens the medicine cabinet a grabs Tim’s electric razor. TIM Your hands are shaking, I’ll do it. Tim starts shaving Olivia’s head. TIM Holy twisting trail! OLIVIA Tell me! TIM Remember that polliwog tail? OLIVIA You mean the bald patch? TIM It seems to have grown. OLIVIA Grown? TIM More like spread. OLIVIA (Panicky) Tim! TIM There’s a trail on your scalp. Like a tiny lawn mower got out of control. OLIVIA What are you talking about? TIM Let me finish shaving, then you can see for yourself. (After a few seconds) Damn. Hold on. Tim gets a hand mirror from Olivia’s bedroom and gives it to her. Olivia O--M--G where did this lump come from? Olivia presses the quarter-sized lump at one end of the meandering trail. The lump ripples. OLIVIA Squeeze it. TM Um, no. OLIVIA Come on, it’s awkward for me, I can’t see what I’m doing. Olivia opens the cabinet and knocks pill bottles and bandages from the shelves into the sink. A pair of toenail scissors catches her eye. OLIVIA Maybe I could stab it with these. TIM Give me that pack of razors. Olivia tosses the scissors into the sink and finds the razors. Tim removes a blade. TIM I need alcohol. OLIVIA (Impatient) Just do it! TIM Okay, okay, hold still. Olivia lets out a squeal as Tim slices the surface of the lump. TIM Holy extra-terrestrial, something is trying to force its way out. OLIVIA Pull it out. TIM It’s too quick. Come on you bastard. I got it. I think it’s the head, it’s hard as a gold nugget. OLIVIA Did you ever hold a gold nugget? TIM My father lost a gold filling once, I found it . Squelching noises. TIM I’m pulling. The lump is going down like this thing is uncoiling as I pull. (Seconds later) The lump is completely deflated now, but it’s still coming. OLIVIA I could feel it slithering beneath my skin. TIM Out. OLIVIA Thank goodness. Tim lifts the lid on the toilet with the intent of flushing the slimy sucker, but it starts to curl upward toward his wrist, startling him, and he drops it on the floor. TIM Aww, shit! OLIVIA What? TIM It almost bit me. OLIVIA Did you drop it? TIM It’s coiled near the baseboard. Percy prances over, sniffing and batting at it with his paw. OLIVIA Percy no, shoo, get, don’t do it. Percy scoops the creature into his mouth and escapes through the open doorway. TIM I think he ate it. The cat pauses in the hallway to gag, half of the thing dangling from his chops. Tim pounces. TIM Gotcha! --Son of a. Percy’s slick fur slips easily from Tim’s grasp, and he darts ahead a few more feet, pausing again to gag. Tim pounces again, reaching for the scruff of his neck. TIM No use struggling, pal. Tim slides the entity from the gagging cat’s throat and scrambles to the kitchen sink, flicks the switch, and drops the parasite into the gurgling garbage disposal. EXT- WEDNESDAY Olivia arrives home from work on Friday. TIM So, was your new due a hit? OLIVIA Actually, it was. Gladys is my biggest fan. She says it reminds her of the winding waterslides her grandchildren love so much. TIM I like it too. You look badass. It goes nicely with your piercings and tats. Olivia enters her bedroom and finds her bed strewn with Percy’s hairballs. OLIVIA (Worried) Percy, here kitty kitty. Percy saunters over to Olivia purring. He rolls onto his back, exposing his belly. OLIVIA (yelling) Tim. Tim stands in the doorway to Olivia’s room. He looks at Percy, the cat has one long, ‘S’ shaped bald streak mowed through his fur. TIM Is that an ‘S’ on his belly? Super Cat. OLIVIA This isn’t funny. TIM (Reluctantly) The creature may have torn while I was pulling it out. OLIVIA What!? My poor baby. TIM He’ll get it out naturally. OLIVIA I’m putting you on litter duty. TIM You say that like it’s something new to me. Eww, is that a hairball? OLIVIA Don’t change the subject. TIM No, look. That hairball’s moving. On the bed, a hairball twitches. Tim moves closer. TIM I believe Percy expelled the last of it.

I have never been so thirsty for poison. A dribbled stream over my lips would mend my frayed nerves and soothe my aching spine. I would take to the aspect of water torture over my current situation, dripping fluids upon my forehead for even the chance of a stray splatter to make its way to my tongue. The folds in my brain are covered in thorns and are rubbing against each other. I can feel my blood thickening. What I have done to myself is nothing short of martyrdom, I am paying for the sins of my past transgressions and have never been more at peace. I told myself, that if one more bottle were to make it to my lips, I would do it. If one more person had to be victim to my affliction, I would do it. If one more second passed where I was lost to the syrup, I would do it. What I had promised myself has finally been done. I failed my own oath and this is the price. I have pounded steel spikes into the wall and floor of the living room. Four spikes in total, two in the floor and two on the wall, spaced perfectly to the dimensions of my limbs. They held strong in their positions for a few months, a constant reminder that if I were to tip the scale of sobriety I would have to impale myself. Daily, I would feel the pin points with my finger tips to assure that there was no doubt that they would pierce my sinful flesh with ease. I slowly stepped both feet on the floor spikes and with little effort and the assistance of my own weight, the soles of my feet gave easily to my own devices of abstinence. I did not scream, but the pain was nauseating. My mouth tasted like salt and motor oil, the sensation of my survival instincts screaming at me to stop, that I would be better in the future, if only I would give myself some leniency. It was that same screaming that told me it was alright to make mistakes over and over, there will be next week to be better. Next week had been coming for four years. Four years of swallowing cheap swill and bile, choking back the excuses I gave myself. The adrenaline from my archaic acts of penance made me blood drunk for my own sadism as I lunged forward to place my hands even with the surface behind the spikes on the wall. As the steel slid through my palms, my fingers spidered out to brace for their final resting point. Here I stood, crucified to my wall for the actions I took. I called my own bluff and now I am pinned to the very foundation that hid my grievous acts from the world. The red jelly melted from the holes in my hands and hugged the wall as well as my arms. The small shifts and settings of the house made its old timber ribs groan as it breathed with the rhythm of earth. I had never given it much thought, but the spikes transferred this rhythm through my tendons and muscles. I could feel the heartbeat of the brick and plaster walls that lined my final resting place. Let me be a reminder to the world that there is no action without a consequence. The lies we tell each other and the masks we sculpt for our own sensibilities are only paper thin. A single pin prick is all it takes to make everything fall. For the first time in years, I can finally say that my mind is not clouded. With my self inflicted stigmata, I am an icon to those who will see me that there is no other way to truly indulge the flesh with temptation than to go head first. Within my final hours on this earthly plane, I imagine the aftermath. I have reconciled with my soul, and there is nothing left to be sorry for. My name is Jenny, and I’m an alcoholic.

#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning for round two, welcome! This is the perfect time for you to join in on the fun, as we re-launch Serial Saturday to better suit all of our readers and writers out there. We’ve heard your feedback, and our hope is to make this feature useful to writers of all genres, backgrounds, and skill levels. To our returning Serial Saturday participants, we hope you’ve had a wonderful break and are ready to dive back in. As we’ve made a few changes, please remember to read the entire post before submitting! &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #This week's theme is Emergence! As your characters are coming into themselves, what will emergence mean for them and what effect will it have on the world around them? Will they rise from the ashes into someone new? Will they break the chains holding them back? Maybe the world is emerging from a place or time of darkness that has plagued its inhabitants. The interpretation is completely up to you. / &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Theme Schedule: We recognize that writing a serial can take some bit of planning. Each week we will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * January 31- Emergence (this week) * February 7- Secrets * February 14- Illusion &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 7pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #The Rules: * All top-level comments must be a story. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * Your story must be written for this post. Pre-written content will not be allowed. * Your story should be 500-850 words. Use to check your word count. * While the name has changed to “Serial Sunday”, the deadline is still 7pm the following Saturday. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. If not, our bot won’t recognize your serial installments. * Submissions are limited to one serial submission from each author per week. * Each author must leave a comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. That comment should include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * You can nominate your favorite stories each week. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfires to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule.

In the year before Black Monday, when the stock market collapsed and just about everybody lost their jobs - including my daddy - we lived in an old stone house on Orchard road. It sat on about seventy acres of backyard and came dirt cheap, or so I’ve been told, because most of the land was unusable and we were a good drive from the nearest town. The bus ride to school was forty-five minutes and Jack and I were the farthest stop on the route. Our property sloped down from the house, across a stretch of lawn, then into a winding creek that used to sparkle in the sunlight. Across the creek was a tangle of brambles, and a forest of birch trees beyond that. Those brambles looked so thick and thorny that we had lived in the stone house a full year before me and my brother plucked up the courage to go through em’ and we were just boys then. Jack was nine and I was seven, so you understand it took an awful lot of thorns to dissuade us from a good game of pretend. On a day like any other, I was fetching myself a snack from the kitchen cupboard when Jack comes stomping into the room and says to me, “Benny Boy, come down to the creek. I want to show you something really cool.” “I don’t wanna,” I said. “Why not?” “There’s a snapping turtle there. Mom says it’s grumpy and it’ll bite off my toes.” This was probably true. There was an old she-snapper down there with a shell as big as a dinner plate, and she was likely to bite off whatever part of you she could manage if you got near her eggs. Jack wasn’t interested in the creek. “We won’t go in the water,” he said. “A tree blew over in the storm and we can walk across it like a bridge.” “Into the brambles?” To this day, I do not know where our parents were when we were hatching our scheme. Probably just in the other room, not too far, but for some reason they didn’t hear us. I think maybe *she* had something to do with it, maybe *she* had already hatched her plans by the time I put a Chips Ahoy cookie in my mouth. “I know a way through the brambles,” Jack assured me. “I’ll show you.” There had been a vicious lightning storm the night before and a great number of trees and powerlines had been pushed down. One of the trunks was lying across the creek, a perfect bridge. It just so happened that the tree had fallen in the right spot so that you couldn’t see it from the kitchen window. All that my mom saw, if she saw anything, were her two boys walking beside the creek. “This way. Don’t be nervous,” Jack said, and he started across the trunk with his arms stretched out like a trapeze artist. For a moment he slipped and almost fell, but he regained his balance and made the crossing. I went after him. I remember being scared that the trunk would roll and send me splashing and gulping into the creek. Ms. Snapper would surely have my toes, or worse my privates, but the trunk didn’t budge. It should have rolled, in fact the thing was so thin it should’ve broken in two when Jack stepped in the middle, but it held on. “This way,” Jack said again when we were across. He was pretending to be Peter Pan and I was the Lost Boys or Captain Hook or some other thing, it doesn’t matter. He went down on his hands and knees and crawled backwards into the brambles. “Why’re you doing that?” I asked. “You have to go backwards. Some of the thorns swing in when you go by or poke in, but if you go backwards they just hit your butt.” I giggled. “I’ll hold onto your ankle,” he said. “I know the way.” “Okay Jack.” “Are you scared?” “No,” I lied. It was not quite pitch black inside the twisting vines, but it was dark and filled with bugs, and I didn’t want to get pricked or tangled up or bit. “Don’t worry Benny Boy. If you want you can close your eyes. I know the way.” *I know the way*. I still hear him saying that sometimes, and I wonder just how he knew the way. Had the witch lured him to her hovel once before, then sent him back when he spilled the beans about the plump little brother back at home? Or was she speaking through him, sticking her hand in his back and picking at his brain with long yellow fingernails like some long-distance puppeteer? I still don’t know, I don’t want to. The thicket of vines and thorns was only twenty or thirty yards long, but it took us at least fifteen minutes to crawl through. I closed my eyes the whole way. Jack pulled me left and right, then back towards the house, then further away. I remember the thorns picking at my t-shirt and skin, hunting for my eyes, but save for a few scratches I came out just fine. “You can stand up,” Jack said, releasing my ankle. “Look around. This place is cool.” It wasn’t cool. I’d swear on a bible that those birch trees had been tall and thick with green leaves aplenty, but once we were standing in the forest with them, the white bark just made the trees look like leg bones sticking out of the earth, picked clean by vultures. There wasn’t a bit of green on any of them. Even the brambles on this side were just brown and grey. The nearest green was the backyard we had left behind, and I think that was when I realized mom wouldn’t be able to find us. If I jumped up and down screaming my head off, she might be able to hear something if the window was open. I didn’t jump and scream, not in front of my big brother. I got scared then. “Let’s go back,” I said. “No way. I want to explore. Look over here! It’s like in the Wizard of Oz!” Even at the age of seven, I thought it was weird for Jack to be into girly crap like the Wizard of Oz movie, but turning around to see where he was pointing I felt a little better about it. He had found a path, but it was a far cry from the yellow brick road. A cracked wood arrow was nailed into one of the birch trees, and that arrow pointed farther into the depths of the forest. The forest floor was just dirt and more dirt, but it was a little lighter along the path we were meant to follow, and there were small white rocks scattered along the sides to guide us. It wasn’t much of a path, and if Jack hadn’t seen the arrow I don’t think we would’ve noticed it, but he did, and I followed my big brother loyally into danger. I can’t say how long we were in those woods because time was different there. It crumpled up like a failed spelling bee before it’s flight to the garbage bin. I felt like we had been walking a half hour, we’d left the house around two in the afternoon, but before I knew it the sun was headed down and the sky was streaked orange and red. To our backs, the world had gone as dark as the bottom of the ocean. We never heard any birds flapping their wings, or squirrels running home through the trees. The night crept up on as quiet as a ghost. “Can we go back?” I said. “I’m scared.” “What are you scared of fraidy cat? This is an adventure. Like Bilbo and Gandalf, I’ll be Gandalf and -” “I don’t want to play pretend,” I said, and I remember crying a little. “There’s bones everywhere. I want to go home!” The little white rocks speckled on the path weren’t rocks after all, they were little skulls of birds and mice. There was a big one beside me that belonged to a fox or a cat. The drooping eye holes made it look sad, like the poor thing had died crying. Jack’s eyebrows met. “Fine,” he said, getting short with me. “You can go back if you’re a little chicken, but *I’m* going ahead. It’s not dark yet and I want to see what’s making the light ahead. There was indeed a flickering yellow spot of light down the path, I guessed it might be a fire behind a window, maybe one of our neighbours. When we got to the light, and discovered the witches hovel it turned out I was nearly right. The fire was coming through a hole in the shack that served for a window, but there was no glass to it. It was like a nostril. We had come to a circular stone hut with a smoking chimney. It stood blamelessly in the middle of a clearing, totally unexceptional except for the smoke coming from the chimney. It was going up from the house in lazy spirals that alternated between purple and emerald green. “Please Jack, I want to go home.” “Then go.” “Come with me,” I begged. “It’s scary.” The orange light of the fire lapped merrily against the night. By now the sky was completely black, the absurd smoke blotting out the stars and the moon. “I just want to see who lives here, and then we can go,” Jack said. “I want to ask why she lives out in the woods by herself.” I did not ask how Jack knew these things about the owner of the house, that she was alone and that she was a she. I just wanted to go home. It was the middle of summer and I was starting to shiver from the cold. The cold was pushing me inside. I think the witch knew just what buttons she needed to press to get my frightened ass up her laneway and through her front door. I followed my brother up the path, which was now lined with a solid trail of animal skeletons on both sides. Eyeless and tongueless squirrels, rabbits, foxes, and cats guided us up to the aged front door. Jack knocked three times. The dull thwack was so loud and sudden I almost wet myself. “Hello!” Jack called. “Maybe nobody’s home.” “There’s a fire going. Someone has to be home.” “But -” “Hello!” The door glided open with an obnoxious whine. There was no one standing there to have opened it, and when I saw that the door had opened itself I nearly scarpered off. I’m ashamed to say it, but I would’ve left my brother to die and hauled by ass back into the woods. I probably would’ve gotten lost and starved to death, but Jack grabbed my shoulder and pulled me inside. Once we got inside the light changed. Lively orange yellow waned into the colour of worn piano keys, then the yellow of old teeth, then white. It bounced off of mossy wet stone walls that reminded me of Skeletor’s castle. I whimpered but Jack did not let me go. The fireplace was in a room that we could not see, down the pale lit hallway and around the first corner. It seemed to me the moon must have fallen out of the sky, down the stranger’s chimney, and into her fireplace. “Hello!” said Jack. “I heard you shouting for us to come play! I’m Jack Mayfield and this is my little brother Benny Boy.” Jack was ahead of me, pulling me into the den by my hand. He was around the corner, able to see someone or something that I couldn’t. When it was my turn to enter the room, I caught a face full of purple and green smoke and I breathed in a cloud of the stuff. It made the room double, then triple before my eyes, and I felt my thoughts getting hazy. “Hey Jack,” I said. My voice sounded like Darth Vader, like I was in slow motion. I could make out the fuzzy shape of our host across the room but no more. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t feel so good.” “Nonsense,” the witch said, with a voice like nails on a gravestone. “You’ll come sit with me. Jack Mayfield, Benny Boy, I have waited up all night for you and it would be terribly rude to leave so early.” “A-all night?” I asked, but I was ignored. I heard Jack say, “Yes.” He was ahead of me somewhere in the fog but the stuff was so thick that I couldn’t even see his outline. “Rude,” he said “Don’t want to be rude.” The witch cackled. It sounded like glass breaking. “Besides,” she said. “It’s too dark for you to go now. You would wander and wander until the sun came up. There are dreadful monsters in these woods, you could count yourself lucky if a bear got you. Please come have a seat with me.” My vision was settling. The witch sat in a white dining chair made of animal bones. What might have been glue or wax was frozen in dribs and globs where it had dried holding the smaller bones together. She twirled a hand with skin so pale that it was a bit green, and two plastic blue chairs appeared out of thin air. I recognized them. I sat in an identical chair from Monday to Friday, nine in the morning ‘til three in the afternoon. “Sit,” she said, not unkindly. Jack hopped into his chair, pleased as punch, but I took a little longer getting into mine. Some part of me, the part that the purple clouds had not choked out, was screaming for me not to sit, to pull Jack and run in any direction, as long as it was not here. “What’s wrong Benny Boy?” she asked. “I... I don’t feel so good.” “Have a seat,” she said, “You’ll feel better. Your journey has been long and your faces are longer still.” What could I do? I was seven years old, and had been conditioned every day of my life to obey the command of grown-ups. I sat. I half expected the chair to turn into spiders but it stayed a chair. I started to feel better too, and I was just about to tell her so, when I got my first real look at her face. Her lips were peelings of ash and dead bark. Her skin was covered in warts, and the outline of a worm with a hundred legs crawled below the skin of her face. Her eyes were black. She was the sort of creature who knows what’s really waiting in the closet and underneath your bed when the lights go out. The worm under her face moved restlessly. It *squirmed*. I’ve had my share of visits to the psychologist since the last adventure with Jack, and that bug squirming under her face is the part I still don’t tell anybody. I can barely stand to think about it. She placed her hands on her knees and leaned forward in a poor impression of a kindergarten teacher. “Who likes games?” she asked, bubbling with enthusiasm. “I do!” Jack shouted, and both of his hands shot up in the air. I rose a tentative hand. I imagine I wore a face like I was about to hurl because that’s what I felt like doing. The clenching pain was in my head though, not my belly. “I know the best game,” she said. “It is called the crystal ball game. You have never had more fun in your lives.” “How do we play?” Jack was rocking in his chair, his eyes bulging in excitement. The witch snapped her fingers and a crystal ball filled the space between us. It popped into existence without a sound, out of nowhere. It was huge, as big around as a dinner table, and filled with thick pink and purple swirling clouds. She began to move her hands in swooping circles in the air above the ball, and the clouds inside of it gathered to follow her movements. “The crystal ball game goes like this,” she whispered. The fire was dying behind her, but the orb was giving off its own pink waving light, like the shimmering reflection of a pool of water. “You may ask the ball for anything, or to know anything, and then I will ask the crystal ball if it wants to give that thing to you. It will say yes or no. If it says yes, it will also name a price, and if you drop the payment onto the ball, you will have whatever you ask for.” “What if it says no?” Jack asked. “Then, my sweet boy, you have gotten greedy. If the ball says ‘no’ you have asked for too much or too great a thing, and must try again.” “I don’t have any money,” I mumbled. The witch laughed again. “It will not ask you for money, don’t worry. Would you like to go first Benny Boy?” “My name is Benjamin,” I said. “Only Jack calls me Benny Boy.” “I like your real name much better. It’s a big boy name. Would you like to go first Benjamin?” I was about to say yes, but Jack shouted beside me, “I wanna go first!” The witch swapped her focus like a shark turning in the water at the scent of blood. “What would you like to ask for?” I thought Jack was going to ask for a robot, one that he could go on adventures with that wouldn’t whine about wanting to go home early, but Jack said, “I wish mom and dad didn’t fight anymore.” I remember thinking that was a weird thing to ask for. I had never seen mom and dad fighting. Of course, there was a lot seven-year-old me didn’t notice that nine-year old Jack had picked up on, but there was even more we had both missed. Bruises hidden behind makeup, nights that dad spent working and not coming home, mom slipping out of the house to god knows where when everyone else was fast asleep. “Let me ask the ball,” the witch said. She leaned over the crystal ball until her lips were an inch away from the glass, and then she whispered so quietly that I couldn’t hear what she was saying. “Did it work?” Jack asked. “Hush child,” she snapped. A little bit of warmth had gone out of her voice. “Don’t spoil the game. I am listening.” The worm in her face twitched greedily, and moved from under her check to a spot above her ear that was covered with hair. I thought I could hear it making a clicking sound, but if it had mouth parts I could not see them. “I hear it,” she said after a moment. “Listen. You will too.” At first I didn’t hear anything, but when I went totally silent, going as far as to hold my breath, I did hear something. A deep old voice, the voice of a mountain, was thrumming from inside of the crystal ball. I had no idea what it was saying, but it rose and fell in what must have been words of some other language, because when it stopped the witch was beaming. “It can be done,” she said. “Are you ready to hear the payment?” I wasn’t, not anymore. The smoke in my brain had been mostly cleared out, enough that I could see we were in deep trouble. I wanted to run, but my legs would not move. I couldn’t even shift in my chair. “I’m ready,” Jack said, but for the first time he sounded a bit scared too. “It will cost you one ear,” and to my eternal horror she pulled a black carving knife from behind her back. The blade was curved and at least a foot long. The edges were worn over with rust. “An ear?” said Jack. “An ear, either one. Take this knife, and place your ear on the crystal.” Jack made to lean forward onto the ball, but the witch screeched, “No! Stupid boy, cut it off. I would do it for you, but that’s one of the rules of the game. *You* have to give the ear.” Jack frowned, as if she were asking him to solve a difficult math problem. “Will it work?” But that was a stupid question. All three of us, somehow, knew it would work. That was part of the game too. If the witch wanted his ear she could’ve just taken it off at her leisure, she was thin but she was much taller than Jack, and she had held the knife. No. She wanted, for some reason, to please whatever lived inside of the crystal, whatever was making those pink clouds and speaking in a language I had never heard before or since. The thing in the crystal wanted Jack’s ear, and was willing to perform what magic it needed to in order to get his flesh. “It will work,” she said. “Forever?” “Forever. There will be no more fighting. There might be disagreements, over what to eat for dinner or what movie to watch, but the fighting will cease.” Then he asked, “Do you have a band aid?” She waved her hand, a blue box appeared with Band-Aid printed on the front in bold red letters. It shone like the paint was still wet, like the box was bleeding. “Don’t do it Jack,” I mumbled. Without looking at me, the witch snapped her fingers and my teeth mashed together so hard it doubled my headache. When I next tried to speak, I couldn’t open my mouth. There was cement holding my jaw together. Jack made the cut. There was no magic in the blade to make the job quicker or slower, and there was no magic in the smoke wafting in the room to dull the pain. He screamed, and I think he would have given up, but maybe the demon behind the pink clouds was forcing him onwards. Maybe he had seen a fight between mom and dad bad enough to keep him cutting. He held it out in his right hand while his left clamped over the gaping wound on his head. The ear was almost unrecognizable. Jack was no surgeon and the pathetic flap was drowning in a pool of his blood. The concrete in my jaw let go. “Let me bandage him,” I said, and the witch handed me the box. I opened it, expecting snakes or centipedes to leap out and bite me, but there were only band aids. I applied one to Jack and it soaked at once, rendered completely useless. Eventually I had stuck every single bandage to him. The blood was still trickling down but he wasn’t going to bleed out. At least I didn’t think so, remember I was seven. “The ear Jack,” the witch whispered, and now all of the motherly layers she had applied to her voice were stripped away. “Place it on the ball. Do not let your fingers touch the glass. When the ear touched the ball, the pink clouds sped up, circling the orb faster and faster like they were in a blender, and soon it was happening so fast that there was no telling one cloud from another. The crystal ball was solid pink. The crystal ball began to bubble around the ear, the glass itself rising and falling as if it were made of nothing but boiling water, and then instead of bursting and settling back into the sphere, one of the bubbles just kept growing. It lengthened into a glass tentacle, and flopped over my brother’s ear. Then another glass tentacle fell onto the ear, and another. Then they sank. Jack’s ear was being pulled into the glass, to be eaten by whatever lived in there. After a few seconds the ear was gone, and the crystal ball was the same smooth orb as before. The spiraling clouds slowed, then stopped. “It is done,” the witch breathed. Jack was whimpering, but when the witch turned to me, the world around us seemed to disappear. “Benjamin,” she said. “You’re next, what is it that you want? More than anything?” I told her, “I want to go home.” The witch smiled. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* When we appeared in front of my parents, popped into their living room out of thin air - blood seeping from my brother’s head - the light was pouring in through the front window. We had been gone for less than three hours, and the sun was just starting to tip towards the horizon. Jack never told anyone what really happened to him that day. He told my parents, then the doctor, then everyone he ever met, that his ear got snagged by the thorns. I think as the years passed by he started to believe that’s what really happened. My parents stopped fighting too, for what it’s worth. They’re still together, ninety years old, and the happiest couple I know. In my secret heart, I think the price Jack paid was worth it. Therapy has helped me. It feels good to talk about what happened to Jack and I, even if I have to start every session with *I know this didn’t really happen* and end with *Like I said, I know it didn’t happen*. The sessions always end with the therapist asking what I gave up in the dream in exchange for a safe trip home, and I have to look them dead in the face and tell ‘em, because there’s no use lying about a story that didn’t happen. They know what I’m going to tell them, the answer is obvious, but they ask anyways. If I want to keep on going, I have to tell myself sometimes that Jack’s ear really did get pulled off in those brambles. I know it’s not true, and that somewhere in the birch forest, a witch is waiting for Hansel and Gretel or Jack and Ben to come wandering by. I think Jack got off easy because he got to keep one ear. He can hear you just fine as long as he’s tilting his head at you when you talk, or you’re on the side with the remaining ear. I got it worse. The thing in the crystal wanted *both* of my eyes.

“Ya know, Jim, I’ve been thinking.” “About what?” “Well, you ever wonder if these machines wanna be fixed?” “Machines aren’t conscious.” “Sure they are, they got inputs and outputs, same as us. Just like I’m outputtin’ a question and inputtin’ your answers.” “Well... Hm, well, Scott, hm... I’m thinkin’ about it... And I think you might be right.” “Thank ya, Jim. I like to think I have a good idea every now an’ again.” “But you know what?” “What?” “How’s would we know that the machine don’t wanna be fixed? It’s not like they can tell us.” “Well maybe this one just hasn’t been taught how to tell us yet.” “You’re saying some machines know how to tell us?” “’Course, like computers--mine tells me when it’s broke--and when they’re broke, you take ‘em to get fixed.” “Hm... Well, Scott, I’m thinkin’ about it... hm, well, yeah... I think you might be right.” “That’s what I was thinkin’.” “But how would we teach them to tell us that?” “I dunno. I just do the thinkin’ and the fixin’, not the doin’. Speaking of, can you hand me that wrench over there?” “Sure thing.” &#x200B; “Ya know, I’ve been thinkin’.” “Uh-oh. Whatcha been thinkin’, Scott?” “’Bout machines and them bein’ broke. What if we taught them to fix themselves?” “Don’t you think if we knew how to do that somebody would’ve done it already?” “I dunno, ‘cause what if people don’t think that it’s needed.” “What’d’ya mean? The only reason we’ve got a job is ‘cause machines don’t fix themselves.” “Yeah, I know that--hand me that vice, will ya?--but what if, and bear with me here, people don’t know that machines really need fixin’.” “I know you said to bear with you, but I’m lost.” “Alright, alright, think about it this way, teachin’ a machine to know it’s broke is hard, right?” “Right.” “And teachin’ it to then tell us that it’s broke is even harder, right?” “Right.” “So, leadin’ from that logic, teachin’ a machine to fix itself would be triple-hard.” “Ya know, Scott, hm... Well, hm... I’m thinkin’ about it... And I think you might be right.” “Just think about it, most machines work fine most of the time, right?” “Right, I’m still thinkin’ about it.” “So, people go about their days thinkin’ that machines are just fine, ‘cept when they’re not, but then they just call us. And because we’re here, nobody feels like they need to do all the triple-hard work needed to teach the machine how to fix itself.” “Oh, hm... I’m still thinkin’... but I’m really thinkin’ you may be right.” “That’s what I’m thinkin’, too.” “If we didn’t do our job, you think people would teach machines how to fix themselves?” “’Course not. Still too much work. The machines would have new people to fix them, soon as we left. Like humanity’s got a savior complex for the electric, ya know?” “Oh yeah, I know.” “But ya know, Jim?” “What?” “Most of the times, feels like machines are hidin’ that they’re broke. ‘Til they hurt somebody, of course.” “You think they’re hidin’ it?” “I dunno, maybe it’s on account of them not knowing what it is or not knowin’ how to talk about it.” “Then it seems we’re back to teachin’ them how to tell us they’re broken, Scott.” “Well, I was just thinkin’.” “I mean, me too.” &#x200B; “Hey, Jim, I’ve been thinkin’ again.” “’Bout what?” “Bout these machines again. Teachin’ ‘em and fixin’ ‘em and all that.” “Whatcha been thinkin’ about it this time, Scott?” “Well, I’ve been thinkin’ about how I got into doin’ this. Did you want to fix machines when you were little?” “Nah, I wanted to be a pilot. But then I found a machine that needed fixin’ and I did a pretty good job, so I just kinda kept fixin’ ‘em.” “Same thing happened to me, ya know.” “But you like fixin’ machines, right?” “Some days I don’t know. Always seems like they break just as quick as we fix ‘em, always having to come back to the same ones again and again, people always gettin’ hurt.” “I get that.” “And ya know, Jim?” “What?” “Sometimes I wonder if these machines even care. Like how I was sayin’ I was wonderin’ if they wanted to be fixed. You think the machines are grateful when we fix ‘em?” “I don’t know, Scott. I don’t know if machines can feel care.” “But they’ve got inputs and outputs just like us, don’t they?” “I’ve been thinkin’ about that in particular. And you’re right, yeah, but I’m thinkin’ they’re a bit different.” “Yeah, you’re probably right. But I’d still like it if they cared.” “Of course that’d be nice. But we gotta think about all the people we help when we fix a machine, ya know?” “Yeah.” “Ya know, Scott?” “What?” “Machines are always going to need fixin’, I think it’s best if we just get to our job and actually fix ‘em.” “I can dream, can’t I, though?” “’Course you can. But that won’t change the machines and how they are. We made ‘em that way, ya know, society and all.” “Yeah, you’re right. It would take society to fix ‘em all, to teach ‘em how to fix themselves.” “And that would be triple-hard, remember?” “Society doesn’t like anything hard.” “Right.” “Ya know, Jim?” “Yeah, Scott?” “I’m glad I’m not the only one fixin’ machines.” “Me too, bud, me too.

Hi! I've had this idea since I was a teenager, but just starting writing it 16 years later. This is just chapter one, but if anyone enjoys it I'm happy to post more chapters! Thanks for any feedback! **The new world** *Chapter 1* “Well it sure doesn’t sound like a *good* idea, but, uhm... it is an idea...” Fenrir softly mumbled to the strictly guarded ears of his associate. Penrow walked hurriedly to nowhere, expertly stepping over the mess of rope and hay strewn about the wooden floorboards as he passed by the same cows dozens of times. “what’s your idea for getting out of this war then?! We can’t actually go to war. Not with all these people who’ve been training their whole life... we’ll be dead in no time” Penrow spat out to anyone who would listen, who happened to be a cow named Apples this time. “Well not much is changed then is it”, Fenrir gestured towards Apples who looked even more disinterested in the conversation than Fenrir was. The two continued with the same conversation they had every day since the announcement was made: “all abled body men must serve in the oncoming troubles to protect the realm and defeat our enemies!”. As usual, Penrow’s true feelings on the matter were transparent to anyone who had known him for a time, which Fenrir had since they were boys. He knew Penrow was only making a fuss because of his hurt pride, which is enough to make most men as grumpy as a cat who gets a drop of water on his forehead. Penrow’s stature, or lack thereof, limited his opportunities to be trained in his true passion for swordplay. At least this is what Penrow had convinced himself was his true passion. Fenrir often wondered as he did now, how someone who ‘just’ likes swords could know so much about livestock. Fenrir momentarily admired Penrow despite his current state of throwing a tantrum. This was more pleasant than giving any substantial thought to the real issue: this war he’ll soon be fighting in. Despite his lack of escape plans and ability to appear completely tranquil, Fenrir was scared. “No wonder your so calm...”, Penrow’s voice re-entered Fenrir’s attention, “if I could shoot like you I’d be doing a lot more than cleaning up after Apples”. Fenrir had learned to use a bow since the time he could stand, but mainly kept to tending to his animals. He enjoyed the busy life of a farmer, working throughout the day to fight of the darkness that persistently creeps into his awareness. Shooting arrows at targets wasn’t distracting enough, hardly anything was anymore. Sure he feared dying as he thought you should, he was only 23, but he mostly feared the darkness that comes with war. “What would you do? Shoot apples off Apple’s head with a bow,” Fenrir said as he rolled his eyes trying to hide his fear. “No! I’d be in charge of this place by now” Penrow talked back not getting the joke. The two made their way silently across a field of thick and tangled vegetation that led toward their houses. The land of Purascenia was so vast that every single person in town could have 30 cows each living on an acre of land, not that’s how it was. There were vast river networks that crossed through the center of town. There were plenty of fishing tournaments in Autumn, and Dolin had won every year since he was twelve, not that there was much competition he often thought to himself. “Screw these farmboys and shit, we don’t need ‘em in our army!” Dolin said watching Penrow and Fenrir pass by with his military acquittances. “What you wanna be on the front and die right away? I heard from Jerland that he’s planning on using the farmers as fodder for the Enthians.”, Anub said matter-a-factly. “What does *that* *clown* know anyway? We shouldn’t have to deal with such pathetic “men” Dolin spit, trying to hide his crush on that farm girl. “Eh, your just all lots of talk there”, Dere said not caring much for Dolin’s opinion on anything. The three sat in their sweat in the sun, seemingly getting broiled within their armor. Finding anything to think about or talk about to pass the time was a blessing. Fenrir and Penrow were now out of view. Dolin thought back on Fenrir and Penrow in the fishing competition when they were boys. “Why’d those two losers always hang out”, Dolin thought to himself. Dere thought of the coming war. Anub thought of the morality of war. “If that clown is right, those two wimps are gonna be the first ones to die..” Dolin said with contempt. “Only a few days left until we march” Penrow grunted towards Fenrir without a response. Penrow was used to these moods when Fenrir couldn’t get out of his head, but they seemed more frequent lately. “See you at sunrise tomorrow, g’night”, Fenrir nodded in response. Penrow almost immediately flopped into his bed, regretting waking up before sunrise to get in some war-time body conditioning before heading into a day of strenuous labor. Penrow thought to himself in the darkness, “Maybe I’ll be promoted during the war, maybe tomorrow will be my last day ever taking care of those glassy-eyed animals, including Fenrir”. Penrow respected Fenrir, but as the people in town put it “share a pint with Fenrir and both glasses end up half-empty”. This was a harsh thought even for Penrow, Fenrir was fine, but war was so full of opportunity for the “boy born without a brain”, as the rest of the townsfolk put it. “What an idiot, I can’t believe even he is excited for war!” Fenrir’s mother stated while sewing fresh clothing to last Fenrir the war. “He’s not the only one, why else would we start a fight with the Enthian’s except to take their land”. “PSHH, who cares for the Enthian’s land, we are simply defending ourselves against these murderers!”, Gletina said stopping her stitching to look Fenrir in the eye. “How could she think anything else”, Fenrir thought to himself as he took a bite out of an apple. He continued his own private diatribe as he chewed, “They are murderers, but so are we, surely pa killed his fair share before his death...” though he wouldn’t dare talk about such things. “Well... make sure Janith and the rest of the girls meet us on time in the barn tomorrow, they keep throwing off the whole schedule” he finally replied out loud. “I’ll see to it that they do, have a peaceful night son”, “g’night”. His footsteps sounded like a lumbering dragon emerging from 100 years of sleep to anyone listening below the floorboards as made his way to his bedroom. “Maybe I’ll actually be able to sleep tonight,” he thought as he tried to make himself comfortable in bed. He liked looking at the stars through his window. Fenrir’s mind followed a meandering train of thought “there’s something so comforting about the stars but what is it... is it the stories immortalized in the skies? ... no... maybe how they seem to have a pulse if you look carefully enough, maybe they are alive?... no, but it is known they are very predictable where they are... perhaps it is because they are so bright... and yet they are overpowered in the day” KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!! startled Fenrir out of his thoughts and nearly out of his skin. “ah!!, what is it?”. “It’s Janith!”, “uhm, yes, ok?”, “can I come in?”, “well...”, Janith burst through the door. “I’m not sure a maiden should be in the room of a man who’s not your brother or pa” Fenrir said uncharacteristically flustered. “luckily in a few days I’ll be a ranch hand!” Janith said at first with a huge beaming smile than fell into a frown as soon as she remembered why this change in career was happening. “Yeah...” Fenrir said as he wondered to himself how Janith and the other neighborhood girls would do as ranchers, though Janith wasn’t a girl any longer he told himself. “Well... uhm... you make sure to go get enough sleep so you’re ready for tomorrow morning. Make sure you’re on time!”. Janith looked annoyed, turned away, closed the door while saying “OK then... goodnight Fenir”, “goodnight Janith”. “Now what was I thinking about...” Fenrir asked himself out loud as his eyes took longer than usual to fixate back on to the stars in the night sky. The sooner he found the stars, the sooner he could think of their mysteries instead of reality.

BOBBY CARTER’S CRIMES “Welcome to Shady Maple!” Maxine bellowed, extending her muscular, tattooed arms out toward the newest resident of the private women’s shelter, a tiny blonde wisp of a thing, barely half of Maxine’s formidable figure. “You must be Stella!” Stella silently followed Maxine to the sleeping quarters where some of the other women were camped out on their respective narrow beds. The shelter was always maxed out at 12 women, and Maxine was sure to remind Stella how lucky she was to have a spot for the next 90 days. “Now Maxine, we need to have a word!” shouted a red-faced, red-haired woman on the bed next to the empty one where Stella set down her bag. “What is it, Sasha?” Maxine sighed, rolling her eyes. “You said Bobby was the one, and now she’s gone, and things still missing here!” Sasha fumed. “My Rubik’s Cube is GONE. I had it last night, and now it ain’t there no more. I was gonna break my record!” “We found Bobby with stolen items and she has been removed. Maybe you’re just losing your things in this landfill you call a sleeping area,” Maxine said curtly, casting a disapproving stare over the heaps of clothes and crumpled papers multiplying around Sasha’s bed before grabbing Stella by the elbow and moving her along. A tan, freckled young woman sat impossibly still on her bed, knees up, feet close to her hips. Her hands rested flat on the bed between them. She cocked her head and panted as they approached. “Now, Susan is a dog,” Maxine whispered as they approached the next bed. “Well, she’s not really a dog, of course, but it’s just easier to go along with it, you’ll see.” “There’s a good girl,” Maxine said, bending down to scratch Susan behind the ears and giving her chestnut ponytail a gentle tug. Stella just stared. “You can pet her, go on,” she said, but Stella kept her arms tight at her sides as Susan leapt up from the bed and bounded away, barking. “Suit yourself,” Maxine muttered, guiding her gently by the elbow to the next bed where a woman’s face was squinting into a weathered copy of The Da Vinci Code . “Maxine, my glasses?” Tesla cried, squinting at the pages. "I only have the one pair and I really need 'em. They were right here!" Maxine assured Tesla she would be on the lookout, but as Stella continued the tour, the women's complaints mounted. Angie was missing her GameBoy. Mary couldn’t find her late husband’s watch. Ramona was bleating about something or other that had just up and walked away. “Don’t mind them,” Maxine said, ushering Stella quickly out the back door, away from the fray. “They tend to be a bit dramatic, and they’re all experts on how to get worked up over nothing.” Maxine guided Stella around the edge of the large fenced-in backyard, which boasted several trees, an overgrown garden, and patchy lawn. A towering woman with black hair down to her thighs stood in the middle of the yard, grimacing as she stooped down to scoop something into a bucket with a bright red shovel. “You’re doing a great job, Bianca!” Maxine shouted across the yard. “I’ll bring you some extra cookies tonight!” “What’s with all the patches on the lawn?” Stella asked Maxine, her curiosity finally breaking her silence. “Oh, those. Well, you see-” Maxine started, before frantically waving and shouting at someone squatting behind a large maple tree at the back of the yard. “Susan! Susan do not do that, you know better!” Stella did a terrible job of not staring. “So, should I be worried about my stuff?” Stella asked, her voice just above a whisper. If she had anything really worth stealing maybe she wouldn’t be here in the first place, but even people down on their luck own precious things. “Oh, heavens, no,” chuckled Maxine, her thick, black bob bouncing against her full cheeks, her red lips parted in a huge smile. “I mean, as much as you ever have to worry in a strange place with strange women you don’t know.” The thefts were all the women could talk about after lights out, much of it centered on the resident Stella had now replaced. “The lady here before you, she was no good, no good at all,” whispered Bianca, as Susan lay at the foot of her bed, chin in her hands, whimpering softly. “Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t,” murmured an older woman, furiously crocheting a blanket in the dim glow of her nightlight. “I don’t trust anyone. Could have been any one of you .” The women told her tales of Bobby Carter, the resident who had slept in Stella’s bed just a few nights before. Some said they heard she was a professional con artist, lying her way into nicer private shelters and making off with what little valuables the residents had with them. She was probably at another place right now, lining her pockets with thin gold rings, prescription glasses, and favorite lighters. They said she did it just for fun. Stella checked the contents of the small velvet bag under her pillow one last time before finally drifting to sleep on the reasonably comfortable twin bed. She woke up to the sound of a woman shrieking, “It’s gone! Someone took my ring! I knew it wasn’t Bobby. I knew it!” Stella slid her hand back and forth under the pillow until her fingers brushed the bag. She sat up and felt around inside, making sure all items were still accounted for. All except one, a tiny Altoids tin with some old, probably worthless, coins her father had left her. She wasn’t the only one to wake up with something missing, and the accusations were fast to fly again. Maxine sat upstairs on a big velvet chaise, listening to the women’s angry murmurs drift up through the vent in the floor as she munched on freshly baked cookies. There was a soft scratching at the door, and Susan came bearing gifts: A delicate gold ring, a silver locket, and a small Altoids tin that rattled when she shook it. “Good girl,” Maxine said, giving Susan a pat on the head.

Sometimes Sometimes I like to imagine myself taking a train. I don’t know where this train will take me, it doesn’t really matter. But I know that, for time I am on that train, nothing matters. Nothing I do can change where the train will arrive and it will arrive when it needs to and where it needs to. Maybe there are other people on this train, but I don’t care. I will never meet them again we are just passing one another and that is ok. We recognise each other as humans, there is no judgement in their eyes or mine. Maybe a few times my gazing eyes will meet another pair and for a few seconds as we look at one another there is an understanding that we are on the same ride together and we will arrive at our stop wherever that may be. Though the seats next to me are often empty, sometimes other passengers come up to me and ask if the seats are free of course it is always fine. I enjoy having the entire seat to myself, but it’s no good staying like that all the time. I can always learn something from the other passengers if I really listen to them and when they leave me I am never the person I was before. I’d like to think that some of the other passengers feel the same way after listening to me and the next person that listens to them might listen to me a little bit as well, just as many other passengers speak though me and after some time it’s like the entire train can listen to each other everywhere at the same time. The view from my window is really nice. The train doesn’t drive to fast so you always have enough time to take in the scenery. It might feel a bit repetitive, but in the moments where I look outside I’m always surprised at how much is out there. Sometimes I ask myself, why I always forget to look outside the window and I promise myself that I do it more often, but the train has a way of pulling you back inside. Sometimes we drive trough a tunnel and with the outside is pitch black suddenly all you see looking out is the reflection of the inside and before you know it that’s all you are interested in. I have to admit that I think about leaving the train every now and then. The rattling of the trains wheels on the tracks can sometimes be to much especially when the underground gets rough and bumpy. When the noise gets to loud to even sleep or talk or listen. And the tunnel becomes so long that you start to forget the view from the window. Getting out at the next station would certainly make the noise stop. No more dark tunnels. No more bumps. It does sound nice doesn’t it? But then I think of all the sometimes. The view outside my window. Listening to the people next to me. Or even a silent understanding that all the passengers on the train drive over the same bumps and through the same dark tunnels, but they didn’t leave the train they stayed and the train kept going for some time longer.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to stab a knife into a person? To put all your strength into your hands as they grip the handle, piercing the skin and pushing it into their organs? I imagine it would be as simple as slicing through pork or beef. Flesh is so delicate and soft, so easy to tear apart and expose the organs hiding underneath, drag them into the light so he can see them. I want him to. To watch as I rip his liver from his body and wave it in his face. God, that brings a smile to my face. To imagine the fear in his eyes as I draw the knife back and slice into his hand, cut off his fingers, his toes, especially his cock and balls. I will leave the tongue though, so he can still whimper and moan and beg like the swine he is. I don't even know his face at all. I just picture the most disgusting thing imaginable about this man. I used to imagine this particular day. But I don't have to anymore. I did it. I finally got justice for my mother. I was calmly shopping in the store, getting some Reese's peanut butter cups or some nice hot dogs. I had college work to do but that could wait just a bit longer. Thank God it did, otherwise I would have missed him. I see this big man. He's obese, probably in his forties, with a grey beard, unkempt and wolfish. He's talking and laughing with someone else, maybe his friend, a small balding man in black. I don't pay attention at first until he says something that catches my attention. "Yeah, I went to that college. Got kicked out for bad behaviour. This one time, my girlfriend cheated on me. She kept insisting over and over that she didn't, it was just that her friend's husband had gotten drunk after a party, but I could see it in her eyes. Lying slut. How many other men has she let fuck her? I showed her alright. Hope she's a prostitute in Brazil or something, fucking cunt. Women, you can't trust them..." I freeze. My mind goes blank. My hand curls into a fist from which blood trails down. I turn my entire body to face him. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. My heart beats like the engine of a Hot Rod. I could use my nails to gouge out his eyes, but no. That's too good for him. I walk towards the man, slowly, taking in how he towers over me, how he could easily snap my neck. So I stop, look around and there it is. Resting, waiting for me. It always has been. Knives are beautiful things. So much work is put into crafting them, making sure the edge is just right, the design is perfectly crafted with engravings. This one is a cooking knife. Long, lean, brand new. As I pick it up, I cannot help but stare at my reflection for a few seconds, studying my face. Probably the last time before I go to prison. Will I be raped in there? Made into someone's fuckboy? I honestly don't care by this point. This is my only chance. I had to take it. I hide the knife behind my back as I walk back over to the man. Then I ask him a question. His name. And when he tells me... Do you know why love is the strongest thing in the world? Because love drives a person to lay down their life for others. Humans are instinctively supposed to value self-preservation yet the need to protect their loved ones overrides this. What am I about to do will destroy all chance I have of a future. I will never be able to get married to the girl I love. Nobody will want to be the friend of a murderer. Nobody wants a psycho working for them. I will probably die in a cell, alone and content. My family...what will they do about this? They will be shocked but will they also be happy? Those that know who this man is and what he has done? Will this tear them apart? I don't care. I can only think about one thing right now. His name. The name of the man of the man I have been waiting years to hunt down, brought to me by what can only be an act of God. A college dropout scrapping off the bottom of the social barrel like a leech. As the man stares at me, there's a look in his eyes. I must look familiar to him. I do take after my father. I wonder, does he know about him? The man who married the woman he violated? The one who loves her? Does he hate him? Is he plotting my father's death as part of his twisted idea of revenge on her? Will he ever just leave her alone?! *HASN'T HE DONE ENOUGH TO HER?* I will never know. Because I am screaming as rage consumes me, causing my hand to move unnaturally quick as I sink it into his flesh. He gasps, shocked, unable to respond. I can feel something warm and sticky coat my fingers as our eyes stay locked with one another. My grin takes over my face with wild abandon. The other guy stares blankly. He holds up his hand and takes a step forward. I'm too fast for him. I pull out the knife and drive into deep into his shoulder. He collapses, like the worthless sack of shit he always has been, on his back, feebly holding up his hands, begging for mercy. The other guy backs off when I glare at him, then he runs. Probably going to get security. So what? This asshole is mine. He always has been mine. His fingers come off, his hands are mutilated, I keep swinging the knife into him, piece by piece, inch by inch, I slice apart his stomach and rip the organs out. Some people are screaming. He's crying. I'm laughing. This the greatest moment of my life. Ironic it may be the last. Better get all I can out of it. "How does it feel to be helpless?!" I snarl through clenched teeth after I bite his ear off, spitting it at his face, "How does it feel to have something shoved into you?! Do you feel like a man now?! Like some big, strong fucker who can do as he pleases with whoever the fuck he pleases?! Do you even remember her name?!? Do you dream about it?! Does it turn you on?! *Does it!* ***DOES IT?!?"*** I don't stop until he's gargling blood through his ruin of a neck. He's still staring right at my face. The fear and despair in his eyes as they go blank is bloody intoxicating. Fucking coward. I lick my lips like the manchild I am. I look over his mangled body as I hear the police sirens coming. Security is just watching me, unsure of what to do. They are gonna be fired over this. There's blood on my face, my shirt, my hands, God I am a mess. But all I can do is smile as I wait on top of him. The knife went where his dick should be, making a nice, bloody hole. Perfect. Hope he remembered what he did when that happened. I pull out my phone to take a selfie of me and the finished product. The picture is beautiful. I could stare at it all day. But I have to do this. People have to know. And so they will. Instagram, Facebook, imgur, Reddit, I post it and pass it on, telling the story. Of who I am. Who he is and what he has done. I can feel tears run down my face. They won't stop. I wipe my eyes as everything just settles down and I come down from my high. Quiet sobs escape my mouth. Dear God, what have I done? Will the news pick this up? I already know how they can sell it. "TEENAGER STABS HIS MOTHER'S RAPIST TO DEATH IN SUPERMARKET!" They probably will go with that. Yeah, they will say I should have called the cops, but you know what? Fuck that. He hadn't faced the justice he deserves for twenty goddamn years. I had the chance to give it to him and I took it. I don't care about due process or evidence or innocent until proven guilty. All I care about is that my mother will finally know he didn't get away with it. He paid the price. I made sure of that. She can rest in peace now.

One night, as they ate dinner together, Carolyn asked her parents why there were so many stains in the basement. They looked at each other, perplexed. Her mother, Jacquelyn said, “Honey, there are no stains in the basement. Your daddy and I work very hard to keep our house clean.” Carolyn insisted, and said, “No, mommy, there are stains all over the floors and walls. It looks like someone took a big can of paint and splashed it everywhere.” After dinner, Jacquelyn and Dan went downstairs to the basement to see what their daughter was talking about. The basement was finished with off-white paint on its concrete walls and had grey tiled floors. Dan had made it into a man cave with a couch, a TV, video games, movie posters, an old foosball table, and a small bar. They looked around but saw nothing that resembled a stain anywhere and decided that it must be Carolyn’s overactive imagination. For the next several weeks, however, Carolyn continued to ask why there were stains in the basement and why her parents hadn’t cleaned them up yet. Jacquelyn and Dan became concerned, and one day they brought Carolyn down to the basement to have her show them where the stains were. “They’re everywhere,” she said in her tiny voice as she walked around the room, pointing at the walls and floors. “Silly mommy and daddy, there are big stains all over the place. Can’t you see them?” Jacquelyn scheduled an appointment with a child psychologist the next day. She felt silly for doing so, but she also believed that it was important to catch any potential signs of mental illness as soon as possible. If her daughter was hallucinating at such a young age, Jacquelyn wanted to catch it immediately before it became worse. Jacquelyn sat nervously in the waiting room in the psychologist’s office. She had wanted to participate in the session with her daughter, but the psychologist, whose name was Jennifer, forbade it. After a little more than an hour, the office door opened. Carolyn ran out, happily shouting “Mommy!” as she jumped into her mother’s arms. Then she said, “I’m hungry.” “Just a minute, baby,” Jacquelyn said. “Mommy needs to talk to Jennifer.” Jennifer walked out of her office a moment later and said, “Carolyn, do you want to play with some toys?” “Yes!” “Wonderful, there are some toys over there that you can play with,” Jennifer said as she pointed to the children’s play area in the corner of the room. Carolyn ran over to the play area, and Jacquelyn and Jennifer sat down at a small table nearby. Jennifer looked at Jacquelyn and said, “I have some really good news, and a little bad news. The really good news is that Carolyn’s completely mentally healthy. There’s no reason to believe that she’s hallucinating, nor do I detect anything that could be considered the precursor to a childhood mental illness. She’s fine.” Jacquelyn breathed a sigh of relief and said, “What’s the bad news?” “The bad news is that I believe she really is seeing something that you and your husband cannot. I suggest you take Carolyn to an eye doctor to determine if the issue has any physiological basis. The weight of Jacquelyn’s worry returned, and she resolved to set an appointment with an eye doctor that same day. The following week, Dan and Jacquelyn sat in their living room and discussed what the eye doctor, Dr. Roberts, had said about Carolyn. Jacquelyn said, “Apparently, she has a condition called aphakia, which means her eye lenses are damaged.” “Damaged?” Dan said with concern. “Yes, Dr. Roberts said she suspects it’s a birth defect. It’s as if Carolyn’s eye lenses have barely developed at all. They’re unusually thin and are perforated by microscopic holes. However, she’s not in any pain, nor is she aware there’s even a problem. As she gets older, she’s likely to become far-sighted and will need glasses.” “But, what does that have to do with her seeing stains that aren’t there, and in our basement specifically?” “Dr. Roberts said that one of the effects of aphakia is it can allow someone to see ultraviolet radiation; colors beyond the normal visual spectrum. She said the famous artist Monet had aphakia and it allowed him to see impossible colors. This helped him pioneer the French Impressionist painting style.” Dan stared at her dumbfounded and said, “So, Carolyn has an eye condition that means she’s going to become a famous painter?” Jacquelyn scoffed and said, “If we’re lucky. But seriously, it means she sees real stains in the basement that we simply can’t perceive without an ultraviolet light source.” “Like a black light?” “Yes.” They sat in silence as they considered the implications. After a few moments, Dan said, “Don’t they use black lights to look for blood stains at crime scenes?” Jacquelyn didn’t answer. “Mommy!” Carloyn shouted from the doorway to the kitchen, startling them. “I’m hungry!” Jacquelyn’s hands shook with anxiety as she tore open the package from the ultraviolet-visible spectroscopy laboratory. She pulled out a tri-folded letter as well as the small plastic bag of paint chips from her basement walls that she’d sent to the lab a few weeks ago. She then unfolded the letter and her eyes settled on one line of text in bold lettering: “We have determined that there are no foreign substances on the sample provided.” Blinking with confusion, Jacquelyn re-read the line several times, but it always meant the same thing: There was nothing on the paint sample. Her brow furrowed as she wondered what it meant. “Maybe I picked sections of the wall that weren’t stained,” she thought. “But Carolyn said the entire wall was covered in stains. How could I have missed them all?” Then, she picked up the plastic bag and went to her daughter’s room where she found Carolyn playing with her Barbie dolls. “Carolyn, sweetie, I need you to do mommy a favor.” “What is it, mommy?” “I need you to look at these things mommy has and tell me if you see any stains on them.” Jacquelyn held the bag of paint chips out in front of her daughter. Carolyn stopped playing with her dolls to look at the paint chips. After a moment she said, “No, mommy, there’s nothing on them.” Jacquelyn stared at her, mouth agape. She’d collected the samples from all over the basement wall. There was no way she missed the huge stains that only her daughter was able to see. Jacquelyn thought for a moment and then went into the kitchen to retrieve a sponge. She poured some dishwashing liquid onto it and ran it under lukewarm water from the sink. Then, she went downstairs and wiped the sponge over the bare concrete wall in the places where she’d chipped the paint away. After scrubbing for several minutes, she saw that the sponge was covered with a dark copper-colored substance. A putrid, metallic odor emanated from it. Several weeks later, she received another package from the laboratory. This one contained the copper-stained sponge she’d sent inside a plastic bag and another letter with its corresponding test results. This time, the bolded sentence on the letter left no doubt: “We have determined that the substance on the sample provided is blood.” Jacquelyn sat in the library for hours as she pored through old microfilm newspaper articles in search of information about her house’s history. Finally, she came across several news stories that had pictures of her house from when it was surrounded by nothing but farmland and countryside, before the neighborhood had developed around it. The first article was nearly 50 years old. It said, *“A childless older couple named Ned and Irene Smith have been arrested for the kidnapping, torture, and murder of several homeless people in the area. The Smiths were arrested after the sheriff’s office received numerous complaints from the town’s homeless community about people going missing. In all, the police believe the Smiths are responsible for the deaths of at least 10 people.* *Sheriff Jimmy Combes said, ‘The Smiths would drive into down and look for solitary vagrants whom they’d then coax into trusting them, claiming to be part of a church’s outreach to the homeless. We believe their victims would be put at ease by Irene’s kind demeanor and Ned’s calmness, characteristics they both maintained throughout the entire investigation despite the horrible nature of the allegations against them. The Smiths would then take their victims back to their house and give them drugged food to make them pass out, rendering them helpless. When the victims would awake, the Smiths would torture and kill them in bloody rituals devoted to an entity they described only as ‘Cthulhu’.”* The next article was from several weeks after the first. It said, *“Local couple Ned and Irene Smith committed suicide in jail as they awaited trial for several brutal murders they allegedly committed in the basement of their home. Witnesses say they each spontaneously began to chant in arcane gibberish and then pulled their own eyes out. They continued to chant as blood poured out of their empty eye sockets until they bled to death. Their house’s ownership has defaulted to the city as they had no heirs or other family members.* *Andy Rollins, a prisoner who’d been arrested for shoplifting earlier that day, said, ‘It was the craziest thing. Across from my cell there was this kindly older couple who looked like they’d never hurt anyone. They’d sat there in peaceful silence for hours until they each suddenly stood up and began shouting at the top of their lungs something that sounded like, ‘Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!’ Then, with a horrible snapping sound I’ll never forget, they both pulled their own eyes out. Blood spurted everywhere, all over the floors and walls. It was like a living horror movie.’”* The final article Jacquelyn found had been written less than a year ago. It said, *“It has been nearly 50 years after the murders that took place in what has come to be known as ‘The House of Blood,’ and it was scheduled to be torn down later this year. However, at the last moment, the city’s zoning board declared it to be a historical site. The house was then renovated and sold to developers.* *City Councilwoman Jan Snargrove said, ‘We’re simply trying to preserve our local history. The house in question is a remnant of our past and shouldn’t be destroyed regardless of the tragic circumstances that took place there so long ago.'”* When she finished reading, Jacquelyn quietly shook with horror and rage. She felt angry, she felt tricked, and she felt taken advantage of. Most of all, she knew she had to get her family out of that house. She stood up to leave, but then gasped at what she saw. Several library books moved out of the shelves by themselves and floated in the aisle in front of her, suspended by an unknown force. One shot toward her, and she screamed and ducked out of the way. Another sailed past her head and smashed into the microfilm machine, shattering its glass monitor. Jacquelyn shrieked as she covered her head and ran down the aisle. Several library patrons heard the commotion and stared awestruck as Jacquelyn sprinted to the exit with a look of abject terror on her face. Carolyn sat on the edge of the bed in the hotel room as she listened to her parents argue. “Jacquelyn, get ahold of yourself. What you’re saying makes no sense,” Dan said with frustration. “Books don’t just throw themselves at people.” “You weren’t there, Dan. I swear I’m telling the truth. It’s like something was watching me. As soon as I learned what really happened at our house, it lashed out,” Jacquelyn said. “Why didn’t you tell me that Carolyn saw blood on our walls with her ultra-vision, or whatever, before you went to the library?” “I didn’t want to scare you. Besides, I wanted to learn more about what happened before we made any decisions.” “What are we going to do now, Jacquelyn? We can’t stay in this hotel forever.” “I don’t know, Dan. Let’s just wait here for a few days while we plan our next move.” “Mommy? Daddy?” Carolyn said in a shaky voice. Jacquelyn and Dan looked over at her, and their eyes went wide with shock. Carolyn floated in mid-air nearly two feet off the bed, and her face bore an expression of fear and surprise. The cabinet doors in the hotel room’s kitchenette then opened by themselves, and the glasses and dishes stored therein floated out. One of the glasses streaked across the room and shattered against the wall, barely missing Dan’s head. One of the plates did the same and almost hit Jacquelyn. Dan yelled, “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Jacquelyn grabbed Carolyn out of the air and Dan threw open the hotel room door. They rushed to their car and hopped in with Jacquelyn in the driver’s seat. She turned the ignition and peeled out of the hotel’s parking lot. The car’s tires squealed loudly as they sped off. “Where are we going?” Dan asked, but Jacquelyn didn’t answer. A few minutes later, she zoomed into their neighborhood and up to their house’s driveway. Then, she turned off the car and jumped out as Dan said, “Wait!” Jacquelyn burst through the front door and ran down into the basement. She then stood in the center of the room and shouted, “What the hell do you want from us!?” A chilling stillness filled the air, and Jacquelyn heard white noise come from an unknown source. Then, she heard the sounds of liquid splashing around as well as distant screams of agony. Finally, she heard voices that chanted, “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.” Blood seeped through the paint on the wall in front of her and formed a word in letters that were nearly a foot tall. It said, “Obey.” As she stared in panic, Jacquelyn put her hands her head and screamed. “There’s one now, mommy,” Carolyn said as she and her parents drove around downtown in the early afternoon. Jacquelyn looked over to where she had indicated and saw a homeless man dig through a trash can. His clothes were torn and filthy, and his hand was wrapped in a dirty bandage. Dan was at the wheel of the car, and Jacquelyn said, “Stop here.” Dan pulled up next to the homeless man with the car’s passenger side facing him. Jacquelyn then rolled down her window and said, “Excuse me, sir. Do you need a place to stay tonight?” The homeless man jerked his head up and said nothing as he stared at her with confusion. Jacquelyn continued, “My husband and I are with the church and our outreach is to the homeless. We’d like to take you home and make you dinner, if that would be alright.” Suspicious, the man slowly approached the car and looked the family over. Dan nodded at him calmly as Jacquelyn gave him a kind smile. The man’s gaze settled on Carolyn, who smiled sweetly at him as well. He relaxed as he decided they meant no harm. “Bless you folks,” he said. Then, he opened the car’s back door and got in.

Unit RF-54 Directive : find and locate possible surviving humanoid lifeforms and or possible existing plant matter . &#x200B; Log Date May 5th 2152: Amount of ground covered in total , Approximately 27 kilometers. The possibility for further exploration was not possible due to a rather large ravine located outside the borders of the town i was exploring . It is getting late , further exploration must be postponed until tomorrow morning as my battery's have been depleted and need to be recharged . My scanners indicate that there will be a breach in the smog at my current location for 2 hours . This should grant me enough time to charge my energy cells until the next breach opens up . \[End Of Mission Log\] &#x200B; Log Date May 6th 2152: Amount of Ground covered in total : Approximately 43 kilometers .I covered a lot of ground today , there was not much to apprehend me in my journey as i traversed the wasteland . The most i encountered was a pack of Javelinas . At least my data banks animal records suggest they are javelinas . results inconclusive. Further analysis will be have to be conducted at a later date , as they are not my current objective . I walked on by them and they Didn't seem to be bothered by my presence . In fact they started following me , about 2 kilometers behind me they started suspiciously trailing behind me , seemingly curious . There is a rather large breach in the clouds today ; This one will last an approximate of 19 hours . This will be the first time in my registered 82 years of of activation since my first deployment i will receive a full battery charge . \[End Of Mission Log\] &#x200B; Log Date May 8th 2152: I am unsure if these events are worthy of archiving , but i suppose an excess of knowledge is always beneficial. I came across what appeared to be a "hut" it was an old shed of sorts that had been re purposed for living accommodations. When i investigated the hut i found 2 beds each with a blanket , and crudely constructed pillows from what appeared to be sand thrown into an old pillowcase. It is unknown how long the previous inhabitants stayed in this house ; But judging by the lack of any personal belongings in the shed apart from the beds it is apparent that the occupants have long sense abandoned this place . If there truly is any lifeforms still out here ... then i fear i might be too late to document them . however i will continue on , but not today . There is a rather large sandstorm approaching my way . i will initiate automatic shutdown and reactivate once the storm has subsided . i wonder if those people have been gone long . and if not , then how will they brave this weather ? \[End Of Mission Log\] &#x200B; Log Date May 9th 2152: Amount of Ground Covered in total : Approximatley 85 kilometers. As previously registered my javelina "Friends" are still pursuing me . They are following at a closer distance now . Estimated at 1 km. Whenever i Turn around to look at them they halt they're pursuit and stare at me . They appear to be "Curious" about me . What is "Curious" ? \[Error 1x52bx56gh \] \[Former Cognitive Thought Disregarded\] \[Beginning Reboot \] &#x200B; Log Date May 8th 2152: it appears my automatic reboot was enacted , perhaps due to a systems error or unregistered bug in my coding . I wouldn't doubt it , i am an old unit and have been by myself for a long time . There is nothing else of significance to log today . i will continue these mission logs though as a way to archive my experience of the wasteland for further analysis.

I no longer can handle this house that I once called home. The plain white walls with the judgmental eyes. They have long since made me feel quite uncomfortable. My ears ache with such pain from the loud squeaky floor boards. I have yet to decide if they are begging me for help or screaming at me to leave. The shredded green carpet, upstairs in the last bedroom at the end of the hall, to the left, must truly despise me. I say this because when I walk into that room the carpets dark, green hands always wrap around my feet causing me to fall. I am afraid to take simple baths in the once peaceful tub, in the upstairs bathroom. Every time I get into the water and scooch down in it to get comfortable and relax, the water comes back on once I rest my eyes. I always feel the hands of someone trying to drown me. My only friend was the wall size mirror in my living room. It has the most welcoming presence and the most beautiful blue frame. I use to be able to look into it and see myself, the positive and happy self I use to be before...before all of this. Now it too has since betrayed me. It portrays me as this crazy, delusional person my family says I am. They say I am losing my mind but I am not. They say I am just the most, clumsy person they have ever met and that is why I trip over the carpet all the time. They even have an explanation for the bathtub. They say I fall asleep once I get too comfortable and that is why I feel like I am drowning. If only they could see the warning on the back of the front wooden door, just below the diamond shaped window. How they miss it I will never know. The blood is everywhere. My name is Stephanie Grey. The year is 1997 and I am twenty-five years old. I have been living in this house for almost two years now. Before I moved to the peaceful town of New Seal, I lived in a very busy city. I was a very successful psychologist. I had a husband for about three years. We started dating when I was seventeen years old. Basically we were together for about six years. We lived together for four of those years. By now I am sure you are wondering why I continue to speaking in pass tense when referring to my husband. Well that is because in 1995 Gerald passed away. He was in a head on collision with another car. They both crashed into a guard rail. Everyone died involved including the little girl that was with her mother in the other car. I was completely devastated about this for a long time. Had my husband and I not been arguing then none of it would have happened. I stopped showing up to work and eventually lost my job. I didn’t even care. After living with such depression for almost five months, I decided in order to be happy again I needed to move on. I knew the only way that I would be able to do this is, that I would have to move out of the house that I shared with my late husband. I didn’t want to let go of the house I lived in for over four years but I knew I must be strong. That is how I ended up in this house that I have now. I found this house in a catalog. The description they gave was “a beautiful, three bedroom, one and half bathrooms, a large front and backyard and two car garage. A great house for a large family looking for a peaceful and safe place to live.” Now I know it doesn’t make much sense for one person to move into a house so big. What caught my attention most about this house was that it was the only one that had the words “peaceful and safe” in its description. The thought of that sounded so wonderful to me and I figured if nothing else I could have a lot of sleep overs. Maybe even rent out the rooms to people and make some extra money, since I lost my job. I called the number listed for the home and moved in about two and a half weeks later. The house was exactly as they said it was for the first year. The fresh air and the children playing in the street, brought more smiles to my face than I could count. I through parties often for my family and friends. I would invite the new people I had met since moving to this town. It was great and before I knew it I was back to how I once was. Although I missed my husband more than anything because he was my best friend, I was no longer sad. I have finally moved on and felt like I could be happy again. At least that is what I thought, till things started changing and the house became unfriendly. It started out small, little things that had to happen several times before I even noticed them happening. My family always told me I was oblivious to the obvious. I figured out that, that is the only thing they have ever accused me of and they were right. Never have I ever met someone who doesn’t notice when their chairs were rearranged or that their kitchen garbage was moved about three feet to the left and angled differently than they put it. I figured I simply forgot that I moved them and that was it. It didn’t occur to me that something strange was happening until I started seeing the figures walking in the halls. I could never get a good enough look at them though, so I eventually started to dismiss them too.

Dustin was staring at the toy in his hand for long. For the last time, he flicked the switch on the toy’s chest and it went “To infinity and beyond”. He chuckled pushing his head back and let out a huge shaky breath before getting up from his chair and walking into the living room with slow steps. As he entered the room, three little feet rushed themselves towards him. Jane, Macy and Ron charged at their grandfather. He smiled and fondled their hair. His grandchildren were around seven years old and he adored them with all his heart. Even though he doted on every one of them, his favourite was Macy. With all her little antics she had her grandfather going all gaga over her. When Jane and Ron left, Macy plopped herself on her grandfather's bed. As her eyes wandered across the pale walls of the room, she found a toy lying on his armchair. Her curiosity piqued and she ran towards the chair. She loved action figures. She had a greater collection of Star Wars action figures and Darth Vadar was her favourite. But she did not know about this character. Dustin entered the room and found little Macy examining the toy. “What are you doing Macy?” he asked Macy turned around and smiled. “Grandpa, what toy is this,” she asked, her Bambi eyes shining with curiosity. Dustin cooed “This, my dear Macy, is my favourite toy.” She gasped at the revelation. Smiling hugely she asked, “GRANDPA YOU LOVED TOYS TOO?” Dustin faked a gasp. “I love toys still, Macy.” Macy let out a giggle and said “Grandpa you’re the best. That’s why you’re my favourite.” He picked up the little girl and sat her on his lap while he got comfortable on the armchair. He peeped into Macy's lap and saw her fiddling with the toy, moving its limbs. He felt nostalgic. He remembers when he was six years old and his dad brought him the Buzz lightyear figure. He was practically spoilt from his childhood because he was their only child. But once he had Buzz, he forgot all his other toys. He just played with him. He can’t help but be reminded of all the times he spent in his room with Buzz. He would spend hours with Buzz, going on space adventures, skating across the asteroid belt and killing octopus-headed aliens which wanted to destroy Earth. He did not like going out much so it was just Buzz and him. Buzz had this confident eyes and a funny smile on his lips that it seemed to him as though he could understand every word. Buzz was Dustin’s motivation, his inspiration and his safe space. He still is. He used to take him out with him and both of them would sit by the river and watch the sunset. Once while returning, some trouble kids from Dustin’s school stopped him on his way back home. They would always bother him in school and mess with his notes. Dustin hated them. It is all a bitter distant memory now, but it’s well etched in his mind. He remembers how hard he punched them in the face and kicked their shins when they tried to mess with his Buzz Lightyear toy. For the first time he stood up against them and he felt happy. He felt strong and happy because he did something for Buzz. He did not know when he got this attached to Buzz but it didn’t take Buzz to be more than just a toy for Dustin. It was his companion and his home to confide in. Buzz was his only companion but with age, he forgot about him. The more he got burdened with responsibilities and family, the more he forgot about the plastic toy stacked at the topmost shelf in his room. Now that Dustin sits on his armchair reminiscing about his good old memories, he can’t help but feel low. As much as he tried to hold it in, the pain came out like an uproar from his throat in the form of a silent scream. Tears started welling up in his eyes. Macy looked up from his lap, “Grandpa?” Dustin rapidly blinked his eyes and composed himself, before swooping down and planting a kiss on Macy’s forehead. Macy giggled on Dustin’s lap. “Sweetheart, let’s get you to bed” He picked up a yawning Macy and slowly laid her on the bed. It didn’t take long for her eyes to drift close. Tucking her in, he sauntered back to his chair. His head is filled with memories of his childhood- memories of him and Buzz. His head lolls and the muscles of his face relax, releasing the tension of his day. His eyes are almost closed and from his chest come the first guttural snore. His dreams took him back to his room when he was 6 years old. It was the day of school right after he had fought with those trouble kids. He sees a fragile raven hair boy labelled as queer by his classmates. But he had an eternal smile etched on his lips and a companion on his hand as he discreetly tucked him inside his bag, and this time, nobody came to trouble him. The next morning wasn’t grey but by soothing lavender and brilliant amber. The colours merged into neon pink and peach. Macy was getting ready to leave. Her vacations were about to end and she herself had grimly decided that she should get back home and finish the rest of her holiday homework before the school restarts. “Sweetheart, would you come here for a second?” Dustin queried. Macy turned to him and rushed with him in his room, her pigtails bouncing in the air all the time. “This is for you” He said, bending low and handing her the Buzz Lightyear toy. Her Bambi's eyes grew wider. “B-But, grandpa isn’t it yours?” Dustin let out a small sigh. “It was. It is. But now he will be yours too.” Macy took the toy from him and tucked it in his backpack. “Take care of him, sweetheart, and you’ll find him to be your best companion like he was for me.” She nodded. “Now off you go” he patted her on her small back. She smiled at her grandpa. “I’ll take good care of your friend and in no time you’ll see that we’ll turn to be best friends. It was time. The time he knew would come sooner or later but dreaded. He had to say goodbye to the only person that he felt cared, to the only person that he felt happy with. Buzz was there for him in his fifty-six years of living. How was he supposed to just do it without feeling like he’s lost a part of himself? He watched as Macy bid him peeping from the car, the toy in her hand. He saw his face for the last time- the same confident face with a lopsided smile. His own face morphs into a smile and his eyes lighten up. He bids her back and the car drives out of their house. He watched as his old friend left with his granddaughter, away from him, ready to start his new life. Tears had started to well in his eyes and for the last time, he voiced, “To infinity and beyond...still.”

It never got easier, waiting for him. He worked long, hard days and didn’t have much time for her. She would often spend her days patiently waiting for contact from him. She knew he was a very busy man- he had recently gotten a very big promotion, a new house and other big life changes. Though she wished she was his main priority, she understood she was not yet. So, she waited. She was patient at first. She had had his undivided attention for so long. Surely, she could give him the time and space he needed to flourish in life. He, of course, was not ignoring her completely. He sent anonymous flowers and trinkets to her in the mail. Silly little things that he knew she would love. The surprises would come at her office every other Wednesday- to break up the monotony of the work week. The other women at the office would flitter around her on these days asking who the gifts were from. She would simply smile. One Wednesday morning she arrived at her office in full spirits. Today would be another day of a gift from her beloved- perhaps some daisies or a small box of chocolates from the authentic Belgian shop in town. The packages always came with the morning mail, to assure her following day would be a good one. She arrived at her desk to find... nothing. She questioned the office assistant. No one had sent her any mail yet. She brushed it off- he must have put it in the mail late, or the courier made a mistake. He never forgot about her. Ever. The office women walked by her desk inconspicuously. She knew what they were thinking. What they were looking for. But they were wrong. He hadn’t forgotten, it was just late. Hours passed. She couldn’t focus on her work. She tried calling him, but it went straight to voicemail. He must have been in a meeting, as he always turned his phone off during those. He had a lot of meetings. When it was time to leave for the day, she asked the office assistant once more if there had been any packages for her today. There hadn’t. She decided that he must have left it at her house. She knew he liked to keep her on her toes. She raced home, all the way wondering what he could have gotten her that would be so special as to need to be sent to her house. Jewelry, perhaps? An engagement ring? She bristled with excitement as she rounded the corner to her front step. From a cursory glance, there was no package. She told herself it was no matter- jewelry would be in a smaller box. She scanned her front step. Nothing. She searched the bushes and grass around it. Nothing there, either. Walking back down to her mailbox, she briefly wondered if someone could have stolen it. She quickly scanned over her mail as she walked into her house. Bills, notices, magazines, ads. Nothing she hadn’t gotten before. There would be no reason for him to not send her something, unless something had happened to him. Her mind immediately went to horrible places- what if he was at home sick, or in the hospital. Or worse, dead? She couldn’t bear to think about a life without him in it. Leaping up from her chair she rushed out of her house in search of him. The hospitals were of no help. Legally they couldn’t tell her anything. She understood why they couldn’t, but secretly wanted to yell at them for it. Did they not know how important he was to her? Or her to him? His work was of no help either. Their number was invalid. They must have changed it with the recent growth of their company. She made a mental note to ask him for the new one when she found him. There was only one place left for her to check. She didn’t much like to go to his house. It wasn’t a home- it wasn’t *their* home. She understood that he needed to keep it for now. It was closer to his work while her house was closer to hers. It was in a nice enough neighborhood, she supposed. The whole atmosphere was just so... judgmental feeling to her. She parked a few houses away from his, deciding she needed the exercise. There weren’t many people around. This was odd to her as she found the day to be very nice. Approaching his house, she noticed the lights were on and his car in the driveway. He was at home, at least. She glanced into the window before knocking on the door. He hadn’t yet made her a key, but she didn’t like going to his house, so it didn’t matter too much to her. A shadow moved across the windows besides the front door. A portly woman opened the door. It was awfully late for a maid to still be at his house, but he was peculiar like that. It was one of the reasons she loved him. She peered around the maid to see another woman in a chair sitting at a dining table. She noticed the seated woman had a long, ghastly scar down the side of her face. She briefly felt sorry for the woman but surmised she must have done something to deserve it. Smiling at the maid, she asked where he was. The maid appeared perplexed but called out to him. He sauntered over to the door shortly after with a smile upon his face. The smile slowly drifted to a cold stare when he saw her standing on the front step. He shut the front door. She knocked again. He yelled at her through the door, telling her that he was calling the police. Her heart ached. Had he forgotten what they had? Or was he perhaps putting on a show for his “wife”? She couldn’t imagine why he would do such a thing. She was better than his wife in so many ways. After all, his wife was ugly now. She had seen to that. She shook her head as she reached into her purse and pulled out the revolver. It never got easier, waiting for him. He worked long days and didn’t have much time for her. She wasn’t his main priority. She decided it was time she was, and knocked on the door.

Against the backdrop of twisting pines stands the old abandoned mech, its guts spilling out from the front of its chassis like a chaotic spider-web made of long black electrical cables and most of the cooling system. Old Missus O’Malley built the thing out of parts from about thirty different creatures, including an antique Russian tank and a nineteen-sixty-eight Oldsmobile. It stood about sixty feet tall and had a roughly humanoid design with a central body, two legs on the bottom, two arms just above the middle, and the head on top, though the head itself was really just a large plastic hamburger about three meters high and six meters wide, which used to sit atop Greasy Bob’s Burgers and Fries fast-food drive-thru. That place went out of business years ago, back when I was just a kid, and I guess one night, when the mech was nearing completion, Old Missus O’Malley had used the partially-completed war-machine to steal the giant metal burger from off the restaurant’s roof. Nobody knows exactly what she’d built it for. She’d claimed it was a prototype she’d been hoping to sell to the military, but that was obviously just a pleasant lie meant to disguise the fact that the smartest woman in town had started to go a little mad. The thing sounded like an apocalypse when she took it out for walks, the metal bits screaming against each other as the twenty-tonne monstrosity lumbered around like some drunken sailor still unadjusted to being on land. One weekend a couple of high school students, Tracy King and Janine Lakewood, stole the thing from Missus O’Malley’s backyard, and took it for a joyride across town. They squashed a police car, kicked over a fire hydrant, and scared Mister Joslin’s cat so badly the poor thing developed a bald spot. The two girls wound up getting something like a hundred hours of community service apiece, and Missus O’Malley was warned to keep a better eye on her creations. Of course it was only a month or so later that Missus O’Malley passed. She went how I think a lot of us hope to go, peacefully in her sleep, with what was later revealed to be a surprisingly large amount of LSD and PCP in her bloodstream. And it was only a week after that when lightning struck the partially completed mech, temporarily bringing the thing to life. For a day and a half it danced sadly across those big empty fields just outside of town, until eventually it came to a final halt at the edge of the woods. That’s where it took its final steps before ripping out its own internal wirings, like some sort of strange imitation of a hara-kiri ritual. Most likely, most folks agree, the lightning had simply brought the processors back online, and the mech’s dancing and death had been nothing more than the autonomic system’s misunderstanding of whatever remained of the old lady’s coding until the thing ran out of fuel and self-destructed. Still, it was sort of nice to imagine that maybe the strange creation had simply missed its creator, and had taken the opportunity granted to it by the lightning to celebrate her life and then to follow Missus O’Malley into the great nothingness that waits for us all on the other side of existence. Big Tim Roberts thought he might be able to get the thing going, that was last October, but he lost a thumb when a piece of the outer casing came loose. One Thumb Tim they call him now, but it’s not to be rude or anything; Tim actually thinks it’s pretty funny. Eventually I’m sure the city will get its act together and collect up the old thing, haul it off to the dump. But a bunch of us sorta hope they just leave it out there. So as to be like a monument. To old Missus O’Malley, and all her big, crazy ideas.

Liz tilted her head up to fully take in the disaster before her. Nine feet tall, with sickly bright green skin. Exposed bone poked out through the humanoid creature at its knuckles. Some tube was pressing against the skin from the inside like veins. “Do you like my work?” A sultry voice rang through the small room. A woman stepped into view, early twenties dressed in a black lab coat with a cheap suit beneath. She walked over to her “work” and stood beside it. “Quite Handsome, isn’t it?” “What is that thing?” “Like I said its my work in progress. A reanimated corpse that I made some adjustments to. Its a thug, I send it out to do my bosses bidding, usually fighting. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little inspired by Franken stein. The doctor I mean. I think I’ve put my own little twist on the concept wouldn’t you say.” She ran a finger along one of the exposed bones. “Its hideous.” Liz said. The woman chuckled. “I hear that a lot. People say they want art that will push things. The best art pushes against what is acceptable by society, mine apparently goes too far for anyone apparently. They want to be challenged but in a safe way that offends nobodies morals. Hypocrites. “I meant it looks shoddy.” “Yes, well you - what bitch?” “I mean look at it. Putting aside morals it looks ugly, inefficient. And by the way there is absolutely no twist here that thing *is* Franken stein.” The woman looked confused. “Looks ugly? Well of course it is.” She rounded. “It doesn’t need to look conventionally pretty. It just needs to be strong, and believe me it is that.” “You said it was handsome at the start.” “No I didn’t.” The woman snapped. “Well even if it was, I can’t see how the thing would work. You used a corpse as the base, probably the worst material to build a killing machine out of. Those bones at the knuckles aren’t doing it any favours, some of them are cracked. Its way too tall, most of its strength must be dedicated to keeping itself upright. And it’ll get weaker over time as the corpse rots. I can’t see how it would take anyone. It was good enough to take you in wasn’t it.” “Who cares if it beat me? I weigh as much as a pillow, a weak breeze could knock me over. Can that wreck handle any of the heavy hitters. You know, the kinds of guys and gals you would want an undead killing machine to handle?” The woman grimaced, hesitating. Which was all the answer Liz needed. “It might. Even if it couldn’t, its still a great achievement. I reanimated a corpse and made it walk again. I challenged the process of life and death and won. I am a rising genius.” “You’re a failure and a shit doctor.” The woman snarled and started stalking over to Liz. Was that a tear she could see, starting to form in the doctors eye. “Since you obviously don’t know, I’m the one they call the supplier. Its my job to grow bodies.” The Doctor stop. “I know when a corpse is unhealthy or has something wrong with it. If I didn’t, I would be out of a job. And in my professional opinion, that fucking abomination is the worst thing I have ever seen. I’ve made bodies that had scoliosis, I’ve made bodies with limbs missing or genetic deficiencies. And yet you have made the ugliest, least practical corpse I have ever seen. Its a failure of a homunculus, and you’re a failure as a doctor.” The doctor’s chest was heaving. Her head was shaking from side to side with her hands clasped over it. She was having an argument with herself and was clearly losing. “ I just can’t believe-“ “Shut up.” The woman took her hands away, tears were streaking down her face. “Shut your fucking mouth!” she roared. “You don’t know how much work I put into this. Who cares if its put shoddy. Who cares if it doesn’t live up to your standards. It works, it lives. It’s closer than anyone else has ever gotten. You don’t understand. No one understands how hard it is to make my art. No one.” “Darling, its not as complex as you’re making it seem. You’re neither a scientist or an artist. You’re an idiot who demands everything you make be praised and loved, no matter how bad it is. That corpse you made, that abomination? It’s not handsome, or a good thug, or even a piece of art. It’s crap. You’re crap. And everyone understands that. The woman glared daggers at Liz. “You don’t have to get mad about it.” “Fuck you!” She hit Liz. Again and again. Punching and screaming. “Fuck you, fuck you. FUUUCCCK YOOOOUUUU!” The woman backed off, breathing hard and clutching her bleeding hands. She barely hurt Liz, who grinned at her through a bloody mouth. “I don’t care what the boss says.” Her voice cracked. She stuck a finger in Liz’s direction. “I don’t care how important he thinks you are. I’m going over his head, and I’m getting a kill order on you.” The doctor left the room. “That won’t make you a better artist.” Liz called. There was no reply, other than a door slamming loudly in the distance.

Silence is a fragile thing, but right then, silence seemed to be an insurmountable beast that had its claws around the car. Even the howling wind that was blowing snow outside was banished from the vacuum surrounding them. If it weren’t for her heater, which was working overtime because of the howling January snow, she would have sworn that she had lost her hearing. Even that wasn't fully penetrating this silence though. Ella had offered to drive her nephew to the airport. How could she not with him going away to boarding school? He had become quite a handful for her sister, who was a widow of three years and who had four other kids to worry about. Ella helped where she could, but her sister had always been very independent, and every time Ella came to visit, she would always find her sister doing something around the house, looking tired and worn out. Then she would smile a weary but sincere smile and Ella would tell her lovingly but firmly, "Go to bed Angie, you look like hell. I'll finish up here." Ella jumped out of her thoughts as she noticed their exit coming up. She tried to change as many lanes as she could, but still managed to miss it. She winced. Her nephew rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone. She figured he must be texting one of his friends until a female voice came from his phone, giving directions. Now it was Ella's turn to roll her eyes, "I know the way Rob." Her Nephew's given name was Robert, but he insisted that everyone call him by the nickname. "Right," He smirked at her, "That's why we're going to be late to the airport." "Your flight doesn't leave for another hour and a half. We're five minutes away." "Not the way you're driving we're not." He muttered. "You know, you don't have to insult everyone around you. I know that you're upset that your mother is making you leave but --" “You just don’t get it. No one does, ” He snapped more defensively. Then added quietly, “Not anymore.” “What do you mean Rob?” Ella hadn’t heard Rob speak like this in a while. Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard his words hold that much emotion. She’d known him quite well before his father had passed, but since then, he’d changed. He’d cut himself off from everyone, and whenever Ella or anyone else had tried to talk to him, he’d snap and say simply that he wanted to be alone. In that moment, Rob looked like he was trying to hold back a tidal wave. He probably was. As far as Ella could tell, he never gave himself any release. He was always working in his room, be it on school work, or fixing a broken computer someone at school was paying him for. Ella had never understood it, his fascination with computers. She supposed her brain just wasn’t wired that way. He and his father had always liked working together on little things like that. Her sister thought it was good that he was still working on computers, that maybe it was his way of dealing with his father’s death, but Ella suspected that it was just the opposite. That all he was doing was using the computers to keep himself busy. To never give himself a moment’s rest to think about anything. Finally, the dam that had been holding his feelings back broke, and tears began spilling down his cheeks. "You just don't get it, okay? The only person who ever understood me is dead, all right?" He gasped for air and looked frightened at his words. Ella thought it was something he'd been wanting to say for a while, but he hadn't let himself. "Everyone is acting like three years is a lifetime. Like I should have moved on by now, but I can't. It hurts all the time Ella. I feel empty and angry and sad every day. My mom thinks I'm acting out, but I don't know how to act normal anymore. I keep thinking that if I just get through one more day, then everything will be all right, but every day it just gets harder to get out of bed. I -- I haven't felt happy or even okay in three years." He slumped foreword in his seat, his head in his hands. He was crying in earnest now, sobs racking his body. Ella didn't know what had made him break down. Maybe it was all just too much for him. Going to a new school far away from everything he knew while he was already feeling like this? She couldn't imagine. She paused for a moment. This one was not a suffocating silence as before. It was full of sorrow, but also of relief. Rob had been holding all of his feelings in for years, she could only imagine how hard it must have been for him to tell her. She laid a hand on his back, keeping the other on the steering wheel and making no move to go towards the airport. "Listen, I don't know how you're feeling right now,” Ella started, feeling rather clumsy and out of her depth. “But I'm glad you told me. I lost someone too when I was around your age. He was my best friend. We did everything together. I’d known him since 3 rd grade and I suspect that if he had survived, I may have even developed feelings for him.” She paused, feeling her emotions rub against a wound that she suspected would never fully heal. “He died in a car crash one summer, and after that, my life never felt the same. There was this absence, this hole in my heart that I couldn't even begin to fill. I tried to push people away too, thinking that I didn't deserve to be friends with anyone else, but do you know what I found helped? Talking to people. I thought that If I ever told anyone how I was feeling, it could only end badly, but I was so wrong. People tend to be much more understanding than they get credit for. "That's why I'm so glad you felt like you could come to me with this." She paused, trying to figure out what she was even trying to say. "I'll tell you what. What if, and I'll only do this if you want me to, we don't go to the airport? I could take you home and talk to your mother. You might not think it, but I'm really good at getting through to her. You don't have to feel like that Rob, the people around you can be much more helpful and willing to listen than you probably think." Ella waited. Rob had taken in her whole monologue with his head still in his hands. They sat once again in that strange comforting silence, but then Rob let out a quiet, "Yeah, okay. Let's do that." His voice was still croaky from crying and as he lifted his head from his hands. Ella saw that his eyes were still red and puffy from crying, but as she looked in his eyes, she thought that she saw the smallest spark of an emotion that she too had once nearly forsaken, hope. She felt as though they were stepping tentatively onto the frozen dam that his emotions had become, and somehow she knew that together, they would be able to thaw them out.

You're sitting at home on a late summer's night, when you hear the rain begin to patter on your roof. Turning on the weather channel you see that there is a Severe Thunderstorm Watch in your county. 'No big deal,' you think to yourself, 'a watch means nothing besides some rain and maybe two lightning strikes.' Bored, you turn off the TV, and head out to walk towards the bookstore around the corner, but turn around because it's raining a bit harder than anticipated and an umbrella might not be a bad idea. You look around you as you make your way down the sidewalk, 'not many people out tonight.' This was your idea of a perfect night, warm, but not too hot, rainy, with the sun having set not too long ago because it is still August. The crickets chirp loudly and remind you of home. A nice deep breath of cool rainy air brings back pleasant memories. You look at the ground while walking, watching the puddles dance as you walk through them and seeing the rain drops bead up on your shoes. Luckily this bookstore is open pretty late, it's already close to 9. Standing under the awning, you close your umbrella, and shake it out so you don't drip all over the store. Reaching for the handle you push on it with some force, old doors like these are much heavier than the flimsy things built today. A small bell jingles as it creaks open, and the friendly store owner turns his head to you, lowering his book, he says "Good evening Sasha," as he gives you a warm smile. "Hello Mr. Clauson," you answer. You've been coming here for years, and though you don't know him too well, you've had several lovely little talks with that man. A quiet older man, who retired from his day job years ago to take over his grandfather's bookstore. Now his own grandchildren stop in to sit with him and drink their coffee together. You've always loved to see that, it reminds you of when you were young. Walking alongside a tall bookcase, the wooden floorboards creak like the door, you step slowly. Mr Clauson has a very wide variety of books to choose from... romance, cookbooks, mysteries, humorous novels and more. Some of your favorites include the horror and mystery novels, poetry books and the classics. Oh, and the two rooms filled top to bottom with antique books, filling the room with the scent of hundred year old ink and yellowed pages. You decide to head to the mystery section first. Looking down a long row of books you pick out one that catches your eye, a royal blue hardcover, with gold letters spelling out its title, "Buried Under Cherry Trees." You flip it over to see what it's about. 'The story of a family who has picked up everything to move halfway across the country for their father's new job opportunity. Surprisingly everyone has taken the move well. A few weeks after settling in, a disturbing story pops up on the news. "Young teen murdered in coffee shop yesterday morning." Everyone is rattled but seems to move on, until another dies. And then another. Determined to find out what is happening in her new town, Susie, the oldest daughter conducts her own investigation since the police have been proven slightly corrupt. Pondering the cases under the cherry tree one afternoon, she slowly starts to grasp what is really happening, and why they moved here in the first place.' You hold the book a little tighter, intrigued by its description, and decide you'll purchase it, but not until you've looked around a little more. Wandering out of the mystery section, you walk towards the heavy maple bookshelves, holding hundreds of antique books. You run your fingers along the spines of one shelf and land on one. A dull red leather bound book, tough and cracking, showing its years quite beautifully. "The Little Irish Girl," it's titled. You flip through it noticing the tiny print and pages so brittle they snap instead of fold. You think that some books age like people, and some people age like books. You slide it back onto the shelf, talking yourself out of it since it looks a little too complex to get into right now, and you already need to add another bookcase to your living room since you've successfully filled two already. Still unsatisfied with only buying one book today, you pay a visit to the 'poetry and classics' section of the store. Immediately you get excited as you see two books that are absolutely calling to you. The first is "The Great Gatsby," by F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of your favorites, beautifully written, showing the dark side of love and money in an otherwise booming decade. You recall the first time you read it and how you fell in love with it after only a chapter or two. The second book was, "A Collection of Poems and Stories from Edgar Allen Poe." Edgar Allen Poe is one of your favorite poets, and authors for that matter. His strange and dark life pulling you into his deep and odd writings, The Raven of course being your personal favorite. You grab both and head to a corner and sit down in the rocking chair so you can get a little reading in before heading home for the night. After getting lost in Gatsby for nearly half an hour, you stand and yawn, gather your umbrella and walk back to the front of the store. "Find everything alright?" Mr. Clauson smiles, he loves when young people like you come in and pick out a few good books. "Of course I did," you say confidently. A soft rumble of thunder rolls over the roofs of neighboring buildings, exciting you. "Hmm, guess they might've been right about the storms tonight, do you smell the rain? Always puts me to sleep on nights like these," Mr. Clauson says. "Oh me too, I love it" "And that'll be $21.48 tonight dear." He slips a red bookmark into the mystery novel and tucks the books into a brown paper bag with your receipt printed off the outdated yet fitting register. Handing him $25.00, he hands you your change and say goodnight to each other as you walk outside, that little bell jingling behind you again. Once you're down the street a ways, you turn back to see him immersed in another book and chuckle. You don't hurry back, the rain is still pretty light and pleasant to walk in. Back home, you lock the door and head back to your room and sit on the big velvety arm chair in the corner by the window with the lacy curtains. You crack the window to listen to the wind and rain some more. The storm is finally picking up, a perfect time to read. So you light a candle and turn on your lamp, creating the perfect amount of warm light to start reading your Edgar Allen Poe book of collected poems. After an hour of reading you get up to make some tea, a relaxing blend to help you sleep. You begin to feel drowsy while waiting for the kettle to whistle. You've picked out a chamomile and hibiscus blend, and after it's steeped, you carefully carry it back to your room and set it in the porcelain coaster next to the lamp on the nightstand. The moon is bright, almost full, you think as you look at the clock in the other wall and realize it's been another hour of reading and it's almost midnight now. The rain continues but you leave the window open some because it's not enough to get anything wet. You grab a blanket off the back of your chair and slip into bed, and drift off to the sound of raindrops and the soft moonlight.

Part 2. But fate has fickle plans for all men. Even though it had not been eight years since i had last spoken to my father. Four years in service, two at war, and two on the road. Still, his words rang in my wars one morning as I lay in the gutter by the market. "Son, men are not worthy of merit, honor, or respect, by birth. All men must be worthy by deed, or nothing else matters. " I do not know why that morning of all mornings I would hear those words for the first time in two years. But as i lifted my head and looked out at the city starting its day. I could not shake the feeling that something was building in the air. I never thought to be worthy of anything again. Never thought to be useful to anyone, not as a cripple. But as the noon day sun bore down on the stalls and tables of the hawkers and merchant, I came to realize that a man must do what a man must. These past two years had seen the end of the war and the flooding of cities with hollow eyed veterans from countless battles. Unrest and crime filled the streets. Orphans and veterans alike stole and robbed. Neither have enough to live by after losing all to the war. I had long since ignored their deeds, so long as they left me alone. Then, a group of richly dressed young men, fresh from their military service. Began to harass the common folk who tried to earn a meager living. A tall, thin man with rusty red hair shoved an old farmer to the ground roughly. "A copper Filla for a handful of withered vegetables?! I should take them for free! You should be giving them to us for our service in defense of our nation!" He rudely barked. The old man cowered and whimpered in pain as the tall man stepped on his hands. "Disgusting commoners, you aren't worthy of my coin!" If he had thought to say more, I would never know. In that moment, as he lifted his foot to step down again, I was between him and the farmer. "Neither your birth nor your required service make you worthy of respect or honor." My voice was low and gravely from lack of use and lack of water. The two beside the tall man started as if stunned to see someone before them. I was not the man I once was, but I knew how to move. The tall man flushed, then reddened. He growled low in his chest and forced out, "Out of my way, you filthy beggar!" I cocked my head at his words and smiled lightly. From a pocket I'd sown into my waistband, I drew out the only piece of my past I had kept with me. "I am no mere beggar," I held up the small medallion, stamped with the coat of arms of my noble house. "I too an a nobles son." There was an immediate hush across the crowd. The red-haired man scoffed and began to laugh in derision. "Even if you were once, you are a beggar now. Go away filth." He made as if to step around me, but my hand caught him on his upper arm. His face went redder still. Before he could protest, I stated simply. "You've insulted me, sir. I demand satisfaction. Will you acquiesce, or does your family have no honor?" My hand was flung away, and he stepped back from me. Someone had pulled the old father to safety, and we now found ourselves surrounded by merchants and commoners alike. "Have at you then! Someone give him a sword!" There was no move from anyone, no sound. The red man laughed and said, "It seems like Noone thinks you are worthy of a sword, street filth!" A strong, firm, and resolute voice spoke from behind me. "Men are Worthy by Deeds Alone. He may have my sword." I stood straight and still. Time seemed nearly frozen as I turned to look into the deep Steele gray eyes of the only man I had ever feared. My father.

A Calling in Th'Abyss I Who are you... Where are we.... Do I belong here.... A voice scatters across the dark of Th'Abyss- a location unfamiliar to many who find themselves lost. Wandering souls often are caught up in their own misery. More times than naught, such souls fall into the darkest night. I cannot help but to wonder: Who are you? The soul crying cannot see me for my body camouflages in the darkness. Similarly, the beast behind the lost lamb cannot be seen. Yet, I know it is there- prowling. I shuffle my foot in the black mud. With my arm I draw a blade from my left hip. Don't move... I demand the lost soul. Confusion and fear permeate through the thick air: What do you mean? What's there? From behind the wandering soul, the beast begins to strike. We hear the strong limbs pounding against the ground. Despite the darkness, I can see the creature's eyes- red embers glow dimly as they target their prey. I raise my sword high. Swiftly, I maneuver around the lost lamb. The beast looks at me with rage. Regardless, it shall not be allowed to kill. Tonight the beast is vanquished with one fell swoop of my blade. The black steel is sharp and slices the fiendish head off of its shoulders. The head rolls into the mud. Alarmed by the shrieking beast, the wandering soul screams. Sharply so the soul releases fear and anguish: What's happening? Where are you- are you going to kill me? I place my sword back into the scabbard. With a gentle approach, I place my hand on the soul: I am not here to hurt you. If you are lost, then I can lend some advice. The soul readies their breathe. Calming one's mind helps alleviate confusion through creating room for clarity. After all, thoughts are as muddied as Th'Abyssian floor when rattled. A sigh of disbelief echoes from the soul. There is a sense of longing and closure. I reassure that I can help. Well, at least I know who can be of aid. How long have I been here, the lost soul begins to ask- Do you have the time? I laugh at their question: Forgive me, but time does not exist here in the same as it does on your earth. Th'Abyss is a location of enternal night. Although we may age, we grow at an extremely slow pace. The soul shakes their head. My response is not to their grasp. One cannot blame another for believing the words of a person they have just met. Especially, when the conversation circles around a place only mentioned in tales. How do I leave? The soul's voice sounds exasperated. Perhaps this place is draining to their spirit- that is a certain possibility. Not many human souls travel to Th'Abyss and leave unscathed. I place a hand on my jaw- looking into the darkness for an answer. Who can help this lost being? Then, an image forms in my mind of a possible solution. Yet, contacting them will prove difficult. At least, I have no means of getting their attention. The wandering soul, on the contrary, should be able to pique another's interest. You must connect with The Monkey, I begin to say while my solution is interrupted. The monkey? What the hell is a monkey going to do? Frustration rings louder than sorrow. The soul needs to commit to trust despite the circumstances. Please let me speak, I halt any further interjections- The Monkey is a powerful being. He is aligned with The Conquerer who steeped foot here long ago. Should you travel further into Th'Abyss, you will reach a pivotal point in which communication with Outerreagions is possible. You will know when you land there, your feet will step on stone. Once you reach this location, call out to The Monkey by his name. You may have to speak his name more than once. Yet, I assure you he will be able to free you from this void. My voice is ascertain and honest. Surely, the wandering soul puts faith in me despite previous disbelief. After all, when there is no one else lending advice, people tend to give another a chance. There is no doubt in my mind that The Monkey is able to provide assistance. Very well, the wandering soul sighs- I will do as you say. I just hope you're right. I smile and shake the lost lamb's hand- Everything will be alright. With that reassurance, I can feel a sense of relief. Further, I bid the soul bön nicht. As they walk in the distance, I cry out the name needed for release. Despite the darkness, I know that the soul nods in affirmation- repeating the true name of The Monkey. II Beneath a clear sky rests a vast valley. Vibrant fields of green contrast against the black mountains beyond. A river of azure glints in the sun- dazzling like jewels on the surface. Here resides a kingdom, a home to those who once were refugees. In this land, there are no humans. On the contrary, beings noted as Mystiques find their sanctuary from the devils of their past. The Mystiques compromise of humanoid people with extraordinary power. Not everyone holds supernatural abilities. Yet, everyone shares a common love of nature and freedom. In this world, discrimination no longer exists because the beings here had to flee from oppression and segregation. Freedom is not always free- as the saying goes. The people who congregate to the valley could not earn their salvation alone. In truth, a savior came to their calling. At first, they saw fear in the exploits of a single warrior. In time, they came to trust the great fighter as their Savior. As the clock ticks, and battles were won- the Savior collected four strong generals to help maintain order. In guard of the kingdom laying in the valley is the whimsical Monkey. He has earned much respect despite his carefree nature. The children of the kingdom especially regard him in earnest. After all, the Monkey is not too proud to play- unlike other generals. Peace and safety are the two main goals of the Savior's empire. Some may believe that living without conflict may be boring. On the contrary, the people of this kingdom enjoy their carefree lifestyle. They have the liberty to live the life given to them. Ultimately, after seeing their plight, the kingdom's Savior thought it best to provide everyone with the opportunity of peace. Sanctuary is a reward for those who have long suffered from hardships- oppression cannot be allowed to stay forever. Yet, what of one's sense of adventure? The Monkey can assure one that there comes a time when the need to move and act is hard to satiate. True, many can be happy with their daily routines- living amongst nature is enough to bring elation. The Monkey would never judge the people he is deemed to protect. Besides, everyone deserves the time to create, play, laugh, and grow with the land around them. Honestly, the Mystiques do not have the same occupational mentality as those of modern earth. There are neither large corporations to work aimlessly for, nor arbitrary tasks to tend. What is necessary to do is what will be done. Survival is not about excess, but appreciating the simplicity of life. Simplicity, the word crosses Monkey's mind. In the court yard, a great blossom tree provides him with a place to sit. The tree may not be his typical place for meditation. However, Monkey cannot help but to follow the flow of thought. His eyes are transfixed on the drifting clouds ahead while the mind wanders into deep contemplation. A booming voice interrupts all concentration: "Here you are Monkey, I've been looking all over the castle for you." The sound is deep and startles Monkey's balance. He fumbles from his branch. Fortunately, Monkey has a tail. With a quick SWISH, Monkey prevents his fall. "Watch yourself Dragon!" the embarrassed Monkey shouts- "You could've made me bust my head!" The Dragon cannot help but to laugh- "You're a monkey, you're not supposed to fall out of trees!" Monkey's face turns red. He swings from the branch and lands on his feet. With his hands on his hips, Monkey raises head high. The pouting Monkey is much smaller than the tall Dragon being. Even in his Mystique form, the Dragon measures seven feet. "So," the Monkey places his arms behind his head- "What brings you here from the black mountains?" Typically, the generals would plan in advance should they decide to visit another castle. After all, they must assign a top soldier to tend to their kingdom in their stead. Dragon is more anal than the other generals- perhaps that is because he is the eldest. A surprise visit is nothing within his personality. Nonetheless, something or someone may have urged the occasion. The thought passes through Monkey's mind. "Un piqua göttís told me that you needed counsel," the Dragon replies with an atypical blend of stern and playful. "Therefore, I flew by to see how you fare." The statement presents Monkey with confusion. Clearly, the Dragon forgot which tongue to use. The Mystique language has many dialects with various shifts in words. Seeing Monkey's head tilt, the old Mystique clarifies his meaning. "Oh! I see now," the Monkey laughs- "You should've said so from the beginning. Well, I'll let you in on a secret." Monkey motions for his tall friend to drop down a notch. With a hand covering his mouth from view, Monkey whispers: "I'm bored!" The Dragon gives a hardy laugh. His friend looks insulted. However, the Dragon raises a hand: "I'm not mocking you." The Monkey's eyes roll in an effort to suggest that he believes otherwise. After a moment of silence, even the Monkey cannot resist a bout of laughter. "It's insane!" The Monkey jeers- "I just feel useless right now. I know my place and role in maintaining this kingdom. However, I cannot help but to crave an adventure. Perhaps, there is someone that I don't know who needs me." With a wounded look in his eye, the Monkey looks to the ground below. Everyone wants to be able to help another. Yet, where to begin when one's duties seem full? Dragon places a hand on Monkey's shoulder- "I understand how you feel. That is why I was told to visit. There is a chance that somebody could use your skill." Monkey looks up into Dragon's eyes. He thinks to himself- does Dragon know something that I don't? The old Mystique can notice the change in Monkey's gaze. Clearly, he is suspicious about the other in the moment. "Be honest," Monkey demands- "What did the little goat tell you?" "Meditate," the Dragon begins to replay with an emphasis on the world- "Meditate and you will hear someone calling your name." Surely, the answer seems peculiar. Should another being tell Monkey to give into a transient state, he would not listen. After all, the notion implied is an adventure through projection. The Monkey looks perplexed and shakes his head: "What is your meaning now Dragon?" A quest found is more appealing than a quest given. Such an expression crosses Monkey's nature- he does not always enjoy being handed down tasks. "Take this mission as your own," continues the Dragon- "Go to your tree and listen for a voice. You will understand once you find the connection." "Is someone imprisoned?" Monkey raises the question with discomfort. How can he be expected to single handedly rescue a person from a castle? "I can say no more," the Dragon shakes his head- "It is an opportunity to alleviate your boredom at the benefit of helping another soul." The Monkey shrugs his shoulders- "Fine, I'll take the task. Thank you for letting me know. Tell the little goat that I will not fail." A beam strikes the Dragon's face- "I will. Take care Monkey." The two friends shake hands in departure. Jumping into the sky, Dragon transforms into his fierce form. A great black beast with powerful wings soars towards the direction of home. Monkey admires his friend's might and bids him well. The time is nigh for adventure to begin. Monkey proceeds to back flip excited by the task at hand. He looks to the sun, noticing the orb's descent behind the horizon. No need to fear, for Monkey, meditation works just as well in the night as in the day. With urgency, the Monkey makes haste to the beautiful fruit tree that lays past the kingdom. I do not know you, but I will come to your aid- the thought rings with confidence. III Breathe in and breathe out... Slow inhale, but with a deep exhale. Finding one's center is all about creating a sense of balance. Ying and yang are basic principles that have been taught in Eastern human religions. A thought that has elements of truth. There is light and darkness within the world. Yet, the idea of gender differences in their teachings is faulted. We are all living beings. We behave the way we are because of our own identity- rather than what society seeks to control between the male and female forms. I for one, respect my own society- equality and equity for all. These thoughts enter my mind as I sit beneath the golden peach tree. The wind blows calmly through the leaves. Gentle, the wind touches my face. Breathe in and breathe out... Slow inhale, but with a deep exhale.... What was the mission again? Answer the call. Who will speak my name? Where am I needed? There are too many questions and I will be rendered useless should I fail to find a moment of peace. I can feel the sun leave my face as he drops down behind the horizon. Matrá Lunestrá will truly prove to be an asset in this journey. In leaving one space to go into the darkness requires the light of her eyes. She is able to guide one in their dreams- therefore, she will be able to help me reach the lost soul. As long as Lunestrá is willing, I am grateful to her magika. Please help me, Mother Moon- I pray with my my heart. Suddenly, I can hear my name. The sound echoes through the air like windchimes. The time to act is coming. Since I'm still unsure as of where I will tarry- I achieve my highest form. Full concentration and spiritual power are key to success. Then my name strikes as hard as a gong: Doooon!!! The sound nearly shatters my wits. The urgency is nigh. Now I understand my mission. It is time to answer a calling in Th'Abyss.

"I'm sorry, your majesty. The dragon killed the princess before I could get to her. Do know that I have slayed the dragon, so no one else will fall victim to them ever again." "Thank you, Lilith. I do not blame you for Princess Kennedy's death. I wish you a fair evening." "Goodbye, your majesty." The cool spring breeze blows through Lilith's hair as she exits the palace. Another day, another threat to the city gone. Jade pops out from behind a tree, a folder labeled "741934" in her grip. She crosses her arms in disapproval and glares at Lilith. "Why'd you lie to the king?" "I didn't lie about anything, Jade. I don't know what you're talking about. The dragon killed the princess, and I killed the dragon. What about that is wrong?" "Then-" "Oh let me guess. You wanted to slay the dragon, so you're trying to take the credit for yourself. How pathetic. You know, Jade, if you want to be a better hero than me, you've got to try harder. Go find your own dragon to slay, because I'm not having it. I can give you the location of a few if you'd like. Wait no, you want to be a competent hero, you'll have to do the searching yourself as well." "Oh really? How did you slay the dragon?", Jade questions, as she takes a step closer to Lilith and straightens herself, as if to assert dominance. "I beheaded it with my sword, of course", Lilith replies. She takes her sheath off her sword and points it threateningly at Jade, who doesn't waver. "You should know that I work at Potions for Powers. The same company that you bought your power-giving potion from. Every customer is kept track of, so they can keep improving their potions. One way to improve-" "Just get to the point, Jade. Heroes that the city relies on, like me, don't have too much time to waste on people like you." Jade rolls her eyes. "Do you know what "cost powers" are?" "No, and what do they have to do with anything?" "Cost powers are powers that come temporarily in a time of need, but have a cost. For example, you can grow wings, but once you grow tired and retract your wings, you get vivid hallucinations for however long your wings were extended." Jade opens the folder that she's holding, and opens to a page labeled, "Side Effects". *"Side Effects:* *Cost Power: Can kill someone (Cost: Takes another life along with the intended target) (Limitation) Only works if another life in available to take along with the intended target)"* \*"\*No amount of stabbing or slashing, even with your super-strength, could've destroyed the dragon's core, which would be the only way to kill dragons like the one you fought today. Usually, they're dealt with teleporters and telekinetic who don't have to worry about the dragon's ribs, with are impossible to break through. The only way you could've killed the dragon is if you used your cost power, Lilith, and the only way your cost power would've worked, is if you took Kennedy down, not the dragon." Lilith dashes towards her home, her face hardened. She has worked too hard to become a hero with the amount of respect that she has now and she can't allow Jade's invasion of privacy take that all away from her. Sure, Lilith had signed a contract allowing Potions for Powers to gather data on her, but whatever, it's Jade's fault for being jealous. \ "Hey Archer, look at this puppy. Isn't it cute?" The puppy pants and runs up to Cato and licks him while Archer laughs. "It looks like he likes you. How sweet. Can we keep it? Please?" "Sure, I love puppies. Who's a good girl? You are. But what should we name it, Archer?" "I dunno. I was thinking Lilith, after one of the city's heroes. You know, before it became this wasteland?", Archer responds, waving at the ruined cityscape. "Nope, anything but that. Lilith's the reason why the city's like this in the first place." "Really? I was told that Lilith tried stopping an ex-hero named Jade from blowing everything up, but that story was fragile anyways? What did you hear happened." "Long story short, Jade threatened Lilith into killing the princess at the time, Kennedy, so Lilith held her brother captive. Or was it her father? I forgot. What matters is that Jade drank a potion that would allow her to self-destruct at will if needed, and went to save the hostage. Lilith used one of her powers on Jade the same time Jade decided to self-destruct, and boom, the city as we know it." "Wow, okay. I mean, I guess Jade was threatening Lilith, but maybe taking a hostage wasn't the best choice. Morally, at least. We should continue gathering supplies before the sun sets.

Dates are hard. But they're especially hard when your date is a 95 year old man who thinks he's 30. Don't ask me why I thought it was a smart idea to join a dating site, much less accept a date from someone who has their age description set as 'probably older than you.' Yeah, now looking back I see where I messed up. And I bet you're thinking why the hell I didn't pick up the clue that the man was probably in his 50s or so. Just read the story and maybe you'll understand! ------------------------------------- Shelby stared at her reflection in the mirror, dotting on the last touches of her makeup. Just a little more mascara... She swiped up on her lashes, leaving them a nightly black. Shelby smiled, finally pleased with her appearance. Tonight would be perfect. It had been three years since her last date, back when she had been 19, young and beautiful. Too bad that one hadn't lasted long. Shelby cringed at the terrible memory, and resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, for her mascara hadn't dried yet. That trainwreck of a date had been her second time. But this one would be her third. And as they say, 'third time's the charm.' Shelby grinned, positive that this date would be the one. This relationship is going to last forever! Shelby squealed in her mind, throwing herself onto her bed. Any minute now, her date would arrive. The clock that hung on Shelby's wall ticked by, the sound nailing into her brain. The night was beginning to ebb away, along with Shelby's patience. It wasn't until 12:30 am when the doorbell rang. Shelby bolted awake, and groggily stumbled to the front door, but not before briefly checking her reflection in the mirror. Her mascara had rubbed off, leaving black streaks under her eyelids. Her hair that was once in a tight bun, hung loose from her head, strands covering her face. She groaned, yet still went to the door. She twisted the doorknob, and it opened with a high pitched squeal. "Hey, hottie. Ya ready for our date?" Shelby had to stifle down a scream once she made eye contact with her 'date.' Wrinkles. There were so many wrinkles. Loose skin flapped around on her date's face and his eyes drooped in his eye sockets. Shelby swallowed her shock. "Who...who are you?!" "The name's John...or is it James? Anyways I'm your dream date honey cakes!" Shelby cringed at the man's words. There was no way on God's green earth that she was going to go on a date with that man. "Er...I'm sorry, but it's a bit late for a date right now, I mean like, nothing's open! Sorry..." Shelby began to close the door, thankful that she didn't have to go on the date. "WAIT!" The man stuck his foot in the crack of the door. Shelby huffed a frustrated breath. "What?" She tried to keep her voice calm and steady, but instead it came out shaky and rough. The man's eyes watered. "Won't ya just go on a walk with me, ma'am?" He pleaded, his voice sounding desperate. Shelby bit her lip. What could've happened to this man to make him so in need of a date? Shelby glanced at the man once more. The evil feeling of guilt formed a giant lump in Shelby's throat. This man needed a date. She could just go on the walk, and then never have to see him again... "Um... Sure, yeah, I'll go on a walk with you." The man's lips spread into a toothy grin. "Aw, thank ya, ma'am! This really makes my day!" At this this, the man held out a bony hand towards Shelby. She stared at it. Green veins the color of mold slithered down his fingers, and pruned skin drooped from the bone. The man frowned. "Well c'mon now baby girl! Take it !" Shelby gagged, but hesitantly took his hand. His skin felt like wax. The man grinned. And with a tank of his hand, he pulled her out of her house, and outside. "Where do ya wanna walk, ma'am?" The man said cheerfully. "Oh, we can just walk around my neighborhood." Shelby responded awkwardly. How could she be so stupid? She didn't even know this man's name, and now she was going on a walk with him? She was really starting to regret her decision. A tense silence weighed down the air, and Shelby often found herself rubbing her neck anxiously with her free hand. "So, umm...what do you like to do?" Shelby finally broke the silence, desperate for some conversation. The man gave her a sly grin, which only made him look constipated. "Well cutie pie, I don't think you want to know what I like to do for fun. Wouldn't want ya to be a witness if I ever gotta be on trial." Shelby raised an eyebrow. "What have you done that's so bad ?" Her date popped his knuckles, and Shelby had to choke down a laugh. He really looked pathetic. "Oh dearie, like I said, you don't wanna know." The man's voice hardened. A cold shiver fingered down Shelby's spine, but still, she decided to keep pushing. "What do you mean I don't wanna know?" She kept her voice steady, even though she was shaking inside. The man smirked. "What I mean is would you like to date a man who's a thief?" "A what?!" Shelby screamed, her face full of shock. She took a trembling step back, letting go of the man's hand. He smiled his toothy smile. "That's right, I stole bingo chips from the community centre." Bewilderment stunned Shelby. "You stole bingo chips?" She said the words slowly. He gave one of his constipated-sly grins. "Yeah, twice. And one time I stole them in broad daylight." Shelby had to laugh at that. She couldn't imagine this man, this old man that reminded her so much of a raisin, go into the community centre and take bingo chips. It was even funnier to know that he thought that was a serious crime. Laughs escaped her until she had doubled over, breathing heavily like she had just ran a marathon. The man grinned. "What, are you impressed? You scared of me?" Shelby giggled, snorts filling the spaces between them. Shelby finally pushed herself upward, and began to start her journey back to her house. "This was a lovely date, ma'am! When will I see you again?" The man called out over the hysterical sound of laughter. "Oh, I'm never going out with you again! Thanks for the laugh though!" Shelby yelled back. Happiness filled her up, like air in a balloon. That really had been the best date ever. She couldn't remember a time she had laughed that much.

\[Warning: use of language, allusion to torture, violence\] It had been decided that the machine must go. I didn't find myself agreeing with Major Milic very much these days. His methods were harsh, brutal and he had become a fanatic. I'd call him more of a terrorist than a freedom fighter. But he was right, the machine had to go. I didn't have any confidence we could do it, however. The resistance had changed in the last couple years. The Emperor's personal secret project was brought online. Though it was round, it wasn't like it the “Death Star.” This Empire was real, and it made smarter decisions. It spent its time and money on a brain. CyCLOPS- Cybernetic, Control, Law-enforcement, and Online Policing System- changed the rules of human nature more and more every day. It make it possible for a few people to effectively watch the entire human populace at once. It watched, it learned, it analyzed, it predicted, and it remembered with perfect clarity all at a single time. I had been surprised at first when Major Milic rescued me from my prison, but not when I figured out what he planned to do. He needed me for two reasons. One- I could fly helicopters, the old ones without autopilot. Two- I knew where CyCLOPS was. And I suppose a third reason too; I would never turn him into the Imperial Union. I agreed to help, not that I had a lot of choice when everything I knew was lost and there was a gun in my face. I left the prison behind, but all the while knowing I would die with them instead. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ CyCLOPS is not easy to get near. It was secret to begin with, but they knew better than to rely on that alone. Through torture, Major Milic's loyal team discovered a lot information about the facility. Though most work with it is done remotely, it has over 500 that work directly with the machine on-site. These are mostly fat technicians and overpaid civilians, not that Milic recognized civilians anymore. They wouldn't put up much of a fight when push came to shove. The security came from a reinforced, mixed-guard company made up of Sentinels and Assault Forces. One company of three platoons. Each platoon covered a 12-hour shift. One was on days, one on nights, one on recovery cycle at all times. They had six guard towers with heavy machine guns on the walled perimeter. The walls were made of carbonized concrete, the gate was heavy metal and automatic, and there was electrified razor wire across the top. Four roving patrols covered the exterior of the facility, rejecting any trespassers onto the "Navajo Sanctuary Reservation." At least one large armored vehicle was ready at all times for a quick reaction force. The rest of the on-shift platoon patrolled the inside of the compound and checked key points. If at any point the guards caught wind of our approach and intentions, the other platoons would be woken and activated as reserves. An entire company of heavily armed and armored Sentinels would be vastly too much to deal with, and we'd be slaughtered. We had to 1- approach undetected, 2- blind the guard towers so they could not shoot down our helicopters, 3- secure the barracks and take the reserves hostage before they could get to their arms room, 4- deal with the existing guards in the compound, 5- lock the gate to prevent the roving patrols from returning with more firepower, 6- break into and make our way into the facility, and at last, 7- blow CyCLOPS to high hell. None of the major processor banks can survive. No one knows the extent of its capabilities for certain, besides the Emperor and his chosen team, but it may likely begin to back up its data to external servers outside of the facility. The more we can destroy, the more we've set back the Empire, and the more time we’ve bought for a larger resistance to mobilize. They are dependent on the machine now. They will be weaker than they were before it's installation. But first, we had to get there. And I had a bad feeling. So many things could go wrong. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ I listened as intently as I could to Milic's briefing. He'd thought of everything. Even from his little bunker hidden away from the world, he'd managed to gather a lot of intelligence. From his position at the top of the map, he could point out every section of the base, where we would land, where the satellite communications were, where the barracks and arms rooms were, where we would enter the facility, and more. I wasn't sure how he knew all of this. I think I didn't want to know. "Sam, are you fuckin' paying attention!?" His eyes seemed to glow from the light reflected off the map in the otherwise dark bunker. "What? Yes. I know where to land." Truthfully I'd never been the same since that prison. I couldn't focus on anything too long. "But after that?" "What... what am I doing after that? That wasn't... I didn't agree to-" "I don't give a shit. You're with me. I'm not letting you out of my sight." "Who's going to stay with the helicopter?" "Jacob will keep it running." He pointed to Powell, next to me. Anyone who knew him called him Powell. Only people who pretended to know him called him Jake or Jacob. They'd had a long history, but that told me how close they weren't. Powell's eyes locked with mine for a moment then looked away. He was a hostage here, too. He was the man that taught me to fly. He was old now. So was I. "I'm not shooting anyone." "That's fine. You'll help carry explosives. You've got no problem blowing this thing up. That's what we agreed on, right?" "Okay... right. I'm with you." "You're attached to my hip. You go where I fuckin' tell you and nowhere else. Is that understood?" "I'm with you." I growled. "3rd squad, alpha-team's goals are the communications array..." he continued. But again, I already wasn't listening. A faint whining grew in my ears, and I faded out into one of my blackout spells. After coming all this way, and everything I've worked for- everything I did to fight the Empire- it was probably Milic that was going to kill me. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ During pre-flight checks with Powell, we talked a little bit. It was nice. I climbed up on top of the back of the bird to give the yoke a good look. "This piece of shit is not gonna fly." I interjected, looked at the rust near the blade hub. "It'll fly. I flew it yesterday." "The rotors are going to fall off before we get there." "No... but we're in for a bumpy ride. She definitely handles like a... heh heh, Sammy, you remember that old two-seater we flew up to that Appalachian relay station?" "Oh dear god, we almost died. On three separate occasions." I grinned. "We've been through tougher spots." Powell grinned too and climbed up the other side. His entire bald head wrinkled when he smiled. "Yeah... but we were younger men. And the Empire didn't rule the world yet." "Nothing lasts forever. Not youth, and not this crummy empire. They all fall down eventually. We're just giving it a good shove." "You really think we're going to win?" my grin faded. That old feeling returned. "I think so. Major Milic's got his plan down tight. He's resourced everything he needs. We have our opening. You don't think we can?" The yoke, despite several conditions I would normally reject, appeared okay. The blades were in surprisingly good condition. It would fly all the way to the scene of the crash. "I don't think so." "You need to give the guy more credit. I know you don't agree with his methods, but he's a warrior. This is what he was built for. You have that prison mindset still. The walls are all closed in around you." "Oh I don't think it's the prison that got to me," I looked out into the setting sun of the evening. The scenery from up here was incredible. "Is this about Lindsey?" "No. Lindsey's gone. This is about us. Now. Though I admit, it's hard to forget her face with a bullet in it. I'm glad she's not here to see this. This is going to be... a mess." Powell reached up and grabbed my hand and held it in both of his. "You've gotta have a little faith in this team. They know what they're doing." "I know. But this team never met the Emperor. I've met him, and... No one on earth knows what they're doing compared to him. He sees everything coming." "Sam, you have to believe we can win." "I know... there's a chance we can win. But we need to be ready. If it's not a trap now, it will be by the time we get there." The sun slipped from view, and we were left standing in the dark.

Title: A Virtual Tradition Author: Haripriya Authors Note: Hello everyone! I wish you all a happy Saturday! Other than the previous one, this story is a bit more traditional, yet still cheerful and happy. During these tough, challenging times, we might have a negative mindset. But please remember that this won't be permanent. Everyone is working together to solve this! But there are always other solutions we could do which are just as effective as being together, and this story teaches that. I hope you enjoy it! "Students! During your fall break, I want you to think of one new holiday, or tradition you can come up with during Thanksgiving. When we come back to school on the 30th, feel free to share what you and your family did! I look forward to hearing everyone's ideas." Naomi's teacher explained to the class. The poor girl kept pondering over what to come up with. She didn't really have an idea of what to say. What new tradition could she possibly come up with? She wasn't necessarily known as the creative one, but more of the quiet one. She was more on the introvert side, though sometimes she was an ambivert. One of her main hobbies was to read, and write poems, or to be more specific, a haiku. They really challenge her to write short, yet beautiful poems. She normally does that on her own time. After homework, you may also find her painting flowers or drawing self-portraits. But coming up with new traditions wasn't on her to-do list. In fact, the teacher's assignment over the break puzzled everyone in her class. What if they come up with a tradition, but then realize it already existed? Or that other families already do it? You couldn't blame anyone. It was a challenging thing to come up with. Especially considering the fact that thanksgiving won't be celebrated like how it used to be. No more groups together, no more traveling to another's house, and buying them presents. No more eating together, like a feast. It was too dangerous to go out like that. The virus has been getting even worse since the start, so going out wasn't even an option. So how could traditions be celebrated without seeing your family and friends? Without experiencing it with them? Without creating those precious, valuable moments with them? Naomi was really in a pickle. "Hey there Naomi...if you don't mind, can I sit here?" asked her friend in her science class, Clair. "Yeah! Sure, you can sit. Here, let me just scootch my backpack for you so that you can have more space." she said, and placed her heavy book bag between her feet. "Do you have more space now?" Naomi asked. "Oh yes, I do! Thanks, Naomi!" replied Clair cheerfully. "Hey... by any chance, do you have an idea about the traditions thing? It's almost like my brain switched off today because I don't seem to be getting any good ideas for it. I don't want to steal your idea, but just want to get inspired by it. It's fine if you don't have an idea though." said Naomi. "Well, I don't know if this idea is so good that you'll get inspired by it, but I'll tell you anyway. So I was planning to do a Thanksgiving game night. Usually, we won't have time to play games because we will be visiting family and doing other activities, but since we're not planning to go out anywhere this year, I was thinking of playing lots of games." Clair said and continued looking at the glass window. "Actually that's a great idea! Though I am going to try and come up with something different, that tradition is a great start, Clair! Well... I wish we could talk more about this, but I have to go home. Anyways, have a great Thanksgiving break, and see you on Monday!" replied Naomi. The two friends waved a good-bye, and Naomi went out of the school and started strolling through the paved sidewalk, kicking the small pebbles and stones. Her hands were in her sweater's pockets, buried inside. She swayed left to right, still wondering about what new tradition she could make. ✻✻✻ After a long walk, she finally reached home. Still wandering, and hesitantly taking each step. She knocked on the door and saw her mother's face light up. Naomi fake-smiled, and placed her backpack on the couch, still thinking. She was in deep thought. Naomi wanted her tradition to be unique as well as something fun and exciting, something her family would actually enjoy for Thanksgiving. Considering all those factors, she still kept thinking about Clair's reply to what she was thinking of doing with her family. She remembered her saying, "... but since we're not planning to go out anywhere this year... " Suddenly, she got it. Yes, families couldn't physically be with each other due to the current circumstances, but good thing this isn't the 19th century, because the 21st century has something they didn't, and that is technology. They didn't have electronics, wi-fi, or the internet in general. Naomi was going to use that as an advantage. Since no one can properly connect with their families and loved ones by meeting them in person, devices such as phones, ipads, tablets, and computers will come in really handy. She had a perfect idea: doing Thanksgiving virtually. She thought that on the 26th her family could video call with her grandparents and cousins. After all, the whole purpose of Thanksgiving was thanking and being grateful for what we have, she thought that everyone could right one thing that they are grateful of! Showing love and affection towards family members by giving them proper respect and significance is also another part of Thanksgiving. Naomi thought of everyone doing a type of kindness craft together. She knew that was going to be the perfect fun activity that would bring everyone closer together, and at the same time enjoy and cherish their time together virtually. So what if people can't go to their families' house to gather together? Fortunately, technology now exists and people can get together that way. She could just imagine her new activity was going to be such a huge hit. Picturing everyone's smiling faces and the amount of fun they were all going to have. Naomi couldn't wait any longer. She just HAD to share this exciting news with her family, for everything was going to be just perfect. She just couldn't believe her idea was actually going to work out! With a proud smile, she strode along the hallway, head up, and high. ~ The End ~

To some where we came from is just as important as where were are heading. The belief that those before us, those who fertilized our growth. Determine the nature of which one carries themselves through life. In this respect I suppose it could be determined that I myself must have had my growth stunted, but in reality this is a belief I have never shared. However even those attitudes could not explain my emotions upon opening the box. The house was old. I had told myself this mine a million times; and unsafe as well. No place for a family. These were the excuses I told others, the ones I tried to tell myself but within the crumbling walls of my heart I knew them to be false. I was leaving to escape the guilt, the pain and most of all the feeling that my own children would now feel what I felt in my half-childhood and there was nothing I could do now to change that. It was in my final sweep of the house, checking for any trivial objects that may have slipped through the cracks that I came across the rusting metal box. It was more of a tin really. A still frame of a moment of a life long ago lived. Forgotten and cast aside like rubbish to disappear into oblivion. However as it so happened this tin of rancid memories wormed its way back into my life. I knew looking inside would bore into my very sense of self but I couldn’t stop myself. My trembling hands slowly pried the rust stained lid from its casing and just as it did separate so did the jacket of emotionless casing I placed around my heart and the sobbing began once more. Inside were pictures; paper and ink, but really they were more than that. They were a reminder of the normal childhood that I was robbed of when she was taken. A newspaper clipping, “Father and Child Left Behind”. The title didn’t do justice, didn’t convey the loss, didn’t depict the sleepless nights and lifeless days struggling on without her. My father, my own hero, had been broken by this. Who was I to be stronger than he! Sinking deeper and deeper into the icy waters of self-pity and regret I let myself weep. “Daddy?” A familiar voice fished me out of the icy numbness and into back into the living world. At this moment, this rebirth I realized I had to be strong. It was not a matter of if I could, but simply that I had to be. For them to have a normal childhood. For them to be happy. I had to be strong. For them.

Author’s Note: I don’t know if anyone has noticed, but normally I don’t use dialogue tags. In this story, I am trying to use them every once in a while. Please let me know if it worked or not! Thanks! Joy Freeman put her silver Grand Cherokee in park, pulled the key out of ignition. After grabbing her purse, she opened the car door and stepped out. The cold breeze immediately hit her face--she pulled her jacket tighter around her. With a blank look on her face, Joy walked to the entrance doors of the cafe in front of her. An older man came sidling up to her with a gentle smile. “Hello, Joy.” He opened the door for her and she walked in, the man following close behind her. The glass door swung closed gently behind them. Once they walked in, they were met by a peppy young teenager who had a name tag that said “Sammy” in cursive writing. Joy immediately noticed that Sammy’s long, dirty blonde hair was ruined by bright blue streaks. Oh, how Joy hated young people who ruined their appearances. “Hi! I’m Sammy, here to serve you today. Will it be just the two of you?” Sammy smiled brightly and used hand gestures as she spoke. “Yes, miss. It will be just myself and cranky ol’ Joy here. Funny it is how her name is Joy, but she’s cranky all of the time!” Alan laughed. Waitress Sammy giggled along with him as she reached behind the lectern, pulling out two menus. “You’re funny, sir. Now, would you like a table or a booth?” Alan glanced at Joy, and she shrugged. “A table will be fine,”Alan replied. Nodding, Sammy beckoned for the customers to follow her. She led them past other people who were sipping coffee and eating bagels. Finally, they stopped at a small table with two chairs. Alan motioned for Joy to sit down and she did. Reluctantly. He glanced at her as he took the other seat. “Well, I’m going to be your server today!” The menus were sat down in front of both people. “What can I get ya’ to drink?”Sammy queried. Joy scanned her menu for a moment while Alan immediately answered. “I’ll have coffee, please.” Alan smiled again (would he ever stop?) at the teen while she scribbled down the word coffee. “What are your new fall drinks?” Joy sat her menu down and looked at Sammy intently. “Well, we have a pumpkin spice latte, maple frappe, a ginger tea, and a marshmallow iced coffee. The pumpkin spice latte is my personal favorite,” Sammy stated. Her face seemed to be plastered with a smile, too. It disgusted Joy. How could she be happy? “I’ll have the ginger tea.” Joy eyed Sammy carefully while she slipped her winter coat off. “Those will be out in just a minute! And remember that we have lots of new flavors in our traditional food items.” With a slight bounce in her step, Sammy walked back to what seemed to be the kitchen. “Alright. Why in the heck did you invite me here? You know I’m busy. It’s New York for Heaven’s sake! I had to cancel five meetings at work just because I had to go to Starbucks with my father ,”Joy snarled. Her face displayed anger and frustration. Alan just sat there, holding back tears. “It’s good to know that you care more about your work than me. And I wanted to meet with you because I wanted to tell you what I heard about Ian. But I guess since you’re so upset, I’ll just leave.” Most would think that he was purposely trying to get Joy, but this was how he felt. This was how Alan Freeman spoke. And it didn’t do one thing to Joy. “Bye, then.” Joy watched as her father slowly got up from his chair and walked out the front door. She noticed that someone held the door open, and as soon as he walked in, Joy knew who that someone was. “Ian?! Oh, my gosh. Ian!”Joy yelled. She leaped from her chair and raced towards Ian. The moment she reached him, Joy wrapped her arms around him and squeezed as tight as she could. Ian squeezed back. “Hey, little sis.” He squeezed Joy one more time, then released her. She still stared at him, flabbergasted. “I just can’t believe it’s you.” Joy’s eyes filled with tears, but she pushed them back. There was no way she was about to cry in public. “Well, you would’ve known it was me if you let Dad talk. But I guess that doesn’t matter now. Let’s sit, shall we?” There was something wrong. Joy could tell as she followed Ian back to the table that she and her father had been sitting at. Just the way that Ian walked--it wasn’t right. And his voice when he had talked--there was something off. But, Joy still followed him back to the table and sat down across from him. “Father probably completely hates me now. Even though he has always hated me. At least once I came here. You’re probably still his favorite, right? Out of all seven of us? I mean, you are the one that went to the Navy and helped win thirty-something battles. Right?”Joy sneered. Her eyes darted from Ian’s face to the way that he was fidgeting with his hands. Ian never did that. “Hey, just ‘cause I was in the Navy doesn’t mean that I’m his favorite. Anne is probably his favorite. She is rich, after all.” A nervous laugh escaped Ian. This wasn’t Ian. And that was a fact. “Ian, what year did Father graduate from college?” “1999, of course.” “And what was Mother’s favorite color?” “Pale yellow.” “Isn’t Anne long dead?” “What? No! Why are you asking me these awful questions?” Ian chuckled again, and his eyes were like lasers, looking at everything in the big dining room. “Wrong, wrong, and wrong. Father graduated in 2004, after he went back to school. Mother’s favorite color was dark green, and Anne has been dead for fifteen years. I don’t know who you are, but I sure as heck know that you aren’t Ian Freeman.” People around them were starting to notice the raising of voices, and were looking in the pair’s direction. Some were murmuring undetectable things. “Alright, alright. You got me. I’m not really Ian Freeman. But let’s be honest. You aren’t Joy Freeman, either. And I do know that we have the same intentions. So, let’s blow this popsicle stand--together.” And with that, both ‘Joy’ and ‘Ian’ stood up, reached into their jackets, pulled out pistols, and shot every one of those innocent customers.

She was an Egyptian goddess Aset. Many pronounce her name wrong. She is from long long ago. Times were different then. She can’t tell their secrets to life and death but offers clues and hints to me. She is one of my guardians. I have many of them. Old and new. Times are rapidly changing and One needs be on guard. There are many evils in this world trying to make the humans die faster. From what I gather the faster the evil kills you the longer the wait into heaven. If you call the afterlife that. It has many names and many different stories. They are all quite the same though these stories. I wonder if others notice this. Aset comes to my aid when I’m in severe danger. She is a powerful old sorcereress . Many evils attack me at times. They know I know they’re there. I’m dying like everyone else though. You can’t escape the evil. Protection is given to some who are worthy. Only God knows these people. Who is your God though? I’m asked at times. We’ll I say it every time, God is my best friend. I love him. He loves me. He can be very strict to me at times though this God of mine is ancient but also very new. Older than any of the gods and goddesses. Even Aset. Younger than any in this decade as well. For he is omnipotent. I say he but that’s just me. Makes me feel safe. Guides me through life. Helps me when I’m down and about to give up. I’m very blessed. Who am I? I am you. I am God. Who am I? Sometimes she tells me I’m her. How could that be. For she is so gifted and powerful. Knows things before they happen. Has telepathy with my witnesses. ( they are my dogs). So fun to talk to these creatures. One time my boy had to go to the bathroom and told me he was going to pee his pants. I never laughed so hard. You don’t have pants! So funny. Even dogs crack jokes. It gets us through the day I suppose. Being human is hard. Lots of pain, lots of hurt. There is happy though, peace inside. If you reach this peace don’t ever let it go. Aset told me that the sun is the most important element in this universe. Without it nothing would survive. That’s what the evil wants. Your sun. When I sit out in the beautiful sunny days. I feel peace. The sun gives off such happiness. Such energy. Makes me feel alive. It affects all us humans. Aset tells me that the ancients knew the sun was important. Many gods were named after the sun. Many gods are the sun. Such beauty is shown if you let it in. I am blessed to have the opportunity to sit out and enjoy the sun. We all are. Aset tells me the second most important thing to us and our survival is water. Water is God too. Many gods were named after the water as well. Water was worshipped back in ancient times. We take it for granted now. The evil poisons our water now too. My eyes burn from the chlorine when I cry. So much burning that it left a red scar on my cheek. It’ll never go away. A strike from the evil. I try not to cry often. It hurts me so. Aset tells me so many things about life. I’m am not worthy of this knowledge but I am ever so grateful. They tell me when all of this is over, they’re taking me home. She wraps me in her invisible arms and hugs me. Everything will be alright. Whoever you wish to come home with you will come. The sad part is I can’t take any animals. Animals have their own set of rules and quests. I’m assured they will all be well. Not assured if I’ll ever see them again. Aset won’t tell me if that is possible. So sad. My babies. I don’t know what I’d do without them. I’m scared for them days to come. Animals lovers know in their heart what I’m saying. Beautiful angels on this earth. They keep humans from completely slaughtering each other believe it or not. They have important jobs. Unfortunately there are still evil beings in human form that have no hearts and hurt these poor creatures. You know who you are. Your punishment will come to you in time. These creatures who are hurt will forever live in peace in their next life. This helps me sleep at night but makes me very angry still. I want to beat this evil. There is just too much of it now. We need to come together as one celestial family before it’s too late. I don’t know how to make this happen. I don’t know if I even can. I’m unsure of my destiny. Guardians don’t tell and can only help in certain times. They are not omnipotent in the animal kingdom. Which is what we’re in I’m told. Such simple knowledge most of us take for granted. I’m glad she tells me of these things. Helps me stay happy and humble. To be poor is to be rich. I love being poor. It has made me a better person. I treasure and take care of things more. I’m thankful for all I’m helped with and more. I’m not like all humans. I’m not all different either. I just function on different frequencies . The main frequency is speed, fast fast go go. Why would you want time to go so fast. How can you feel peace going like that all the time. Some of us can’t do that. Some of you get angry with us that can’t do it. We have different disabilities then you do. It’s a challenging world. Not all is perfect and yes things could be much better. That’s at the top of the food chain though. There poisoned with power and greed. Aset tells me they’re not even human anymore. They have no idea how to live they are possessed. That fucking evil again. Why can’t we rid the world of that. If we did could there be a utopia? Is utopia even possible being human? The best we can do is to find utopia within ourselves. That’s what Aset tells me at night when I’m curled up with my furry friends for the night. I am a child you see. I feel safer as a child. A child happily playing with her toys. Guided by love. Guided by Aset and others. That come and go. They are new to even Aset. She only entered my life in 2017. What happened that year. Did the windows shatter out into the universe when my heart screamed in pain. She came to help me come back to life. Teaches me how to live and enjoy again. It was a long three years. Yes, Love. Love is beautiful and pure. Aset tells me we are all loved. Even the ones that have too much evil attached to them. They are loved. Someday they’ll be at peace but they’ll have to keep coming back till there at the bottom and can see the real meaning in life. Which is what? She won’t tell me that ever. No one knows and never will. Infinity is endless even if it keeps fleeing farther away. Most beings destroy the life sustaining planets. That’s why there are so many without life. In the end it is all revealed and we all move on to the next. Leaving no trace of whats all happened here. Only a whisper from the Gods. A whisper from us. The end, written by Tiffany Anne Epstein (only fiction please don’t be offended)

Once upon a time, for this is a fairy tale, and that is how all fairy tales begin, there was a king who ruled over the city of Traskia. But this story is not about the king, but rather about a young man called Tang, who was as far from being a king as anyone could imagine. The sun was setting as Tang set up his camp for the night. He set his pack down beside the knarred oak. The tree had an inviting hollow at the base which was just right for his small body to curl into. He would sleep comfortably tonight, something that he often couldn’t take for granted. But first he needed to something warm in his stomach, so he set about gathering twigs and small branches to set up his cooking fire. Luckily it had not rained for a few days, so the kindling was dry and caught easily when he stuck his firestone. He set his small cooking pot over the fire, filled it with water from the stream he had discovered earlier, and started to prepare a stew from the meagre ingredients he had gathered - berries, some mushrooms, grana bark which would give the stew a tangy bitter flavour, but one he had grown accustomed to over the years. The wind picked up, swirling the leaves on the ground around him and singing a mournful song in the branches above. He settled down into the hollow and ate slowly. From this vantage point he had a good view of the valley spread out before him. In the distance, the fires from Traskia slowly winked into existence. When he observed it objectively, the sight was beautiful. He considered for a while how it must be to actually live there, to see the welcoming lights getting nearer, the anticipation of warmth and family. He shook his head, reprimanding himself for thinking so fancifully. He was hatha, an outcast, at best pitied, at worst shunned and ignored. It wasn’t always so. He had had family, a mother who loved him, an older brother who teased him but ultimately also cared deeply about him, and younger sister whom he cherished dearly. But he was also always aware from an early age of people who looked at him strangely, who crossed the street instead of passing him by. Later, as it became obvious what he was, he knew he could no longer stay. He didn’t want to bring shame on his family, so he had crept away one night, out into the dark and hostile forest, never again to return to his village. He cursed his sentimentality as he warmed his gnarled hands on the still warm pot. He was better off how he was, he didn’t need anyone else. He ignored the small voice which yearned for light and companionship, and settled down for the night, taking his threadbare blanket out of his backpack and setting it around his shoulders. The night was cool, so he put some more branches on the fire. They would see his fire from the town, of course, there wasn’t any avoiding that, but the townspeople would leave him alone, they wouldn’t make the effort so seek out the source of a single campfire. *** He awoke to the sound of voices not far off. It was still nighttime, the moon had set some time ago, so he pushed himself deeper into the tree and looked around carefully. He saw torches now, and they were coming his way. He thanked the stars his fire had gone out earlier. As quietly as he could, he shouldered his backpack and crept deeper into the undergrowth. The voices were nearer now, four maybe five men. And not just any men, these were the king’s own footmen. What the hell were they doing here in the dead of night? They were following the track he himself had used earlier, swinging their torches to the left and right. He praised his own presence of mind that he had chosen a campsite away from the track and deeper into the forest. He pushed himself deeper into the undergrowth, flattening his diminutive form low against the foliage. He knew what would happen to him if they found him. He had heard rumours of the king’s mines deep underneath Traskia, and of course he believed them. The voices and the lights faded, and Tang breathed a sigh of relief. It was stupid of him to come this close to the capitol of course, but somehow he always had to come back, drawn like a moth to a flame by the dream of companionship, of a comfortable chair by a fireside and a tankard of ale in his hand. He waited another few minutes until he was certain the men weren’t coming back, then he pushed himself up from the undergrowth and brushed himself off. What on earth were those footmen doing in this part of the forest? Had a prisoner escaped? He’d best be moving on, and this time he wouldn’t take the trail, he would stay deeper in the forest, where there was less chance of being surprised. He would move around the rim of the valley, keeping the lights of Traskia in his sight as orientation as it was still several hours till dawn. *** At first he thought it was his imagination, the wind playing tricks with his mind. It had picked up more, and now it was blowing a gale, bending the trees wildly, howling a ghostly lament in the treetops. But no, perhaps he hadn’t imagined it - there it was again. He stood still, trying to ignore the sound of the wind for that other small sound he was now sure he had heard. And now it came to him distinctly, a faint voice crying against the gale. It was hard to ascertain the direction it came from, but it seemed to be coming from somewhere to his left. He moved cautiously, stopping every few meters to listen for the sound. He heard it again, this time louder, so he was sure that he was going in the right direction. Why was he following this voice? Surely it would be better for him to ignore this and go his own way, keep himself safe? But something drew him on, perhaps it was the plaintive distress of another human and a desire to comfort that voice which led him on. He was close now, he was sure of it, and there was no mistaking the cry for help. With a lurch he suddenly found his feet slipping out from under him, and he grabbed wildly for a tree trunk to stop him from tumbling down the steep slope that had opened up before him. He cried out in surprise, and as he did so a voice cried up to him: “Who’s there? Please, help me!” Tang peered down into the darkness. It was a girl’s voice, it sounded quite young, and certainly scared. He called down to her: “My name’s Tang! Don’t be afraid, I’ll try and help.” “Please Tang, don’t leave me here, I’m so afraid!” Tang debated whether or not to remove his rucksack. It would easier to climb down without it, of course, but he might need its contents when he was down there. He decided to keep it on, calling down to the girl that he was coming to her, before slowly inching his way down, his body pressed against the steep slope, his hands and feet feeling for roots and branches to stop himself tumbling down. He prayed that he would find an easier way out of here when light returned. The gale had reached a fever pitch now, the howling of the wind and the groaning of the trees so loud that it seemed to Tang that he was descending into the jaws of Hell itself. He finally felt the slope become less steep, and he was able to stand. He called out to the girl once more to determine her location, then carefully made his way in her direction. When he found her, he reached out to comfort her, and heard the girl cry out in astonishment. But not fear, and that encouraged him to sit down beside her. He pulled out the blanket from his backpack and placed it carefully around her shoulders. “Who are you? Are you hurt? What are you doing down here?”. He fired the questions in quick succession, then, realizing his voice must have sounded harsh, fell silent and waited for the girl to answer. “My name is Tara”, the girl replied after a short silence. “I live in the city with my family. I left to go to the village of Dizar, I have a cousin there. I was walking in the forest when I lost my way. I didn’t see this slope, and now my leg hurts so badly, I’m not sure I can stand on it. I called and called, but the wind is so loud, I had almost given up hope of anyone finding me.” The girl fell silent again, and Tang regarded her thoughtfully. Dizar was ten leagues away, hardly a journey one would undertake before nightfall, and one would usually take the paths, rather than walk through the deep forest. And on a night like this too! Instead of questioning this, he simply said: “You’d better get some rest. You’re safe for now, and I’ll have a look at that leg in the morning. I can’t do anything before daybreak.” The girl seemed to acknowledge the wisdom of this, pulling the small blanket tighter around her and resting her head against Tang’s shoulder. Hesitantly, Tang put his arm around the girl and pulled her closer. She didn’t resist, and soon he heard the gentle and regular sound of her breathing against the wild frenzy of the gale. He lay awake a while, thinking. This was something he never thought he would experience again, a companionship and a closeness to another human being. The girl reminded him of his younger sister, of the times he had often comforted her when she had fallen down, or when she had woken in the night from a bad dream and had come to him for reassurance. Was this what he was secretly yearning for? Why he always drawn to the towns even though he was an outcast? Still, it would probably be different in the morning. The girl would wake and be afraid of him. And then? He couldn’t just leave her, she needed help. These thoughts swirled through his mind, until the incessant howling of the wind and the gentle breathing of the girl drew him into a fitful slumber. *** Tang awoke at daybreak. The girl was still sleeping, so he gently eased himself away from her and stretched to shake off the uncomfortable position in which he had slept. The girl was younger than he had thought, possibly twelve or thirteen, but of course already a good head taller than him. She was pretty, with fair skin and smooth hands, and long red hair tied back in a plait. She was wearing a simple travelling cloak and rough clothes. What on earth was she doing out here on her own? The girl awoke and met is gaze without flinching. “Thank you, Tang” she said simply, and he nodded. He gave her some food from his backpack, before setting about looking at her leg. It didn’t look broken, thank goodness, but she might well have twisted her ankle and it would be painful to walk. Still, they would have to try. He would find her a stick to lean on, and he could prop her up on the other side, and perhaps they would make progress. They would have to stick to the trail, of course, and take the direct route down into the valley. And then? Tang didn’t really want to enter the city itself, but what choice was there? He would figure out something when they had got that far, first they had to get out of this ditch. That proved easier than he would have thought, as they appeared to be in an old dried up riverbed. By walking along the bottom of the riverbed, they eventually came to a place which was shallow enough that they could climb out without too much difficulty. They walked till they reached the crest of a small hill, when Traskia itself came into view. From here it would be easy enough to find one of the trails leading down into the valley, and after a short while they came across one which Tang was sure would lead in the right direction. Progress was easier now, but it was still slow going, the girl resting her weight on his shoulders, and using the branch he had found to stabilize herself with the other hand. The girl said little on the journey and he fell to wondering how he was going to get her back to her family. The storm of last night had abated, but the wind was still blowing strongly. Above the sound of the wind he now heard a different sound, one that clenched his heart with fear. The steady thud of horse hooves, and by the sound of it they were on the path behind them, approaching fast. He could almost sense the steam of the horses’ breath on his back, feel the pounding of their hooves in his bones. Before he had time to react, they were upon him. The last thing he heard was the cry of the girl, before his world exploded into darkness. *** When he awoke, it was again dark. His head pounded - someone had obviously hit him very hard on the back of the head - and he had trouble focusing on where he was. As his vision cleared, it appeared he was in a small dark room, the only light filtering down from a tiny window high above. A heavy wooden door with a small window at the top told him all he needed to know - he was in a prison cell. He was free to move around, they hadn’t bothered to chain him up, so obviously he wasn’t a very important prisoner, for which Tang was grateful. But why had they brought him here at all? Why hadn’t they taken him to the mines directly? He cursed his own carelessness and stupidity. What had he been thinking, helping that girl? The girl! Tara! What had they done with her? He sank to the ground and groaned, rubbing his face in his hands. How was he going to get out of his one? Then he got up, went over to the door and banged as loudly as he could. “Hey, let me out” he shouted, knowing at the same time that that was a pretty pointless thing to say. It did attract attention though, and before long he heard footsteps approaching, before the small window has thrown open. “Look, the prisoner’s awake!” laughed a voice. Tang stepped back to look up at the face in the window. “Why am I here?” he cried, “I’ve done nothing wrong!” “Nothing wrong?” the voice laughed again. “I wouldn’t call kidnapping the king’s daughter nothing! You’re going to hang for that one. They’re preparing the gallows already!” The window slammed shut, and Tang fell back to the floor in astonishment. Tara, the king’s daughter? He couldn’t believe it! Why was the king’s daughter out in the middle of the forest at night? Had she run away? That would explain the footmen, of course - the king must have had half his men out looking for the girl. Why didn’t he think of that? There was a low bed covered in straw in the corner of the room. He went over and lay down, his head still pounding from the knock he had received, but now from the knowledge that he would almost certainly be hanged in the morning. He could tell the truth, of course, but who would believe him? He closed his eyes, and covered his face with his hands. A weariness overcame him, and he fell into another deep sleep. *** He awoke to the sound of the door being opened, and before he knew what was happening, he was enveloped in a warm embrace, the long red hair flowing over his face. Tara! She wasn’t wearing the rough clothes from the night before, but rather a flowing red dress to match her fiery hair. Her foot was bandaged, but she seemed to be walking a lot better today. “I’m so glad I found you!” she cried after she had released him from her firm embrace. “I tried to tell the guards, but they wouldn’t believe me. I told my father last night how stupid I was to run away, and all you had done for me. You must come with me now, he wants to meet you!” In a daze, Tang took the girl’s hand as she led him up out of the dungeon, through the streets of Traskia and up the hill to the castle. All along the way, people stared in astonishment at this strange scene. She took him through the main entrance and up many a winding staircase, until they came to a room with a roaring fire with comfortable chairs. The king himself stood up to greet him. “I owe you my thanks, Tang!” said the king, offering him a tankard of ale. “Let’s toast my daughter’s safe return” - at this point he cast an exasperated smile at his daughter - “and from this point on you are always welcome in my city”. And of course, for this is a fairy tale and how all fairy tales end, Tang lived happily ever after in the city that finally welcomed him home.

He can barely see the stars from his position on the bed, looking out the window in the middle of the night,and fighting sleep. He knows tomorrow is his last day. He has to leave the one person that makes him happy. The one that hung a wrecking ball in his gut and set it to the function of a pendulum. Its now a swinging weight, and has become the sole time keeping element of his life, keeping him stable. Or like a hula hoop. He's the hoop that's swinging around, even when he's exhausted at times and just wants to stop for a minute. He can't, because he knows that he would fall down if he stops. And that person, he has to let go. Tomorrow is his last chance. The sun is gonna rise in a few hours, the day is gonna slip through his fingers like a fist full of sand, without him being able to do anything about it. Sleep consumes him even as he struggles and refuses to let time jump ahead while he is asleep. He doesn't want to go back to being temporarily dead. He wants to stay awake, and alive, every second of the night and the day that follows, intertwining their fingers tightly, as if he can stop their hand from slipping away with his strength. The sun wakes him up through the window, and, having heard all his suffering and whining to stay awake during the night before, was probably expecting gratitude, but the second he opens his eyes, he resents the sun and wishes for the star to go start revolving for once and to get away from the earth. Or to revolve in correspondence to the earth so that it will forever be today. Maybe then, perhaps, he would be able to appreciate the day better. Because he does have them in their arms, right now, doing a better job at keeping him warm, than the blanket is. And if he weren't so scared about the sudden coldness he'd have to deal with tomorrow, he could let the warmth reach his mind, and let the day make him some fond memories. The day is supposed to be his last happy day with the one, but he can already feel the adjective slipping out of the sentence. But no. He cannot let that happen. Cannot lose his present as well. So he gains strength, takes a deep breath,and wills himself to open his eyes again, which automatically darted towards them, like its as natural as blinking. Like that's what his eyes are supposed to be doing, when they're not blinking or sleeping, looking at them. The one's occupied with their phone, the laughter in their eyes highlighted by the light from the screen. Some meme, probably. So ignorant of the feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wants to stop time and appreciate them, or to slow it down, slow it down so much that he doesn't want to feel it move. The crinkle at the corner of their eyes. The loopsided smirk? probably for understanding a difficult pun. And now, as they turn towards him, the dark grey in their eyes. He didn't know before, that darkness could be so full of light. He didn't know that they could suck a person in like this. Like a blackhole. Like a void. Except, he wants, or maybe needs, to be the victim. Bloody succubus! A huff escapes his lungs, as he closes his eyes. "Grumpy, first thing in the morning?", he can hear the teasing in the voice. The sound of their phone being plugged in to charge, the squeak and the matress shift beside him makes him blink his eyes open. Tender and smiling eyes, looking back at him. So lovely that they can bring a smile on his otherwise permanently frowned face. So granted he took them, before. All those days when he didn't know what to do with them, he could've just done this. Look at them. Listen to them. Breathe with them. Breathe for them. "Excited about the day?" He asks, carefully, not saying last, the word that's screaming into his ears from inside his mind. The visible excitement without a trace of worry as they sit up, plug out the phone and reopen the ticket picture for the hundredth time almost makes him glad because they don't deserve this pain that he's feeling. A theme park. A happy day. So that's what he gives them. And that's what he tries to have. And they both explore the meaning of bittersweet, like the reflections of them both in the society. Him bitter, them sweet. And as they bid goodbye in the night, when he lies down, on the bed, with them by his side, them still slightly smiling at him, a hint of sadness now, though, but not so much as him,no, this is a bit like pity, like when the fairy has to bid a child goodbye. Which is funny, because he thinks she is kind of like a child that he would adopt for the day. But no, he is the child adopted for the day, to give him a taste of what he doesn't have the other days. Only to take it back. And let him starve, for days, until he feels like he'd die. And then give it to him again, to make him live, for two days, but not really because the second day he starts deteriorating. And then ever so sweetly, making him look like the bitter one. Its like they're the perfect definition of a sadist, he thinks, as he subconsciously snuggles in, breathes them in, one last time. "Satan", he sighs. In reply, comes a smile that he can hear, and a moment later feel, against his lips. Like the kiss of Judas. To a bull left in a fight to it's death. Or to a man left in his life to live the everlasting undeath. "Stay alive until next time, and we might go scuba diving!"

I sprinted over to Lachlann. He lay face down next to a small pile of rocks at the bottom of the cliff. I reached down and pulled on his shoulder, rolling him over. I recoiled. My stomach wretched and I felt vomit in the back of my throat. Even though I only saw him for a beat, the image was already etched in my mind, carved like the great granite cliffs beside me so that no erosion could ever remove it. He had landed on the corner of his face, just next to the left temple. The area of skull that met the rock shattered on impact, breaking apart the eye socket. Nothing remained of his eye. Behind him the rocks were crimson, thick splatters of blood splashed against the rocks like flecks of paint from a carelessly flung brush. I slowly turned back to where he lay. “Is he...” I didn’t want to finish the sentence. Alessia decided I didn’t have to. “Yes.” My arms jolted and seized, as I felt the concoction of grief boiling in the back of my throat. “There must be something we can do.” “He’s already gone, Ferdinand.” Alessia grabbed both my shoulders, holding eye contact and keeping me still. I turned my head away from her. “Surely we can do something for him.” Alessia grabbed my head and pulled it back to face hers. “He’s gone, Ferdinand.” “We can bury him,” Kurbani said. “Like he deserves.” “I can... I’ll lift him...” I couldn’t find any words. Alessia tightened her grip on my shoulders. “Kurbani and I will take him back to the boat. You wanna be of use, go help Xander. Find Sannaz.” She paused waiting for me to react, but I failed to fully process the instructions. “Go.” I ran back up the hill, the view blurry, Lachlann’s broken face smeared across my vision. There was also a small voice in the back of my mind running over everything I said and what could’ve been said differently; what might’ve saved Lachlann’s life. In that moment, his life had been entrusted in my hands. And I failed him. By the time I reached the summit the red embers of the sky had been snuffed out, trodden down to a black star-filled ash. I turned and headed south west, where we had seen Sannaz leave. Nothing seemed distinct in the nighttime. Flickering distant trees could be a torso - a branch, an arm. The shapeless wall at the edge of the town could mask a body for hours until the light came again. I scanned every direction for something that looked unnatural, something more than vegetation. I saw a figure walking towards me, but the frame wasn’t that of Sannaz. “Xander,” I called out. He noticed and walked towards me with slow trudging footsteps. “Lost him,” he said as his features came into view. “Could be anywhere by now.” He rested, his hands on his thighs. “Lachlann?” I shook my head. I refused to say the words. “Shit. Poor man.” “Kurbani and Alessia are taking him back to the boat.” I looked around at our surroundings, making sure that nothing moved. “We won’t find him tonight. And leave it much longer we’re more likely to find a northern soldier.” “He was there, Xander.” I pointed to the darkness. “We were this close.” “Trust me when I say we will find him and I will kill him.” Xander’s promise of revenge seemed to contain a new wrath. “But it’s not going to be tonight.” There was another explosion in the distance, the first one for a few minutes. I turned to the noise as the shockwave rippled my shirt. “We need to get back to the boat.” I shook my head as we spoke, denying my own instruction to give up the hunt. We jogged together back down the slope towards the harbour, both of us refusing to say anything more. Lachlann was dead. Sannaz had escaped. We had lost another life, and gained nothing. There was a growing hollow sensation at the core of my stomach. Not pain, not rage, not angst just, a void - a vacuum sucking energy and warmth from everything around it, until I would be left as a husk. As we reached the water I could see the great Deer Drum ship ahead of us forty metres out. It dwarfed every other boat on the island, looking almost like a caricature next to the small fishing vessels. I stepped up onto the wall and turned left. “Where do you think you’re going?” Xander asked. “The rowboat?” I examined the waterfront, looking for where I’d tied it. “How do you think Alessia and Kay got back?” I turned back to Xander. “So we’re stuck?” Xander huffed and pulled his shirt off over his wide shoulders and dropped it to the ground below. “You can swim can’t you?” He walked to the wall’s edge and dived head first into the water. He disappeared for a few seconds before resurfacing, going straight into an effortful but inefficient crawl. I scanned the seafront once more for a rowboat. From the town I could see people running down the winding path. Some carried a few precious belongings. Others had small children clasped to their hip. Others just ran, abandoning all they had known. But all of them were heading for the water. I stripped off my shirt and dived into the sea, feeling myself engulfed in the salty waters of Granite Vowhorn. As the water rushed over my skin, pooling around my nose, eyes and ears, I wondered how much that hole inside me weighed. Would I just sink to the bottom of the harbour and disappear among the dark waters? For the briefest moment, there was quiet. The world was peaceful. Serene. All the chaos and violence and horror was a problem for the world above. I swam beneath the surface, comforted by the embrace of the water around me, taking long breast strokes until my lungs demanded relief. My head hit the air. The distant sound of burning buildings and people shouting returned. The turmoil was still there. Through tired instinct, I stretched out my arms, and began pulling my hands through the water. No part of me was consciously focused on those strokes, the numbness had reached my head, and there it remained until my hands hit metal. I shuffled along until I found a section of rope netting draped as a ladder down the side of the boat. I climbed, pulled myself over the top and hit the floor, lying on my back panting with exhaustion. “Here.” I turned to see Kurbani throw a towel and one of Xander’s shirts down beside me. I dried myself as the rest of the islanders prepared the boat to leave. “We got enough room to turn?” “Just.” “Drop the foresail.” “Dropping the foresail.” The commands went back and forth. “Where’s Alessia?” I asked as Kurbani passed me. She turned as she walked, hurrying to the rear of the ship. “Gone back to her boat. Said she’d meet us a mile or two out.” I picked the shirt off the floor as Xander passed me. He hit me on the arm, the wet skin making a slapping noise and leaving a slight sting. “You okay?” I nodded, giving a half-truth. I pulled the shirt on. It was at least two sizes too big, but it would do for now. In front I could see Xander, leaning over the side of the boat, looking back to the town. “Raise the anchor,” Eir called out. I heard someone turn a capstan, and the great chain begin to lift. “Wait. Drop the anchor!” Xander called out. “What?” “Drop the anchor. Do it. Now.” Xander walked over towards the chain, prepared to kick it down himself if necessary. “Why?” “Look.” He pointed to the harbour. I ran to where Xander had been and leaned over. People had fled the town until they ran out of land. And when they had to keep fleeing, they did so, jumping into the seas, nowhere else to go. Xander sprinted down the boat and called out to Eir at the helm. “How many can we hold, at least till the next island?” “I mean, we have sixty rooms.” “If we all squeeze. How many?” Eir took a deep breath. “If we sail straight there, we’ve got enough food and water for a couple hundred.” Xander turned slowly, making sure every islander had eye contact for at least one syllable. “Then that’s how many we take. This is Deer Drum. These people are fleeing. We rescue them.” Around the boat, people nodded. “Eir, we may have to go quickly when we’re ready so prepare.” Xander pointed as he gave instructions. “Kurbani you keep count of those coming on board. Sirad, stay by the anchor. Lift it as soon as we hit two hundred. Everyone else, help.” I looked over to see a group of Southerners who had sprinted around the harbour and were now standing opposite me, looking out across the water. We waved to them, beckoning them to us. One by one, they jumped in, deciding to risk the waters rather than stay on their home. The sea quickly became a frenzy of thrashing limbs, the flat water of the cove turned to foam as bodies collided in their rush to escape. The mass of heads, arms and legs moved towards us till they began climbing the netting. As the swarm reached us, we outstretched our arms and pulled them over the final metre. One evacuee at a time, we took them aboard and offered them safety. Each one was greeted and taken somewhere below deck, out of the action and into the dry. We kept going. Pulling men, women, boys, girls, babies, from the water and onto the boat until there was no one left. Everyone who had fled was either in our boat or jumped aboard one of the fishing vessels. “That’s the last of them!” Xander shouted. “Let’s get out of here.” I looked back at the empty harbour. Who knew how many were still in that town hiding, or already found. But there was no one left calling out for help. Those whose pleas we saw, we had answered. We unleashed the sails and the winds kicked us away from the island. I was spent. I leaned back against one of the masts, sliding down the great wooden beam, until every inch of me was pressed against wood. Xander walked over. He leaned down and smacked me on the shoulder, then held his hand there. He had a wide grin on his face. I understood why. And I smiled back. Many people would have died when the Southern town was invaded. Some of them would’ve been soldiers, others just people in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was more destruction, more death, more loss. But for that hour, as we pulled the tired, frightened evacuees from the water, we stood against it all. We were in the right place at the right time. Across the other side of the boat I could see Novak sitting in the corner, holding Lachlann’s guitar. He looked down at the instrument in his lap, still as big as he was. With all the commotion, no one had checked on Lachlann’s musical mentee. I pulled myself up and slowly walked over to him. I knew I had to speak to him, but even as I arrived, I had no idea what I would say. “Can I sit with you?” He suddenly jolted his head to me, seemingly unaware of my approach. After a second he nodded. I shimmied around the guitar and sat down so that the neck stretched across me. I looked at the frets and the points on the strings where fingers had worn away at the wire. I could see stained wood, a million fingerprints leaving their oily trace on Lachlann’s favourite chords until the grain lightened. “They said...” Novak chose his words carefully, negating the reality. “Lachlann’s not coming back.” “Yes. I’m sorry.” I grimaced. “Just like everyone else.” There was a pang in my chest thinking at all the loss the boy had suffered on Deer Drum. “Did the same people get Lachlann?” Novak asked, turning to me. “Yes.” Novak glanced back to the guitar. “What do you think they’ll do with this?” “I think you should keep it.” Though I had no grounds to say it, it felt perfectly correct. “He would’ve wanted you to have it.” We both watched as a mixture of islanders and evacuees trudged back-and-forth in front of us, shoes trampling over what remained of Xander’s vegetable garden. “Lachlann’s been... was good to me.” Novak’s eyes remained fixed on the passers by. “He liked you. He wanted to spend time with you.” I tried to offer what comforting platitudes I could as I stared at Novak’s face, trying to see his reaction. “I liked spending time with him too.” “I’ll always remember the songs he played for us,” I smiled. Novak lifted up the guitar slightly, looking at it. “I’m going to keep playing, become as good as he was. Continue what he did.” “That’s...” I paused, a genuine smile crossing my lips. “That is exactly what he would want.” “You think?” He turned to me, sensing the shift in my tone. “That’s what we should all do. Try and be a bit more like Lachlann.” Novak rotated the guitar and placed his hands against the strings. “Can I play you the tune he taught me?” I grinned at the hint of energy in Novak’s voice. Novak nervously placed his fingers in the right positions, counted the beats in his head, and began strumming. I leaned my head back against the side of the ship, listening to the melody. The music continued. -------------------------------- We met up with Alessia two hours or so out to sea. Granite Vowhorn was nothing but a silhouette. A distant set of lights, impossible to distinguish between town and fire. Xander, Kurbani, Alessia and I sat on the deck of Alessia’s boat, pulling a few crates round into a circle. The rest stayed behind, helping organise the evacuees: handing out whatever blankets they could find, or finding a space of floor on which to sleep. “Where will you go?” Alessia asked. Xander sighed. “Amnia Garman is the nearest place. Drop off the refugees there. Then, back to Talin Barier.” “Talin?” “Yeah. For Lachlann.” Xander pointed a thumb to Kurbani. “We took him back to his room - he’s the only one with his own place tonight.” She let out a small chuckle despite the watery film to her eyes. “There were some letters on the side from his sister. That’s where he was from. Originally. She still lives there in those slums. It’s not good news, but... she should decide what to do.” “Why did he never tell us?” I squinted. Kurbani shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes when you come from not a lot it’s easier to reinvent yourself I guess. I imagine there’s a lot we’ll never know. All we get to know is who he became. A friend.” We sat around in that circle and shared stories. We cried. We laughed. We frowned, and we smiled, until we had said what needed to be said; until his good life was spoken to the ocean. Finally, Kurbani stood up. “We should get going, but I think there’s only one way we should end this.” I looked up. “How?” She closed her eyes and sang. Her voice found a perfect contralto tone. Soft, melodic, and sombre. My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song? The sweet notes where the nightingale flows? For to hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale. We all quietly sang the final two lines. As she sings in the valley below, As she sings in the valley below. We all remained in silence, letting the last notes resonate and hum against the wood, until their energy was gone. Kurbani walked over and embraced us both, holding us tight. “Stay safe out there.” “We will,” Alessia replied. We said goodbye, and untied the boats. Deer Drum left once more, filled with a new set of evacuees, and drifted off into the night. I sat back down on the crate next to Alessia. The boat floated aimlessly in the sea, slowly rising and falling over the waves. We were quiet, just listening to the sound of the ocean. The creaking of the old wood. The sloshing of water against the hull. The wind whistling in the loose sail. I thought for a moment of old idioms people would say when someone died on Kadear. “They’ve gone to a better place,” “They live on in your memories,” “They’re at peace now.” My mind was stuck on that last one. It angered me. If it were true, then Sannaz was right. Death is the best outcome, and we should all embrace its swift arrival. No. Lachlann wasn’t at peace. He just wasn’t there any more. A path of writing songs, or laughing with friends, of travelling the Archipelago. All the endless possibilities of the future, the love he might meet, the family he might raise, the fame he might find. Whatever eventualities awaited him, whether they were world-altering or merely mundane were snuffed out. All the potential in the world was reduced to one absolute certainty. The exactness of nothing. To rebel against that, wasn’t to say Lachlann was at peace, and it wasn’t to sit around quietly mourning. No doubt grief was coming for me, but as I sat there, in the peaceful ocean night I thought back to Novak’s simple plan to keep playing. And so I would too. Live double the life, go on twice as many adventures, share twice as many jokes with friends, bring twice as much happiness, and feel twice as much love. That was the rebellion. To reclaim what was lost. My reflection was interrupted by Alessia. “How you holding up?” “A bit better. We did a good thing helping those people on Granite Vowhorn. But, I know when I lay down tonight, I’m going to think back to Lachlann.” I stared off into the black void of the ocean and the distant outline of the Deer Drum boat. “I’m going to think every night. Think on what I said. And what I could’ve said to save him.” “Nothing.” Alessia said. “You heard Sannaz. He is killing because he believes it’s right. Even if you gave him everything he wanted he would’ve pushed Lachlann off that cliff.” My face twitched, but the doubtful frown remained. She shuffled to one side and grabbed my hands, holding them in hers. “Honestly, if anyone is smart enough and stupid enough and can speak well enough to stop a murderer with just words, it would be you. But the truth is, Lachlann was dead as soon as Sannaz laid eyes on him.” I nodded. Alessia let go of my hands, letting them fall into my lap. “When you think of that conversation, what you should be thinking is what we can use *now*. What did he say that can help us find him.” “There was nothing, Alessia. Just nonsense.” I bowed my head “Think.” She leaned down, making sure she stayed in my eye line. “He must’ve said something.” I took a deep breath and pulled my shoulders back. I stared up at the sky, and tried reliving the conversation. “He spoke about some site. He’s trying to find a place that he thinks we know. Somewhere, tied to the Archipelago’s birth, that he wants to find.” “Okay. So we find that before he does.” Alessia nodded. “There was all that stuff about why killing was for the greater good.” My head shivered with the memory. “He said he’d heard about us, me specifically. That he’d heard about why I was travelling the Archipelago.” Alessia shuffled back on her crate, rolling her head from side to side. “Okay, so he’s been asking after us.” “There was one thing.” I looked forward, peering into my memory. “What?” “He said he’d tried to find out more about me. Said he’d followed me and even visited... Pomafauc Reset?” I shook my head. “I’ve never even heard of that place.” Alessia quickly averted her eyes, her mouth slightly open. “Uh. You have.” I stared at her, waiting for a response. “What?” “I heard about it on those trading missions.” She spoke hesitantly, choosing each word. “It’s undergone some changes. So it altered its name. It used to be different.” “Alessia,” I said, a hint of irritation. “What did it used to be called?” She grimaced. “Kadear Coalfields.” # END OF BOOK TWO \ Book three of The Archipelago will begin the 3rd March 2022.

Calling 9-1-1 Rose: A voice asked, “Please state your emergency: Police, Fire or Ambulance?” “This is Rosemary Wesley; There’s been a vehicle rollover, on the S-curve in the Stevenson Road, eleven miles south of Paisley. “There’s an overturned half-ton truck in the ditch. The headlights are on and the wheels are still spinning. I’m going down there to see if anyone is inside. The hill is so steep, I’ll have to use a rope. I’ll leave my truck on the shoulder of the road with the four-way lights flashing,” I added. “Help is on the way.” The operator replied. “Please stay on the line so you can advise the number of passengers and their condition.” “Will do. I’ll need both hands for descending the hill, so I won’t be able to talk again until I’m there.” Tucking the phone into my coat pocket, I reached for the coil of rope I kept in the truck bed, opened the passenger door and tied one end of the rope to the opened window frame. I edged down the steep hill, using the rope to anchor my feet on the icy surface. The falling sleet trickled down my neck, soaking me to the skin. I’d come out of the office to find the spring rain had turned into sleet, coating the roads with a layer of ice. When I reached the bottom, I spoke to the operator again. “I’m down the hill, and approaching the vehicle now. It’s on its roof, and I’ll try to open the driver’s door.” Using my tiny flashlight, I shone the beam inside. “It looks like there’s only one person inside, a male who’s suspended upside down by his seat belt and appears to be semi-conscious.” “I copy - one male passenger with indeterminate injuries,” the 9-1-1 operator said. “Please stay at the scene until emergency crews arrive, and keep the victim awake, if possible.” “I’ll do that. I’m trying to open the door but it seems to be stuck.” The door was jammed. I yanked on the handle several times, then realized it could be locked from the inside. Leaning down, I tapped on the window, motioning him to unlock the door. He looked confused. I shouted, “Unlock the door!” He sluggishly reached across with his right hand to push the button to release the lock. I realized his left arm was must be pinned against the caved in door. I tried again, but it wouldn’t budge, so I asked him to open his window. He finally pressed the window button and held it. It opened halfway. I was able to see inside, and confirm that he was alone in the truck. There was blood on his face, and I wondered how bad he was hurt. If he hadn’t been wearing the seat belt, he’d likely have gone through the windshield, which was laying on the ground. I considered trying to help get him out through the hole, but decided to wait for the paramedics, lest I complicate his injuries. I told him my name, and asked his. “Ben Buchanan,” he rasped. He was a young man, with dark hair, wearing a dark suit jacket but no tie. I remembered the operator’s instructions to keep him talking, so I told him it was a dangerous road in bad weather, and that I lived nearby. In fact, my lane was just a few yards beyond, and I had been almost home when I’d spotted headlights in the ditch. He said he’d been on his way home from his grandfather’s funeral, and it had turned to sleet as he drove. He’d swerved to miss a fallen tree branch, and had lost control on that bad curve. I’d seen that branch, jutting out onto the roadway, and had been able to miss it. Being familiar with the road, I’d been driving especially slowly as I approached the S-curve, knowing it had been the scene of many accidents, and tonight’s icy conditions had made it treacherous. He said he couldn’t move his left arm; it was jammed against the door frame, and he thought it might be broken. I noted that the dash was crunched in, but his legs didn’t seem pinned. He said he wasn’t in any pain; he was possibly in shock, and not feeling it yet. Soon we heard multiple sirens, and as the flashing lights came into sight, I told him help had arrived, and they’d soon have him out of there. I stayed with him as all the emergency vehicles pulled up beside my old half-ton truck. Floodlights shone down on us, as the responders assessed the situation. I aimed my flashlight at the rope by which I’d descended the hillside, hoping they wouldn’t attempt that icy slope without assistance. But they had climbing gear, including a winch, and I stepped back as three men and one woman, in yellow slickers approached the wreck. Not wanting to be in their way, I told Ben that I wished him well, then carefully climbed back to my truck. I turned the heater up full blast and held my hands over the vent, trying to warm them. A Police officer came to my window, and I lowered it inviting her to sit inside, out of the sleet, to talk. She did so, asking what time I’d come upon the accident. I told her everything I knew about it. When I said my laneway was just ahead, and I needed to get home to let my dog out, and still had horses to feed, she agreed, saying she’d contact me later if she needed to. When she left, I eased my truck back onto the slick road and crawled the short distance to my lane. I was never so glad to see my cozy little farm house. After changing into warm dry clothes, and a rain slicker, hat and boots, I went out to feed the horses. They were huddled under the overhang, looking miserable. I let them in, tossed them each a biscuit of hay, closed their stall doors, and hurried back to the house. I wondered how badly hurt Ben Buchanan was, and hoped he’d be all right. It had been a rough day for him, first his grandfather’s funeral and then wrecking his truck on the way home. I hoped his injuries weren’t too serious. By the time the Police and paramedics had arrived, I’d felt like he was almost a friend. Ben The bright lights hurt my eyes, so I closed them again. When I next awoke, I saw that the walls were aqua, and a wavy patterned curtain hung beside my bed. Looking at the waves made me dizzy, so I looked away. I was in a bed with side rails. There was a cast on my left arm and my right one was attached to the bed rail. A tube ran from it to a bottle hanging from a tall pole. I realized I was in a hospital. I closed my eyes to shut out the harsh light and when I opened them again, the quiet shush of a nurse’s soft soled shoes approached my bed. She was tall and stern looking, until she smiled. “Good morning! I’m glad you’ve decided to join us at last!” Her voice spoke kindness and concern. “How long have I been sleeping?” I croaked. My throat was parched, and I gratefully drank from the straw in the glass of water she held for me. “Just a few sips at first, Mr. Buchanan. You’ve been out of it for a day and a half. From what the medics said, you were lucky to have so few injuries.” I looked at my cast, “What other injuries do I have?” “Your left arm is broken, and your left knee was jammed against the door. It’s not broken, but the bone is bruised. You’ll need crutches for a while. You have some stitches and a concussion from that bump on your head.” She stuck a thermometer in my ear, frowning as she recorded my temperature on a chart at the foot of my bed. Her fingers were cool on my wrist as she took my pulse, then pulled a machine on wheels to my bedside and slipped a blood pressure cuff on my arm. When it released, she smiled. “Your vitals are improving. You’ll likely be moved from ICU to a room of your own, after the doctor checks you.” “Can you free my right hand? I can’t even scratch my nose, with it tied down like this.” “You’ll want to scratch very gently. Your face is quite bruised. We secured your hand to prevent you from pulling the IV line out in your sleep. You’re receiving a mild pain med and fluids, to keep your body hydrated.” “I remember heading for home after my grandfather’s funeral, but nothing else.” “The roads were icy from freezing rain. You spun out on a curve and your truck rolled down a steep bank. It was on its roof, with you hanging upside down by your seatbelt. It’s good that you were wearing it - it likely saved your life. “A driver not far behind you, spotted your headlights in the ditch, and called 9-1-1. She lives just past the accident site, and she stayed with you until emergency personnel arrived,” she said, undoing the strap holding my right wrist to the metal railing. “I guess I owe her my life. I need to thank her.” “She’s called the hospital asking about you. I’ll find out her name for you.” “Thank you.” I said, as she left the room. I dozed again until the doctor bustled in. He glanced at my chart, and smiled. “I’m Dr. Nelson. I’m glad to see you’re doing better, Benjamin. We’ll move you to a ward upstairs this afternoon. I was concerned when you didn’t wake up sooner. You have a broken arm, a badly wrenched knee, a concussion and a few stitches on your forehead. Your face is bruised; you’ll have couple of shiners for a few days. Just say, ‘If you think I look bad, you should see the other guy!’” “Ow, it hurts to laugh. It feels like I’ve been run over by an Army tank, I said. “I’m due back in surgery, so I’ll look in on you tomorrow.” He was out the door before I could reply. A different nurse entered the room. She lowered the bed rail, pressed a button and the head of the bed started rising. When I was almost sitting straight up, she put an arm around my shoulders, the other under my knees, and swung me around so I was sitting on the side of the bed, without having to strain my sore ribs. “It’s time to get you upright. You’ve been lying in bed for too long. Let’s take a trip to the bathroom, and see how it feels to be mobile again.” She placed a pair of cotton hospital slippers with no-skid soles on my feet, and held me as I tried to stand. Every muscle in my body screamed at the punishment. She undid the IV pole, moved a wheelchair into place and eased me onto it. I was grateful for the effortless ride across the room to the washroom. My pillow looked like my best friend when I got back, and I was asleep as soon my head hit it. It seemed like no time at all until I was awakened again by an aide bringing dinner. It was scrambled eggs and toast, a small packet of strawberry jam, a glass of milk and a cup of coffee, with cream and sugar on the side. I told her to keep the cream and sugar, as I drink tea and coffee black. When I’d finished eating, I slept some more. My bed was moving! I awoke to find two orderlies lifting me onto a different bed. When they saw my eyes open, the one at the foot of the bed said, “You’re moving from ICU to your own room. That means you’re no longer considered critical, and you’re on the mend.” They swung my bed around, through the door, down the hall and into an elevator. I felt the rising movement and the sudden cessation of it as the elevator stopped. The door opened, and I was moving down another hall, around a corner and into my new room. The walls were light blue, and the bedside curtain was cream, thankfully with no wavy pattern to make me dizzy. A picture window with a wide ledge below it took up most of one wall. The afternoon sun brightened the room. “Do you want the curtain pulled?” one of the orderlies asked me. “No, leave it open, please.” I replied. “What floor am I on?” “The third floor, west wing,” he said, as he attached my IV line again. “You’ll get regular meals now and be able to have visitors.” “My only visitors might be the Police. I don’t know anyone else in the area.” “Is that so? I heard there’s a pretty young lady who’s been asking about you. Maybe you’re keeping secrets from us.” He winked, as they went out the door. That gave me something to think about - I hadn’t known anyone in this area. I was just driving home from my granddad’s funeral when the accident happened. Nobody would know I was here. I wondered if anyone had found my phone. I needed to notify my neighbor that I was stranded here so he could collect my mail and forward the important things to me. The building contractor I worked for needed to be advised that I was laid up, and wouldn’t be able to make custom cabinets for him for a while. If I lost the contract for the new high-end housing development, it would be a huge financial loss. I needed access to a computer, to manage my online banking, like utility payments. My head was buzzing with all the complications an icy road had caused. I hadn’t been speeding; it was dark and I remember feeling the wheels slipping on the ice, so I was taking it easy. Little bits of it came back to me now, but not the accident itself. I didn’t dare tell anyone that I’d seen an angel standing on her head, talking to me while I’d sat in my truck. Nobody would believe me; they’d think I’d been seeing things. Maybe I’d been so near death an angel had really appeared. I’ve heard of such things when a person almost dies. Trying to think about it made my head ache worse, so I closed my eyes again. Rose When I called the hospital this afternoon, the nurse told me Mr. Buchanan was awake, and had been moved from Intensive Care to a room, and he could have visitors. I’d been worried; Waiting with him for the ambulance had made me want assurance that he was okay. I asked at the nurse’s station for his room number, and took the elevator to the third floor, followed the signs to room 315. His face was bruised black and blue and he was sleeping. I’d seen little of him that night, only what my feeble my flashlight beam had shown. I remembered seeing blood on his face. No wonder he’d been in a coma for a day and a half. Despite the livid bruising, I could tell he was young and handsome. His curly hair was a deep auburn, and he had laugh lines around his eyes. I still couldn’t see what color they were. I left him sleeping and went to the cafeteria for coffee, He was awake when I returned to his room, but he was not alone. A Police officer was with him, so I stayed out in the hall. I heard part of their conversation, the officer telling him that his truck had been hauled to the Police locked yard, and that it was a write-off. I’d guessed as much from what I’d seen that night. Not wanting to eavesdrop, I walked to the corner of the hall and back, then to the other end and back. The officer was leaving when I got there, and he smiled as we met in the hall. I suddenly felt shy about talking to Ben. He turned his head slowly and looked as I entered the room. “Hello, Mr. Buchanan, I see you are awake now.” His eyes were blue like the sky outside his window. “Uh-uh, not Mr. Buchanan, that’s my dad! I’m Ben,” he said in a raspy voice. “Okay, Ben. I’m Rosemary, or Rose to my friends. You’re more colorful now but better than the last time I saw you,” I said with a smile. “Don’t laugh, but you remind me of the angel that was standing on her head and talking to me when I was in my wrecked truck the other night.” “Sorry, but I have to laugh at that. I’m not an angel and I was not standing on my head; it’s you and the truck who were upside down. I’m glad you’re on the mend. When you see someone in a difficult situation, it makes you want to know that things turned out all right.” “‘Thank You,’ does not nearly express my gratitude. The Police told me there was little traffic that night, due to the ice storm. If you hadn’t found me, I could have hung there upside down until morning. He said you likely saved my life, so I owe you big time.” “A simple ‘Thanks’ is plenty. I’m so glad I could help.” I felt tingles go all through me as my eyes met his, like I was seeing my future, and he would play an important part in it. Ben: I’d seen myself in the bathroom mirror, and knew I looked like Frankenstein’s monster. How could this lovely girl smile at me? She was truly an angel.

She had been so happy with *him*, feeling at peace with herself for the first time in her life after meeting *him, a* friend of a friend. After years of longing for a deep, intimate relationship, he suddenly appeared right before her. Both of them had rather melancholic temperaments, so sadness was a well known acquaintance to both of them. He especially suffered from depressive episodes, but when they held each other tightly, their negative emotions seemed to disappear. He tried his best to always come to her aid, and she tried her best to be always there for him. She allowed herself to accept the thought that maybe, just maybe, life wasn't as cruel as she had imagined. She needed him and he needed her, so everything was perfect. They spent most of their time together, periods of time where in their minds everyone else disappeared from the surface of the world. An objective observer would have probably declared this relationship as a mutual dependence, but she would have taken this as a compliment, as a symbol for their deep love and affection toward each other, for the fact that they were able to keep going simply by supporting each other. For her, life reached a high point when he gave her a key to his flat, allowing her to come by whenever she felt like doing so. And so she did. She craved his love, his presence, his smell. She loved being dependent on him. But she always feared that she was unable to make him happy, as an aura of sadness still surrounded him, while she herself felt great. So she made an extra effort to cheer him up, to be a shoulder he could always lean on. And so the days went by. Until he said to her how he thought they had slowly stopped existing as individuals, and how it would be beneficial to their relationship if they started to spend more time being separated from each other again, in order to keep the spark between them alive. During the first moments, while processing what he had just said, she felt deeply saddened and alone. But she could nevertheless understand where he came from, and since her worst fear was losing him, she agreed to his proposal, all while holding back her tears. After this conversation, something changed within him. Texts she sent him were met with a reply hours later, calls were often not returned, visits to his flat were short-lived because he often told her about the plans he had made in the afternoon with his friends. She felt as if their relationship was nothing but a shadow of its former glory. But what had brought about this sudden change in his behaviour, in his feelings? Had she been too clingy, too affectionate, too needy? But maybe he was just busy, which of course may be a logical possibility, she thought. That was what he had texted her before, telling her how much he missed her. And like that, months went by. She finally reestablished contact with her best friend, someone she had neglected for such a long period of time. She felt disgusted regarding her behaviour towards the girl, but nevertheless her primary thought wasn't about her guilt towards her best friend, but about the growing distance between her boyfriend and herself. She confined in her friend about the changes, his eagerness to get rid of her, his short replies. After thinking through was just had been said, her friend brought up something she would have never wanted to hear, never wanted to think about, never had allowed herself to even consider the possibilities. An affair. Tears shot down her face, because she instantly realised that this had to be the truth. An affair. But with whom? With her boyfriend being "away on a visit to his parents“, she had more than enough time to think thoroughly about the possible candidates. Was it this girl from his Biology course he had mentioned a few times because of her unnatural long hair? A mutual friend? Maybe an old flame from his high school years? Who was she? It all made sense. He never wrote her back because he felt guilty, he always practically chased her out of his flat because she would afterwards come over. He put a distance between them because he wanted to spend time with this side fling. He switched wearing simple t-shirts for long-sleeved turtlenecks which made him look like a pretentious follower of Sartre, probably in order to hide the love bites she had marked him with. He became less affectionate because his love was now directed at another woman. He was probably spending the night making love to her in a hotel instead of visiting his parents. How could she have been so naive? Shortly after, she got a text from him, stating how much he loved her, how much he craved her presence. Liar, she thought to herself. Liar. The first text she had received in two days. Liar. After a sleepless night nearly breaking her head about his affair, about the identity of this woman who had stolen the man she loved, she realised what she had to do in order to come close to the truth. With trembling hands, she dialled the phone number of his family home, and after some seconds which felt so endless they took away her breath, his mother answered. Forty seconds later, she learned that her boyfriend was, in fact, not at his parents home. Her heart skipped a beat. He had, in fact, lied to her, straight to her face. He had lied. He had lied to her. It took minutes for her to comprehend this. She picked up the keys to his flat, still laying on the table where she had put them five days ago. It felt as if years had passed since her last visit. Now he was staying there with another woman. Liar. She opened the door silently and listened. No one was talking, no trace of perfume was in the air. There were no moans, no laughter. Just a deadly silence. Had they heard her coming into the flat? It didn't matter to her. Still, she tried to make as little sound as possible while she made her way into the bedroom. As the distance grew smaller, she noticed the faint sound of a female laughter coming from the room. The light also seemed to be on. So he was there after all, and in his company was a woman. She didn't bother knocking on the door, entering it fully expecting seeing him on top of the long haired girl from Biology. But instead, she saw him sitting on his bed. The first thing she saw was him wearing a t-shirt again. The second thing was a blood soaked tissue he firmly pressed onto his hand. Then she saw his arms, covered with fresh red marks. The third thing she noticed was an empty syringe, laying next to him on the bed. The sounds emitted by the television instantly faded into the background as she took a look into his eyes, his eyes, so far away, which formerly were so full of love. No, not formerly, she realised. He was still in love. Not with her, not with the girl from his Biology class, but with what seemed to be heroin. She realised that while he was able to give her everything she needed to be happy, she herself had been unable to do the same for him. So he turned to something else in order to give him what he craved so severely. Yes, they were both dependent. But obviously to very different things.

This Valentine’s Day was going to be a rough one. I was not looking forward to it. My boyfriend had recently moved across the ocean with his family. And while we were keeping in contact, it was straining us, as it would anyone. I was starting to lose all hope that we would make it through this transition. We still had a planned facetime date that we arranged. He was five hours ahead, so it’s been difficult to organize a time everyday or every other day to find time to talk in person, not just leave messages on chat programs or emails. Today, we had arranged to talk at 4pm my time because it was a day where I didn’t have practice. It was almost the end of the school day, so I sent him a picture of me holding a rose out as an offering and a message that read: *Always thinking of you, wish I could give this to you in person.* I sighed for what was probably the hundredth time today. Watching a lot of the other students giving tokens to their significant others, or the hopefuls asking out their crushes was really bringing me down. It also didn’t help that James was being really quiet today; I hadn’t heard from him since before I left for school this morning. So, I was really looking forward to him calling me this afternoon. My mom picked me up after school and suggested we stop by the store to pick up some last-minute Valentine’s gifts. She kind of pushed me into at least picking up some chocolates. I also grabbed a single rose on a whim. It almost made me sadder, but at the same time was comforting. Now I just wanted to go home and lay down in my room listening to music until his call. Even my usual chatrooms weren’t very enticing to me, I was so excited to talk to him. I got home, put the rose and candy on my desk, and was getting more and more anxious. Four o’clock came and he still didn’t call. Then it was four thirty. This wasn’t like him. He might not always be the most punctual of people, but he usually wasn’t this late without at least some kind of message explaining and updating me. But today, there was no message explaining why he was late. My low mood and anxious mind started to think the worst things. The one that popped into my head the most was that he had found someone else to spend the evening with. I couldn’t shake the feeling that that’s what happened. Like maybe it was innocent, someone asked him out for coffee that day, it was Valentine’s day after all, but still... I was so frantic with these bad thoughts that annoyances from the house kept building up. It almost seemed like my mom’s phone was purposely put on loud ringer to annoy the shit out of me and make me jump. I swear she kept getting calls or texts every 5-10 minutes. I didn’t care to listen in. At ten to five, my phone finally started to ring. I picked up almost immediately, so excited to finally see him/talk to him. “Hi James! Happy Valentine’s Day!” My mood immediately rose, but I was still anxious. “Hey Gabe, happy Valentine’s Day.” His face took up the whole screen, I couldn’t see anything around him. I was just so glad to finally see him. “Sorry, I’m calling later than we agreed. Things came up and delayed me.” I heard the doorbell ring, but I knew my mom would get it. “I’m just glad to finally talk to you. I’ve missed you so much.” “I’ve missed you, too,” James said. “Gabe, someone’s at the door to see you!” My mom called from outside my closed door. “Ugh, okay, I’ll be right there, Mom!” I called back. “Sorry, James, I’ll take care of this real quick, but I’ll bring my phone with me.” I groaned. “No worries,” he smiled at me, from the screen. There was a light in his eyes, he seemed really excited. He lowered his phone and I lowered mine. I walked down stairs and down the hall to the front door. I looked up from my feet to see who was standing in our entryway and stopped. James was there with a bag next to him and a rose in his hand. He had the biggest smile I think I’ve ever seen on his face. I nearly dropped my phone, which was still open to the connection with him. I was completely shocked. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Gabe,” he said softly with a warm smile. “Wha- how? How did you get here? I thought you were in England?” I was frozen to the spot. “No hug?” His smile faltered, but stayed on his face. I almost ran into his arms and hugged him, kissed him. “God,” I breathed, our foreheads pressed against each other. “I’ve missed you so much, this is the best thing to happen today. This week. This month.” “Same here.” I opened my eyes, “Now, explain.” He opened his eyes and pulled out of the hug, holding out the rose for me. I took it, looking him in the eyes. He smiled and sighed. “Well, it’s a bit of a story, but basically, since I moved away, I was trying to plan a surprise for you. My parents saw how depressed I was getting, and offered to set me up with a trip back when I wanted to go back. I got your mom’s number and arranged with her some logistics. She’s way more supportive than you’d have thought. And so here, I am,” he explained spreading his arms in a finale. “My mom...?” I said perplexed and looked around only to see her and my sister peek their heads around the corner from the next room, smiles on their faces. I turned to look back at him. “I can’t believe you’re here.” My emotions were all over the place but finally a smile broke across my face as I said, “You’re here!” I threw my arms around him again. He laughed, hugging me tight. “Yes, and I’m staying with you for a week.” “Come in then and make yourself at home then,” I said pulling out of the hug. I put the rose in my belt loops, grabbed his bag with one hand and grabbed his hand with the other hand. He kicked off his shoes with the rest of my family’s shoes. We walked up to my room and he told me how hard it was to keep this a secret from me for the last two weeks. “I just wanted to tell you so bad but I couldn’t, and it was just gah!” We got to my room and closed the door. My music was still playing. I set down his bag, then carefully pulled the rose out from my belt loops and placed it on my desk next to the one I bought earlier with my mom. Now her pressure all made sense to me. She knew about my sexual orientation. Oh my God. SHE KNEW. And she was seemingly okay with it; supportive even. James took off his coat and hung it on the back of my desk chair. I picked up the rose and candy I had bought and held them out for him. “You are here and this is better than I could ever have imagined for how today could go. Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said choking on the words, so happy. He took them only to put them back down on the desk next to his rose for me. He grabbed my hips and pulled me close to him again, kissing me deeply. Then he broke the kiss. “Gabe, our intimacy may be a time-bomb for now, but we will always have our friendship. And for now, we have this and us. We should make this count while we can,” and he kissed me again. We fell onto the bed just making out, making up for lost time, our hands exploring each other over and under our clothes. My family always ate at the same time, so I kept it tame for now, because I knew that they wouldn’t let me skip just because my boyfriend was here, especially since he was staying with us. For now, this would have to be enough. This time, what we could make of it, and how to keep going over the distance, even just as friends. We are young, maybe we will get thrown back together in the future. There was always college and life after that for us to look forward to. For now, he was here, I could hold him, and I was not going to take that for granted.

“Yo, Shawn! Over here! What took you so long? I’ve been waiting at least twenty minutes” Shawn and I are going biking in the Community Forest. We’re meeting at the gate behind the baseball diamonds where best trail starts. It branches off at several locations before we get down to the creek. “My Mom! She wouldn’t let me leave until I packed a lunch, water, a jacket, and spare socks. Oh, and my first aid kit! Then she had to watch me oil the chain on my bike, and check the tire pressures. Finally, she let me go! I’m sorry man!” “Well, you’re a onesie and Moms get protective when they only have one chick.” “What the heck are you talking about? Onesie? We don’t have any chickens.” “It’s something my Mom said...women with only one chick, meaning kid, get over-protective and try to bubble wrap their chick-kid.” “Well, you’d better not start calling me a chick, or chicken, or anything like that because you’ll regret it!” And he swats me on the shoulder. “Hey! I was just explaining. You’re no chicken! I’d say you’re more of a daredevil. Now, let’s ride!” Shawn takes the lead, as always and I am happy to let him. He’s a better rider than I am, and his bike is well oiled and maintained. I’m sure he parks it in the garage every day when he gets home. Mine leans against the fence in the back yard and I’ve never oiled anything on it. I also have two sisters that take it for a spin once in a while, and rarely put it back where they got it, preferring to just dump it on the gravel driveway right near the door. He’s the only one who rides his bike and it’s like an extension of him. The first hill is steep with a quick turn at the bottom and another sharp dip to get over a short wooden bridge. As long as nobody is standing on the bridge, you can pick up some good speed to whip up the next incline. We are in luck today! Shawn waits at the top of the hill until I catch up. The trail branches here, Rockwood trail to the right - a quick ride by the rock cut with a few twists through the poplar bluff and back out to the ball diamonds. To the left is Briar Creek trail - lots of twists and turns through the spruce and cottonwoods, complete with rocks and roots, a little mud, until you get down to the creek, then it levels out to run the creek edge for half a kilometre or so. “Rock, paper, scissors? Or, how much time do you have?” Shawn asks, as he removes his helmet and wipes his sweaty forehead. I pull my helmet off, too. The sun is hot up here near the top of the gully. “I left a note, said I’d be gone all afternoon. Let’s take the creek trail.” Shawn let’s me take the lead this time. There’s a lot of quick turns and a few small jumps. I pull to a stop by the blue bridge. Shawn is right behind me. I pull a water bottle from my pack. “There’s a nice long drop up ahead with a short lip at the bottom. I brought my cell phone. I want to go down a little ways first and try to get a picture of you catching some air.” “Wait. Jimmy? Could you take a video? That would be so amazing! I could send it to my Dad. I bet he’d be super impressed!” “ I have a full charge, so yah, video it is! Give me a few minutes to find a good spot down there. I’ll give you a shout when I’m ready.” I head down the trail, looking for a good spot to stand. The trail is a little slimy here, and there’s a mud hole that’s slick, but it’s got a good lip that should give Shawn some air. I want to get lower, but not too low or I’ll miss the mud spray and the launch. I find the perfect spot and haul my bike off the trail, pull my gloves off to get a better grip on my phone, then shout, “Let ‘er rip, Shawn!” I start to record as I see him round the jog just above the mud hole. His legs are pumping and he’s gathering speed and he’s yelling at the top of his lungs. I’m squatting down to catch him hitting the mud hole, and bracing against a tree to swivel and catch the second he hits the lip that thrusts him up and into the air. Another swivel and I catch the landing, skidding on the spruce needles that litter the trail, skidding and losing control and Shawn flying in one direction while his bike crashes into a twisted spruce stump. And the word he was yelling finally registers “BEAR!” I hit the ground and spin around to check the trail. There it is, a huge black bear! I’m shaking in my boots but I lift my phone, still recording, and watch the bear amble down the trail towards me. I’m too afraid to make a sound, too afraid to twitch a muscle, praying silently, “Please go away, please go away, please go away.” The bear stops suddenly, sits up on its haunches and sniffs the air, twisting its head first one way, then the other, huffing a bit. It turns suddenly and lumbers off into the bushes. I hear a few branches snap as it heads deeper into the gully, down towards the creek. Immobilized for what seems like an hour, it finally sinks in that it’s gone and I’m safe, we’re safe. “Shawn,” I yell, and pull myself, unsteadily, up to the lip of the mud hole. Shawn’s bike is crumpled against the stump, but Shawn is nowhere to be seen. I slide down over the lip, calling his name, “Shawn! The bear’s gone. Shawn! We’re safe. The bear’s gone. Shawn, where are you?” I hear a groan and notice another sharp drop just to the left of the trail. Running to the edge, I’m afraid to look, but there he is. Shawn looks as crumpled as his bike. His helmet is cracked open and his blond hair looks darker than it should. A shiver runs through me, afraid that he’s dead, but he groans again, and I give myself a shake. He can’t be dead, he’s groaning! “Shawn! Are you okay? Shawn?” I scamper down to where he’s lying against a poplar tree, imbedded in last year’s crumbling leaves. I touch his shoulder and he screeches, trying to pull away. “Shawn, it’s me, Jimmy. Shawn, you’re okay. You’re safe, the bear’s gone.” I grab his shoulder and hold him down. “Let me go, Jimmy. I’m okay, I think. You saw the bear? It was after me! It was going to get me!” “Not at the speed you were going! Man, you were flying! And then you really were flying! You got some serious air there! And I caught it all on video. I caught the bear, too. That beast was huge!” “You caught it all? Can I see?” I pull my phone out of my pocket to show him, as he gingerly pulls himself up to lean against the tree. I’m trying to go to Photos, but I see a little red light in the upper right corner and 10%. The battery is almost dead. I know it won’t play the video, but maybe he can see the picture. “Battery’s almost dead. You can the picture though.” I swing the phone towards him and he gets a glimpse before it dies completely. His face is a little grey, but he’s sitting up. It takes a minute or two, but his colour returns. He pulls his smashed helmet off and looks at it. He runs his fingers gingerly through his hair. There’s no blood on them, just dirt, as he drops his hands into his lap. “Where’s my bike, Jimmy?” I hesitate, “It’s wrapped around a spruce tree, where you landed. You flew this way and the bike went right, and smashed into the tree. You were flying!” “Okay. Okay. We have to get out of here. That bear might come looking for us.” He tries to stand but cries out when he tries to put weight on his left leg, and crumples back to the ground. “Is it just your left leg? Are you hurt anywhere else? Geez, Shawn! How are we going to get out of here of you can’t walk?” I’m trying to check his arms and legs and his head. Tears slowly, quietly leak from his eyes. “I’m scared, Jimmy. Don’t leave me here alone! I know we need help, but, don’t leave me here!” Now he’s full on bawling, and not knowing what else to do, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold him close. “I won’t leave you here. Hey, man! I’m not going anywhere without you. We’ll figure something out. Shhh, now.” I grab his backpack and rummage through it. There’s a pack of tissues, which I hand to Shawn. He sniffles and snuffles and blows his nose and slowly the tears stop. I hand him a bottle of water and pull one out of my own pack. I take out a couple of granola bars, too. Shawn doesn’t want one but I chew slowly and consider our situation. I eat the other bar, too. “Shawn, how heavy are you?” He’s small for his age. I see him shivering and look through his backpack again. I pull his jacket out and help him put it on. His left arm isn’t bending too well. “I don’t know what I weigh. Not enough, apparently. Mom’s always telling me to eat more so I’ll grow.” He cracks a wobbly smile. “Okay,” I’m smiling, too, “Okay, so that’s good! I’ve got a plan. The bikes will have to stay down here. I’ll pull them off the trail, maybe hide them a bit in the leaves. We’ll have to leave the backpacks, too, but, I think I can carry you. Sorry, but, you don’t look much bigger than my sister, and I can carry her.” Shawn scowls, “But, I think my leg is broken. And, my arm isn’t working too good. How am I going to hang on?” “Let’s get you on your feet...or at least on up on one foot! Lean on me and the tree, and we’ll see if I can manage to lift you.” I grab his right arm and he slides his way up the tree trunk, using only his right leg to brace himself. I squat down to get his arm up over my shoulder, “Hang on around my neck, Shawn. I’m going to try and piggyback you up to where your bike is.” I reach around to grab his legs and I hitch him up onto my back. Slowly, I make my way around the rocks and trees, and head up the trail. When we get up to Shawn’s bike, I lower him to the ground. He hasn’t said a word, but, I see his face has lost all its colour, and I’m a little scared. “Shawn? How was it? Was it too much? You look like you’re going to pass out!” “Oh, man! My leg hurts so bad. I just need to be still for a bit.” “Just sit here, Shawn. I’ll get our packs and be right back.” I shimmy down to the backpacks and grab them, wondering how I can carry Shawn all the way back up to the ball diamonds. I can handle the weight, but if his leg hurts too much he might pass out and not be able to hold on. My mind goes back to some first aid we took last month and I remember that we should immobilize a break, but, there we had all the bandages and boards we needed. Here I have nothing! Shawn is laying down with his eyes closed when I get back. I notice the tears leaking into his ears, but I pretend not to see. “Shawn, just lay there for a bit. I’m going to hide the bikes. I’m not far away. Don’t be scared if you don’t see me. I’ll be right back.” I grab Shawn’s bike and scurry it up to where mine is. I pull Shawn’s bike over mine, tuck a few branches around the bikes to hopefully camouflage them. That’ll have to do. I slide down to Shawn. He’s sitting up, leaning against the spruce stump that mangled his bike. “I’ve got the bikes off the trail and hidden a bit. Um...we have to immobilize your leg, and I don’t know how we’re going to do that. If we don’t immobilize it, you’ll probably pass out and I won’t be able to carry you out.” “I was thinking about that, too. Jimmy, bring the backpacks over here. Let’s see what we have to work with.” I dump the contents in front of Shawn. First aid kit: Bandaids...too short for anything, but, the Aspirin might help. Shawn takes two with water and a bite of granola bar. There’s one of those cotton slings - that might be useful, too. Snacks: crackers and cheese, an apple...not necessary at this point. Water: always needed, but we’ll only take one bottle. Socks: who packs socks?!? My pack is one of those with a stiff back and I see Shawn’s eyes light up. “Jimmy, do you have your knife?” “Yeah, I’ve got it - never leave home without it. What are you thinking?” He grabs my knife and starts cutting my backpack apart. “The back part of your pack has some kind of reinforcement in it. I could wrap it around my leg. We can use the sling to tie it on.” He hacks away at the back pack and I unroll the sling. It’s not very long but maybe we can tear it in half. I catch sight of the socks and I have an idea. The back of the pack is long enough to cover mid-thigh to mid-calf, and I was right about the sling, it only covers part of the top section. Shawn gets a defeated look on his face and I can see the tears start to gather in his eyes. “I’ve got an idea, Shawn. Give me the knife.” I grab the two pairs of socks and the knife. Cutting the toe end off, I pull on one sock to stretch it open as much as possible. Not too gently, I pull it over his foot and up to the pack board around his calf. Shawn pushes my hands off, and grabs the sock. Pulling and stretching at the same time, easing it up slowly, he gets it up over the board, pulls it up to his knee and that’s as far as it’ll go. I toss the next sock to Shawn and he repeats the process. Soon, we have the other pair in place, too. I throw a bottle of water and the first aid kit in Shawn’s pack, put my knife back in my pocket, and sit down by Shawn. “The Aspirin has kicked in. Do you think you can do this, Jimmy? Do you think you can carry me all the way up?” Shawn asks with a grim look on his face. I take a swig of water and roll my shoulders. I hand the pack to Shawn and stand up, “We’re about to find out. Don’t choke me, and let me know if we have to stop.” We get Shawn up and I squat to load him onto my back. I hitch him up a bit to settle him into position and take the first step; then the second, and the third, and I stop counting. The trail is steep and I’m concentrating on one step at a time, watching not to slip on the spruce needles, watching not to trip on exposed roots, watching not to slide on loose rocks. Slowly, it registers in my brain that Shawn is humming, and the tune, OMG, he’s humming “We Are the Champions!” I start to giggle and I have to stop. I’m laughing out loud as I lower Shawn to the ground. I’m flat on my back, still giggling, breathing deeply. I have no idea what time it is but my stomach rumbles a bit. Shawn hears it and laughs. “We left all the snacks down the hill. You need water?” “Yeah, water. You crack me up! “We are the champions!” You’d better think of something with a faster beat if we’re going to make it out of here before dark.” “Jimmy, you’re doing great. I have faith in you, and we’re already quite a ways up. I think just around that next bend we’ll see the split in the trail. It’s not that far now.” “I think you’re full of shit, Shawn. We’ve got quite a ways to go yet. Do you need more Aspirin? You’d better drink some water, too.” I stand and roll my shoulders. I tuck the water back into the pack. “I’m okay. Are you ready to move on?” “Saddle up, buddy! We’re going home!” And, Shawn is right, just around the next bend, we reach the trail split. I continue on the Rockwood Trail rather than take the dip over the bridge. Head down, one foot in front of the other is all I can focus on. Shawn is still humming but I have no idea what the tune is, it’s got a good beat, though. Suddenly, I hear shouting and Shawn tells me to stop. People are running over from the ball diamond. Shawn shouts out to them. “Help! Can I borrow a phone. We need a ride to the hospital.” I collapse on the grass.

"I love you." She was looking at me. Looking into me even. Her eyes wide with the soft hope that comes with saying those words. This girl, here and now, has opened up to me expecting me to do the same. What was I to do? A girl's emotions are a frail thing, and one would have to be a monster to betray such trust. "Do.. you love me?" I was taking too long. The panic was starting to show in her face. Her mask beginning to slip. I know how I feel about her, but what was I to do? To say? I did the only thing I could. The only possible choice I really had. I lied. I lied because I didn't want to hurt her. I had seen the brief regret in her face during that silence following her question.. the doubt. I had to make it right. I never wanted to see her sad again, never wanted to see her dreams broken. To tell the truth would be only heartless. I have grown accustomed to her smile. Her happiness bringing me my own in a way that only the strange magic of the mind can fathom. In that moment of confession, she was so perfect.. so sure of her life. The only thing I could hope, in the most secret corners of my heart, is that she could be as happy as she was in that moment forever. Who am I to take that away from this beautiful girl? This kind, and loving girl? I had no choice. I am not the one who deserves her affection. I was never good enough for her. Too far gone for my own angel. What cruel god could create such a perfect human being.. and make her have pity on me? In that moment, every fiber of my being screamed I love you too. I love you so much it keeps me up at night. My heart.. my mind.. my soul.. all said I love you. I said "No.

“Here you are, sir! One dozen fresh and yummy doughnuts! Satisfaction is guaranteed!” “I need milk,” said Mr. White abruptly to the fat and jolly man behind the counter. “Why certainly! Here you are!” The fat and jolly man behind the counter gave Mr. White a large smile and an ice-cold bottle of milk. Mr. White gave the fat and jolly man behind the counter his money and turned his back and walked towards the door. “Thank you for purchasing at Mr. Happy’s Doughnut Shop!” exclaimed the fat and jolly man who stood, invariably, behind the counter. Mr. White remained silent and let the door close with the loud thud of its own weight. His car was white like his name and, like most cars, sat on four wheels. Mr. White clicked open his grimy vehicle and sat himself in the gray and fraying polyester seats. The polyester irritated his skin on contact. He ate his doughnuts and drank his milk, savoring every doughy and chewy bite. Mr. White slowly bit down and let the glaze melt away in his mouth before washing it all down with a sip of his cold and creamy milk. Mr. White ate all twelve doughnuts. He looked into his rearview mirror and had a staring contest with the handgun which sat quite comfortably in the backseat, for the polyester did not burn her skin. Mr. White had a heavy breath after he chugged down the last third of the milk, but he never broke eye contact. “He knows,” she said. Mr. White maintained the staring contest, a dry layer of milk forming around his lips and in his graying facial hair. His bloodshot eyes were locked in place. She spoke again. “Don’t lie to yourself, White” she said, in her sweet and velvety voice. It dripped like golden honey which was freshly scraped from the comb right into Mr. White’s ears. Mr. White’s brow closed in tightly and the wrinkles turned white from pressure. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled. “Oh, I do!” said she in return, lightheartedly, “That fat man figured you out!” Mr. White once again found himself among that mist of confusion, under which he was suffering only hours ago. She was in his head, after all. She had seen all that he had; she had also always been admittedly more intelligent. Perhaps she had picked up on some subtleties that he was oblivious to? He gave in. “Oh, God!” he exclaimed. “He does know, doesn’t he?!” he continued. “Yes, White”, she spoke like a mother who had her child caught in an I-told-you-so situation. “I knew there was something off about that,” he hesitated, “that fat bastard, Mr. Happy!” “Yes, yes, you’re right!” she said to reassure him. Mr. White broke into tears. Once again, she used her luscious voice to seduce him. “You know what we have to do, don’t you, White? You don’t want that pig to squeal, do you? I think you need to silence him. Wouldn’t you agree?” Her voice suddenly became dark and malicious. The car grew dark and he lost himself even further in the mist. He was a man stuck at the end of his own leash. Mr. White’s tears slowly came to a halt and he gazed once more to the backseat. He admired her form. The way her sharp edges transitioned into smooth plateaus of cold metal. He whispered out her name to himself. His eyes made their way to the trigger, naturally his favorite part of her body. When he squeezed her there and felt the rush of the shot, they were the most intimate and he found himself craving the intimacy. “Yes,” she returned to her chipper and positive tone of voice and chuckled. “You know I love it when you look at me like that, White,” she said, seductively. “Won’t you squeeze me just once more? He’s going to tell someone what you did!” He will, thought White. She is right! She had always known better. Mr. White resolved to use her again, it had proven quite effective just a few hours ago, in the dark of the early morning. He grabbed her from the backseat. He hesitated a moment before he opened the door of his car. “Oh, yes, White!” she exclaimed to him, “It will feel so good!” She knew his weaknesses. She had control of the leash, and he was going exactly where she wanted him to. Mr. White stepped out of his rusted, old car and walked slowly back to the doughnut shop. He took short strides and focused his senses on her. The way she felt in his hand was so exhilarating. He wrapped his hand around the handle and his index finger around her trigger. He felt how eager she was as well. Mr. White concealed his beloved, as to not immediately startle the fat and jolly man behind the counter. He stood in front of the doorway and looked into his reflection. His eyes, dyed a deep pink from sleep loss, stared directly back at themselves. He focused his eyes away from the pestering reflection to what stood behind the pane of glass. The fat and jolly man behind the counter had not moved. In fact, he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Mr. White held her tightly behind the safety of his jacket and opened the door. He was welcomed by the ring of a bell and the wide smile of the fat and jolly man behind the counter. This time, however, he noticed the rosy cheeks and the short, grey strands of hair. He noticed the way he bumbled about behind the counter trying to look occupied, despite the unfortunate lack of business. He noticed the humanity of the fat and jolly man behind the counter. “My, my! Have you forgotten something? Did I give you the wrong change? Or have you just come back for another dozen?” He chuckled loudly at his own joke. Mr. White, merely a man whose threads had frayed quite a bit too much, resolved to remain quiet and simply stare at the fat and jolly man behind the counter. “Do it, White,” she whispered to him impatiently. Mr. White began to shake and shiver. “Son, are you feeling alright?” asked the fat and jolly man behind the counter. Once again, his question remained unanswered. The room was still, almost even at peace. The rays of the morning sun sparkled golds and silvers in the dust of the air. The window towards the ceiling was open, allowing a comfortable draft to trickle its way in. The black and white checkered floor was absent of any unpleasantries, just as the counter from which the jolly and fat man stood behind. “He knows, remember?” Oh, how it pained him. It pained Mr. White so to hear her voice, which was beautiful and elegant. Just how he had remembered it. “You don’t want him to tell anyone what you did to me, do you, White?” Mr. White teared up and clenched his bottom lip with his upper jaw. “Sir, do you need my help?” asked the fat and jolly man desperately. “Do it, White. Silence the pig!” She sounded so wonderful, the way she yelled. Familiar. “Yes, my dearest,” whispered Mr. White aloud. Mr. White pulled out his beloved and showed her to the fat and jolly man behind the counter, proudly. The fat and jolly man behind the counter tensed up, barely able to comprehend the situation. He raised his two hands in the air, a beg of mercy. “Don’t you see, Mr. Happy?” said Mr. White, fighting the tears and sobs, “I’ve got to do it! You won’t tell anyone what I did to Mrs. White!” Mr. White laid out three clean shots into the upper body of the fat and jolly man behind the counter. His body fell to ground with a very loud thump, followed by pool of crimson. Mr. White, satisfied, turned and walked himself out of the door, stepped into his car and felt the burning of the polyester on his skin, and wept.

Hello short stories, This comes from a strange musing I got. Just a forewarning it has some violence, but it really has no deeper meaning. There is no political metaphor or any kind of symbolism it's just something weird that popped up in my head and I had to write it down. I hope it. . .intrigues you. All was silent, all was dark in the pitch black room. For almost thirty minutes the valued employee waited until a single metal door swung open and slammed onto the wall upon which it was fixed. The open frame painted one lone ray of light on the floor. Then footsteps, like a raucous cacophony of hail, flooded the hallway leading to the room. Man after man poured through the door, each one a mirror image of the other. They were all dressed in black suits and ties, pressed and fitted, with a striped tie and black coiffed hair. A keen eye would immediately mark them all as salary men, seemingly taken from your pick of any mid twentieth century ad campaign. Their fine dress and well shaven faces would place them somewhere directly in the rank and file of the army of American middle management. Each one had the endearing, grinning smile of a high caliber salesperson or politician. They all ran, one behind the other, in a line with a gait that was more like a hectic scurry than a dignified march. As they came into the room they turned their heads to stare directly at where the employee was sitting, alone and barely visible, in the darkness. The line stopped moving before turning to face him, each man shoulder to shoulder. In the hands of every man was a solid hickory billy club, painted black, and grasped with such hateful force that the bones of their hands show through their skin. No sooner had the last man come through the door than did it shut with a deafening crash. What followed was, again, only silence and darkness. Several agonizing minutes passed and a single lightbulb flickered on in the center of the room, illuminating the cheerful and smiling faces of the line of more than thirty men. All was quiet until the echoes of hurried footsteps approached from the other side of the door. Once again the metal door flew open, as if kicked, and slammed full force into the painted cinder block wall with a deafening crash. The one man that entered looked the same as all the rest, except in his hands was a briefcase. Out of the case he pulled a piece of paper. His eyes darted over the paper as he silently read it with a cheerful and genuine smile. After reaching the end of the page he shoved it back into the briefcase, turned around and scurried out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Silence ensued for only a brief moment after the metal door slammed shut. Each of the thirty men, still grinning with charming and inviting smiles, then leapt forward without hesitation and began beating the valued employee to death. Rapid and powerful blows covered him in the frenzy as the sound of shattered bones could be heard one after the other with mechanical efficiency. The beating was carried out as quickly as possible as if being done on a timetable without a moment to lose. An unrecognizable lump of blood and flesh, contorted in all directions, was all that remained. Each of the men then hurriedly filed out of the room just as they had entered it and the door slammed behind them. The light went out and finally, once again, the room was filled with only silence and darkness.

February 7th, 2040. My name is Bryan and I’m writing this because I don’t know what's next. I found a blank journal and some pens so I decided to document this. I’m was always bad with remembering dates so if the dates are wrong, or weird, then I’m sorry. A week ago on January 29th they attacked. At first we thought they were human, our neighbors, coworkers, friends, family, celebrities. Then their leader came. Whatever they were emerged from their skin sacks and attacked everyone in sight. You know those theories where there's aliens living among us? Well that's what I think it is. It was my day off so I was inside. When I heard the news I locked all my doors and barricaded myself in the basement. I have enough food to last me maybe a few months if I can spread it out. March 5th, 2040 The power went out. Whatever they are keep trying to get in. I heard the front door breaking and now they're trying to get in the basement. The news says that the government is trying their best but you need to stay inside. I don’t think I can make it through a few more months. I remember my neighbor said that he had a bomb shelter made inside his basement. I can try to get through the tiny window in my basement and make it to his. But will he let me inside? Is he one of them? Please if anyone's reading this send help. March 17, 2040 They stopped trying to get in. I fear that if they try again my door won’t last. I packed a small bag with some cans, bottled water, clothes, flashlight, and some batteries. I’m gonna try to get out next week but if they pick up sooner than that I’m leaving then and there. March 19th, 2040 I saw one of them. They look like what people think werewolves look like, but with no skin. They’re tall, really tall. Hunched over. Pure white eyes. Long fingers and limbs. I can never unsee it. March 26th, 2040 More of them are here. Their changing. Now patches of skin are starting to form on them. I should have left sooner. I don’t think I can make it to my neighbors. April 4th, 2040 They’re moving. I think my town is just a rest stop for them. Their going somewhere big, I can feel it. During the day they sleep or are slower than usual. I’m gonna escape then. April 8th, 2040 I made it! He wasn’t there but I didn’t look around. He was very prepared with food for about a year (only for 1), bottled water, clothes, tubs filled with water, a backup generator, batteries, hanging lights, flashlights, books, pens, and much more! April 27th, 2040 Someone knocked on the door. It sounded like a woman, she asked if anyone was in there. I think she knows since that was a week ago and everyday she’s come back. She's getting desperate. I think she's one of them. April 30th, 2040 She left. I feel a little bad since she sounded so human. I wanted to try and go outside to explore but I think their still out there. May 6th, 2040 I heard something. The last time I heard something was when the woman was knocking. I think it's trying to get in. I need help, please. If anyone finds this help me. May 27th, 2040 My birthday was yesterday. I turned 21. I can now legally drink. Not like I haven't drank before. July 17th, 2040 Something tried to break in. I heard a chainsaw. Men yelling. Banging. Its starting to smell. July 27th, 2040 I found the smell. My neighbor had made a hidden room under the bed. He hung himself. I think I might follow him. August 12th, 2040 I found a letter. It was in front of the door. It wasn’t there before. Am I going insane? I don’t need help now, I need company. I’m gonna open the door. Only to throw out the body, the smell is almost life threatening. I’m gonna read the letter, I think? I don’t know. August 14th, 2040 I opened the letter. “Dear Bryan, happy birthday! I wanted to write to you sooner, but I never got the chance! You can come out now. The world is safe, the aliens are gone. I would love to officially meet you. Please you remember Cally’s Cafe on 4th? Well from 10-4 I hang out there! I hope to see! Sincerely, Lamien.” That fake. Totally fake. Who uses all those exclamation points? I’m not going. I’m still gonna open up the door to throw out my neighbors body. I’m gonna try and give him a proper funeral. I didn’t know him that well but hey! August 17th, 2040 I opened the door! I looks like a bomb happened. I guess that also helps my theory with how the letter was fake. I just realized a bomb probably did happen. Tomorrow I’m gonna give him a funeral, and bury him. August 18th, 2040 I buried him. I’d wanna say it took about a few hours just to dig the whole and cover it. Then 10 minutes to say some words. The whole time I felt like someone was watching me. I tried to go as fast as I could but if you’ve ever dug a grave after being in the same room for months then you can’t complain. I walked around a little more. There were still some buildings but mostly the bottom parts. My house is gone, along with everything that was in it. September 2nd, 2040 I think something got inside the bunker when I was burying the body. I hear scratching and some of my food is going missing. But I can’t leave! I don’t know what's out there. I started sleeping with a knife under my pillow. I’ll update you hopefully soon. September 10th, 2040 I found out what it was. It was a pretty big rat. But how did it survive? It seems friendly to me. I might keep it for some company. September 29th, 2040 You remember that room where my neighbor hung himself? Well I decided to do something with it. I don’t know what yet but I’m gonna do something, I’m really bored. I’ve read all of the books he had in here. November 15th, 2040 I’m hearing explosions, people screaming, and screeching. I think they're starting to come back. If so I’m not leaving or making any noise. The generator is dying, I don’t know how it works. November 21st, 2040 The generator is died. I’m only using the flashlights and the batteries for this and finding stuff in here. With the time I’ve spent in here I’m sure I won’t need the flashlights that much. I can’t find my little rat friend. It’s also starting to smell, I think he's dead. All the noises outside are still going on. December 14th, 2040 In case you're wondering my neighbor had a calendar in here so I’m trying to cross of the days but since I can’t see the daylight and my phone is not something I want to use, I’m mostly guessing. Most of the noises stopped I’m still hearing some screeching from time to time. December 25th, 2040 I think it's Christmas! My gift for myself you ask? Well I’m gonna find my dead rat friend. I did get another letter. “Dear Bryan, merry Christmas! I see you didn’t want to meet up. You probably thought it was fake didn’t you? Well it isn’t! No your not crazy. I hope you kept my last letter because I do still want to meet up with you at that same location! I do hope you come, it would be nice to officially meet you! Sincerely Lamien. P.S. I did see you burying your neighbor, how nice! ” How? How did they see me? I didn’t see anyone? I’m not going. I don’t even think the cafe is still there. January 6th, 2041 A new year! I did find my rat friend. I quickly threw him out, didn’t take time to bury him, I didn’t know him that well. January 10th, 2041 Someone is knocking. I don’t know who but I think it's the thing whos given me letters. January 13th, 2041 They started banging. I don’t think the door can handle it. January 29th, 2041 It's been a whole year since this alien thing started. The banging stopped, I’m glad, I got another letter. “You didn’t come, how sad. You also aren’t answering. I still would love to meet you, even with how rude you are.” It's different. They didn’t address me or add their name. February 7th, 2041 The banging started again after January 29th. I think I’m gonna open the door. You know humans, curious creatures. Well you know what they say, “Curiosity killed the cat.”

I just saw my reflection blink. It’s happened regularly, every so often, ever since I can remember. I smile back at my face in the mirror and continue combing my long, grey hair. It comforts me, especially on days when I’m feeling sad or alone or ugly or useless. That little blink. It’s gotten me through times of stress, through job changes and continental moves, through sickness and health. It got me through my father’s death and then again through my mother’s. It got me through my worst days and it lauded me through my best. I gaze longingly into those eyes that stare back from my reflection, those ones that are on my face but that are not my own. Shimmering and clear. They’re more gold today. Sometimes they’re green, sometimes more hazel, the little flecks of color moving with the morning sun, morphing with afternoon light, never the same color -- never the exact, precise same color -- twice. I like that about them; it makes me feel like I’m always learning about them. About him. Others don’t see these eyes when they look at me. They see my eyes, whatever those may be. Blue or brown or maybe purple, I don’t really care to know. After all, we don’t get lost in our own eyes. We aren’t soothed by our own gaze, aren't inspired by our own look. I’m inspired by his though. I wonder if he’s out there walking around with those gold, sometimes green, sometimes hazel eyes and looking in the mirror at my blue or brown or maybe purple eyes. Calmed when they blink in his reflection. Stirred when they look back at him in a way slightly ajar from how he’s looking with his own eyes, the eyes I see looking back in my reflection. I saw him once, a long time ago. Before wrinkles outlined my face and sunspots dotted my hands, I saw those eyes that I see in mirrors and glass doors and clear lakes, I saw those eyes without any reflection. It was only for a second, for a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it instant, in between subway stops at rush hour. I was standing on the train, tired and halfway-through a cold my coworker had given me, my fingers lazily holding onto the hand strap, no thoughts in my mind but of my warm bed and hot soup. I stared idly ahead of me, at the plexiglass subway doors across from me, and gazed at my reflection there. His eyes were more green that night, in the dank underground light. They squinted up ever so slightly, as if with a smile, and my runny nose felt a little bit better, my face relaxed. The subway stopped, and the train doors slid open; my reflection slid away too but the eyes remained. It took me too long to realize. I’ll always blame that coworker for getting me sick, for slogging my reactions in that moment. It took me too long to realize that the face around those now-green-in-the-dank-underground-light was not mine but his. It must have taken him too long to realize too. Because just before the doors kissed close again, I saw him jerk forward with a sudden understanding. I jerked forward too, but it was too late. The doors sealed, and the train jerked forward too. I’ve looked for him since. Searched commuters’ faces and expressions on pedestrians. But how often do you pass the same stranger twice? And how luckily often do you notice when you do? I think that was our chance, that was our illustrious moment on that tired night in the underground, and I don’t think we’ll get another one. We were blessed to have one kismet flash; who are we to deserve another? I used to think it sad. I used to curse fate and denounce its teasing tendrils. I grieved a love I lost without having. But then I glanced the mirror, and I saw my reflection blink. I never lost anything. I’ll never know my soulmate’s name, or his job, or what he likes or dislikes. I’ll never know his mannerisms or the little things that get on his nerves or if he takes his coffee black or sweet. But I know his eyes. Those ever-changing, ever-shimmering green and gold and hazel eyes that give me more than a name ever could.

Last night, I got drunk. It was the first time I had ever done that, and I could feel the burning of the cheap bourbon I had stolen from a shop that same day sliding down my throat, drop by drop. It hurt a lot at first, but then the burning became... pleasant, and it made my body feel warm on that harsh winter night. They had told me before that drinking was harmful, and that I should steer clear of drugs such as alcohol, especially being only seventeen. Fuck them. They probably don't know how amazing it feels to have a drink after a rough day... or a rough week... or, in my case, a rough seventeen years. Or maybe they do. But I don't care. I downed that entire bottle of $10 bourbon and I could feel my mind going away, as well as the warm feeling after a couple... hours? Minutes? I can't be sure. However, I can, yes, be sure that that was the first night I forgot who I was. Laying down on my bed, looking at the ceiling, completely wasted, I started to feel something remarkable, dare I say, glorious. It felt like flying or having a vivid dream... something I could barely recall. Was that the feeling of the highly sought-after happiness everyone longed for? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing is certain, though: after having a painful hangover this morning, my body needs more of that feeling. That feeling of what I believe is happiness. That feeling makes it all seem bearable. That feeling makes it all seem forgettable. It makes it all seem fine. And I need things to be fine.

SWEET STRUGGLE I love my best friend, but I don't need to hang out with her all the time. I truly hope somebody can relate to this and that I don't want to sound like a horrible person. I am an introvert. I am so much of an introvert that I took this random quiz that is supposed to tell you how you rank on the introvert/extrovert spectrum. My results: I was ALL THE WAY on the introverted side. Y’all, I love to be alone. My idea of the perfect day is going to the gym alone, making my breakfast smoothie and eating alone at my dining table (I live with my family.lol) with the current series I am watching on Netflix, taking myself to the movies alone in the afternoon, taking myself to the rooftop with my laptop and writing whatever I’m inspired (mostly nothing) to write that day, and lastly curling up in my room to read some more or watch TV before I fall asleep. I don't even feel the need to spend every day with my family. We see eachother everyday and that’s it, I love it. I know that might sound so sad and incredibly solitary to a lot of people, but it works for me. There have been days that I realised I never spoke out loud, because I didn’t interact with anybody. Now, this isn’t everyday, obviously. I have a college where I have to talk to and deal with people the whole time and it’s fine. I just have a strong need to be alone to balance out all the people's time. The one problem with this is that my best friend THRIVES on people. If I’m on the introverted side of the seesaw, she’s on the other extroverted side trying to keep me up and out of my solitude, She is a med-student. She goes to college from home, but she really hates being home alone. If her roommate is ever out of town, she'll always make plans to have a little get together or to go out so she’s not in the house by herself for a long period of time. She has a LOT of friends. I met her a couple of times when I was in her city. If it were up to just me, our friendship probably wouldn't have lasted this long only because I’m terrible with keeping friendships going. I’m bad with keeping in touch and reaching out first to hang out. She keeps me social. I love her for that and I love hanging out with her. The only problem is that I feel like I’m being a bad friend if she calls me up to hang out and I say no only because I’m totally loving my current Netflix binge in my sweatpants. I just need a heads up. I need to prepare myself to be social. I rarely say yes to impromptu social plans because I haven't mentally prepared to be around a lot of people. It’s just how I’m wired. Once, I’m at a party and the people are nice and there’s music and the vibe is fun, I’m good. I can dance and have a good time with everyone. When I tell people I’m an introvert, sometimes they’re surprised. I’m good when I’m around people, but they just don't realise, I’m SO GOOD not being around people. I often feel so relieved to be back home alone once I leave a party. I can’t recharge around people. I feel emotionally drained after being in a crowd. I need to be alone to recharge. I really have some experiences with her. I used to speak softly(sometimes). Although they were not very private, still I didn't want anyone else to hear that unnecessarily. But she used to ask me frequently, “why are you speaking so softly? Speak loudly.” We both were in the same class during 11th & 12th. That’s how we became best friends. I used to sit at the last bench in the last corner where even a light can’t enter, sticking to the wall. Since she was my best friend, she had no other option than sitting somehow at the outer side of the bench. Many times, she used to tell me that she was not feeling well. She needed to sit comfortably resting her shoulder against the wall. But I never Left my place just because I was uncomfortable sitting outside. Now, I feel bad for that. I feel that I was a burden on her sometimes. She deserves better friends than me & I think, in that case, she is on the right track now. Though we completed school together, the pursuing of each other's dreams separated us. She is a med-student & I am pursuing M.com. She loves everything and every human. It’s a beautiful balancing act. You both will balance the energies you bring to your friendship and each other in the process, WOW! She was that loud, funny, fun and everything you associate with an extrovert. And I was literally a PEOPLE PHOBIC PERSON. She would make my “serious” outlook on life so much lighter! Something I would mull over with sadness or thoughtfulness all day in all seriousness, and when I would share with her, In jest she would give me such a light, easy perspective to look at it, I would be like woah! Why don’t I ever think like that? She gave me courage and street smartness in moments of difficulty. And I had an equally neutralizing effect on all her madness from time to time. No one understood how we could be so different and still hang around so much together. But I owe some of the best days of school to her, because she made me see the fun side of things, the jokes, the true school craziness which I would have all missed out on being the born old soul that I was. It’s not JUST because of her. But she still left a large impact on me and yeah I became more relaxed and talkative. Well not that talkative actually because I’m still quite introverted. Anyway, It’s really really fun to have an extrovert as your best friend as an introvert. I never speak much simply because I don't have much to say. But I love listening to her. It’s really challenging having her beside me. Once we were sitting together in a mall and someone came, she addressed them with hi or hello while I am very bad at that. I just made an excuse and moved out of the sight. It’s a bit weird to have a friend who’s ideas and plans are quite the opposite of yours. If you’re like me, you’ll end up having arguments & frequent fights just because of contrasting opinions and situations. We used to argue a lot. Once because of my introverted feeling, I almost lost her. I didn't realise how much it hurt until she told me herself. Yeah I am not going to lie, I’m that type of possessive friend. If you’re part of my tight-knit circle, I want you all to MYSELF. That ain’t gonna happen with an extroverted best friend. Sometimes, I feel inadequate because she (being an extrovert) doesn't seem to need me as much as I need her. She spreads herself thin across as an endless list of friends and fun activities. As long as she makes time for me, I am happy. But I feel frustrated on the days when her busy social calendar means she can only “squeeze you in” for an hour, as if you're at a business luncheon or a PTA meeting, instead of her most loyal (and awesome) friend. And here comes the serious issue, Her FOMO always annoys me and my FOGO never fails to frustrate her. Besides everything, One of the best reasons I am drawn to her in the first place is the way she makes life interesting and more exciting. She took me on adventures and helped me to see the world in a whole new perspective. There’s always plenty to read about how to deal with romantic breakups, but the biggest loss in my life is what it feels like a breakup with her. Yes you got it right, Geographical barriers (she lived near her college while I was still in our hometown) was the main reason. Two years back, we ran into each other once and made small talk, which is the worst. I find it excruciating to make small talk with a person with whom I once shared almost everything. I started wondering to myself, What do I do? Do I let go of the friendship? Do I try to sit her down and have a heart-to-heart? You know what it’s occasionally lousy and super inconvenient to be an introvert? Because of this. Because people. Because of ALL THE SAD FEELS. We introverts don’t take friendships lightly. I mean, come on. Who wants to find a new best friend? It’s HARD making friends, and the thought of going through all the incremental steps of building intimacy again with someone else? UGH. EW. NO, THANK YOU. I’LL HAVE THE TV DINNER FOR ME. I can feel the questions running in your mind : Did I do something wrong? Is it my fault? Yeah, Maybe I could have been better in this friendship. Maybe I could have called her more often. Maybe I could have shown up with takeout coffees and bagels. But really? I’d say it’s probably that I did just fine in this friendship. Once when I was bemoaning a terrible situation I could not seem to fix, a very wise soul asked me, “Did you break it?” “Did I break what?” I had asked. “Any of it,” he said. “Because if you didn't, maybe it’s not yours to fix.” Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. I felt that. Maybe this friendship isn’t yours to fix anymore. I said to myself I tried for the better part. I am especially grumpy in the presence of cliched statements like, “Maybe the friendship just ran its course.” But in this case, maybe it did. Some friendships are seasonal, part of the fall foliage or spring blooms in your life. With all that being said, I am so grateful that I have my friend in my life. In my life, If I didn’t have her, I’d definitely be lonely. I’ve finally exposed my introverted struggles to her so I know she understands. I hope She won’t take it personally even if she doesn’t hear from me for days. She made me appreciate how important it is to step out of your comfort zone and that life is meant to be shared, maybe just not EVERYDAY. Despite everything, Dear Introverts, So free yourself. Be mad, Be sad - it’s all okay. The loss smarts, but it doesn’t have to keep smarting. Love from afar the-her-you-know, like a calm and collected super BUDDHA; love the friendship you had like a beautiful photograph; and be brave enough to let the-now-her-go. It doesn’t matter that she let go first, and it doesn’t matter why, not really. What matters is that you let yourself start healing and realize the only people worth your time are the ones who make you feel like you’re with everything. ~Sincerely, Fellow Introvert who is blessed with an Extrovert Best Friend

The temple of Apollo in Delphi was a glorious, golden-stone, sun-drenched ruin high in the mountains, which you could see perfectly well from the parking area. Fortunately, you could also access the coffee stand from the parking area, as the locals were pretty astute when it came to avoiding regulations. I used my fairly meagre retainer to grab a cup, which I figured was a better use than spending it on the entrance fee. Technically, my client might think otherwise. Technically, I wasn’t entirely convinced by some of the things my client was thinking, so the cup of coffee easily won out. I had a job. It was kind of a scammer’s job, but occasionally it paid. I’m a witch. None of that white-witch, blood-witch stuff, it’s more of a ‘whatever it takes to pay the rent’ kind of a deal. If I think it’s going to help, I wear a long flowy dress and a little sword thingy on a necklace. Sometimes I carry a few candles and sage in my purse. Luckily my reputation precedes me. Once, I cast a spell. It made the local news (here, where I’m also ‘that eccentric foreigner’, which probably helped). It wasn’t actually hocus pocus, but rather a sincere wish to understand what had happened, a purely coincidental arrangement of smoke and mirrors, and a blast of intuition so extreme and sudden that I found myself pointing at a bystander and shouting “she did it!” The woman in question tried to run away. It was all very dramatic. She’d been defacing monuments undetected for years. When you live in a land of millennia old temples, people take that sort of thing seriously. It hasn’t really happened again (the intuition, not the defacing monuments. That probably happens all the time, although that one lady went to jail). These days its just me traipsing around looking for clues and figuring things out like a regular detective. I get paid about the same either way, but my clients are far more gullible than a detective’s usually are, which makes things a bit easier. I took my cup and wandered over to the nearest park bench, where a cat came to join me. It sat half on my shoe, squinted at me, then sprawled out with it’s eyes closed. Which shows that a stray cat has better sense than I do. I arranged myself only slightly more upright and pulled out my binoculars. I’d been charged with finding a scrap of paper at a tourist site. My chances, I figured, were extremely low. What was worse, the scrap of paper held the phone number of a woman called Sophie, who my client assured me was the most beautiful woman in the world, and who he’d almost successfully picked up yesterday, then had second thoughts about, and now was having another change of heart and wanted to call her after all. Which is fine, you know, if it was all on his own time. But I couldn’t help thinking that if he was that hot for her he would have figured that out yesterday and getting someone else to do the running around afterwards is all a bit creepy. I mean, what if I actually found Sophie’s number? I’d be responsible for her having to let him down gently, or else for him needing to explain to her where her phone number had been before he actually called her. Wherever that may be. So my plan was this: I was going to sit here with my binoculars, taking in the sites from a distance. And if, chance against chance, I actually found what he was looking for - well and good. And if not, I’d phone him and say my witchy craft was on the blink, keep the retainer, and leave him to try to pick up some other woman. It was a good plan. I just hoped he never saw what it looked like in action as I soaked up the sun on a park bench outside a tourist site he thought he’d paid my entrance fee for. I could have stayed there all day. I’m pretty sure that cat was going to. But actually after an hour or so I was startled by a little golf cart rumbling up to empty the bins. Although that’s not really an auspicious moment to take my intuition from, I gave it a good hard look. And then I sat up straight and looked again. The golf-cart was being driven by an Amazon. I mean, she was gorgeous. Hair all swept up off her neck. A uniform shirt in khaki that showed off her strong arms. Collar bones peaking through at the collar. And she was looking at me with that slightly bemused look that the locals always gave tourists. Or smiling. Maybe she was just smiling. It felt like the sun was shining just for me, and I would do anything to get a bit more of that attention. “Hey, excuse me, do you speak English?” I asked her. “Nai,” she told me. Nodded her head. “How can I help?” Her voice was rich and warm. “A friend of mine lost something here yesterday. A scrap of paper”, which, as conversational gambits go, it wasn’t really ideal. “It must have been a very important scrap of paper?” “He thinks it was his fate” I told her solemnly. I could see her deciding whether or not to debate that one, but then with a shrug she gestured me to join her on her golf-cart. Let me tell you ... I sat on her golf-cart. You better believe I did. And there wasn’t much room on that tiny bench seat. She was taller than me. And somehow more put together. I wracked my brains trying for some casual conversation. No luck. Except, probably a couple of minutes too late to sound sensible: “Hey, where are we going?” She smiled at me, all sunny competence. “You wanted to look through rubbish didn’t you?” Oh right. Yeah, of course. After a few more awkward moments she asked me, “He’s a good friend, this friend of yours?” It is very important in the witch-crafty detective business, not to make any assumptions about why people ask certain questions. Answer in long form, I counselled myself. Perhaps draw her out a little. My throat seemed a little dry. “Um, No?” “But he has you looking for his lost thing?” She pressed. “Oh well, no. He’s actually paying me to do that.” She gave me her full attention at that, so I felt I needed to elaborate. “I mean, I am a witch. Well, not a witch, actually, a detective, but he thinks I might be a witch and might magically find what he threw away yesterday. Because he thinks it might be his fate” “But he didn’t think that yesterday when he threw it away?” I gave her a rueful sort of smile. “Maybe he was fated to wait a day?” I suggested. “Maybe his fate deserved a chance for second thoughts?” She replied. The drive took us into the grounds-keeper’s shed. Inside, I felt I was glimpsing a very prosaic behind-the-scenes of the otherwise majestic national icon. A kitchenette, a work table, some gardening tools. The calendar above the sink was set to the wrong month, with a beautiful picture of a roof-top bar on the ocean. Turns out the rubbish was dumped into a big skip and my new friend was showing me exactly how I should climb in. The fates were pushing me. I had my good shoes on too. Never-the-less, I dutifully climbed into the skip. I rummaged half-heartedly, while the Amazonian grounds-keeper watched me with one eye-brow raised. “Are you really looking for a scrap of paper?” She asked me. I guess I wasn’t looking very hard. I didn’t bother answering, kind of half smiled. “Because if you are really looking, perhaps the oracle would have the answer you are seeking?” I laughed. “There’s no such thing as an Oracle, well not in this century anyway.” “It is true. She only spoke in riddles anyway. She may have made this man believe he had his fate on a piece of paper, when really she was trying for something else altogether.” “For him to waste his money, I suppose. Did she charge for her services?” I asked The Amazon had a lovely laugh. “She did! But then she was not a fake”. You know that record screeching sound? “You think I’m a fake?” I asked “You told me you are ‘fake’!” In my head a search party went out for the end of a sentence that started with “yeah, but ...”. They didn’t find it. Missing in action. So I am a fake. I’d have had no chance at an Amazonian grounds-keeper anyway. And I was dirty now. I may as well look for the wretched phone number. I put a little more effort in, and was knee deep in ice cream wrappers when another grounds-keeper arrived. An older man, grouchy and worn, he gave me the once over then made his observations in his own language, to his colleague. I didn’t bother following along. I could understand the tone well enough. It started with ‘What the ...?’ And ended somewhere around ‘Crazy lady’ with a brief bypass into ‘I hope she isn’t making a mess of the rubbish’. I think I mentioned I’m fairly intuitive? Well, the two of them discussed this for a few minutes, until the grouchy man threw his hands in the air, and the Amazon gave him a very loud ‘look’. She cleared her throat, then said to me “I’m heading off to finish my rounds. I hope you find what you are looking for”. I couldn’t think of anything to say in return, but watched her retreating back like it was the last sane thing I would ever see. How do I get myself into these messes? Grouchy man grumbled at me, then pointed at the clock. “You have half an hour before the rubbish truck comes” he told me. I’d like to say I spent that half an hour methodically and efficiently sifting and sorting through rubbish. Mostly I sulked. I did move things about a bit, and every time there was the slightest noise from outside, I looked up, hoping for something to brighten my day. Nothing did. I didn’t find any useful looking scraps of paper either. If I was a slightly worse person, I probably would have written a fresh one for him. Pick some likely looking ‘Sophie’ from a dating site, and help two strangers out, all for this one low fee! But truth is, I was too miserable to be bothered. So when a truck rumbled up outside and grouchy told me to get out of the skip, I actually felt pretty relieved. My shoes were filthy. I had sticky stains where ice cream wrappers and coffee cup lids had spilled on me. I had no phone number, and the one potential saving grace to the whole day was a brief encounter with someone who realised I was a fake and had stormed off. Perhaps it was time I rethought this witchy-detective thing. It wasn’t really working out. I washed my hands, and called my client and give him the news. At least I could express fairly genuine regret. I made the call in the grounds-keeper’s shed. I didn’t bother hiding what I was doing, and apart from a few sly looks, the grouch just turned his back and got on with what-ever it was he wasn’t doing. So I didn’t realise when that hot Amazon turned up again. I didn’t realise she was standing in the door eaves dropping on me trying to let the client down gently. I only noticed her at all, because grouchy snapped a stern “Sophie!” In her direction. Wait, What? Sophie? I looked at her. Well I had been told she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and clearly anyone wanting to find her could do so at her place of work. Had I spent an hour in a rubbish bin looking for her number when I could have just asked her? Actually, why didn’t I just ask her? She was looking straight at me, like maybe she knew what I had been looking for all along. I hung up on my client. My dress was not very clean. My shoes had seen better days. I’d failed to earn my fee. “Sophie?” I asked. I gave a tentative smile. “Do you think I could get your phone number?” Sophie took on a look of mock seriousness. “That depends” she told me. “What would you do with it, once you had it?” My smile got wider. I knew the answer to this one. “I don’t even need the number. I just want to ask you on a date. To a roof-top bar overlooking the ocean”. “No clients?” She asked. I shook my head. No way. This was my fate now and I wouldn’t be throwing it away for all the world. Sophie beamed at me and smiled and nodded, and told me to wait for her to finish work. Luckily I knew a good spot to get a coffee, and enjoy a spectacular view. Sophie joined me on the park bench not long after, the sunset laid out in hues of orange and gold in front of us, and that one cat still lying where I’d left it hours ago. It squinted up at us as Sophie took my hand, almost as though it understood the day we’d had, before it stretched and walked away, leaving behind the scrap of paper it had been lying on all day, and the phone number incautiously scrawled on it. A job well done, I’d say.

Magic is everywhere around us. In the way we sing, we love and we hate... How we create, dream and achieve. It's in that first cup of coffee in the morning. It's the kids that our parents give us when we scratch our knees on the playground. Magic is everywhere around us. But mine? Mine was in the back pocket of my jeans, in a pink, heart shaped bottle, and as I later found out, it was never ending. At first, it was nothing more than a little trinket a fortune teller had given me. And, well, it was a strawberry lip gloss, and I was right, so... Innocent. Right? I wore it everywhere. It smelled amazing, it had a bit of glitter and didn't have that annoying stickiness that gets on your hair when it's windy. As I grew older, I started to recognize its many, many benefits - for example, it never seemed to end, and no matter what happened to it, I was always able to find it. So, quite naturally, I wore it to my grandmother's funeral. The woman had died of old age, so it was an open casket. I loved her with all my being, which is why I leaned forward for one last kiss, before they buried her. Now imagine the magnitude of my surprise when she rose up from her silk casket and looked around, extremely confused. Doctors chalked it up to a coma (we were all confused), but, hey, I've got my grandma back, what do I care? The thing is that... Same thing happened when my cat gave birth and couldn't feed one of the kittens, so I found it frozen to death. Now, you might be thinking, “Elizabeth, there is a worrisome tendency in your behavior leading you to kissing dead things”, and you would have been correct. Now, in my defense, it wasn't like I went looking for dead people or animals on purpose, they just... Kind of... Appeared around me? And it took some trial and error, and, well, I was convinced I was going insane, but around the 15th ye“coincidence”, I was fully aware that whenever I kiss someone with my strawberry lips gloss... They come back to life. A lovely trick if I have decided to chase a career as a doctor. Alas, I had questions in dire need of answers, so I drifted towards higher education which would allow me to get access to researches and expeditions that were otherwise unavailable to the public. Now, there is an unwritten rule (I have checked!) that what's dead should be left dead. It's something like an universal rule, like the fact that you need to bring a towel, and you shouldn't be eating the yellow snow. Unfortunately, I was powerful and sensitive, and I couldn't bear the sight of... well, death and the pain that it was causing. This, combined with the lack of direct repercussions led to... Well, me, kissing corpses. Not too ideal, as I was strongly relying on my moral compass to decide who lives or dies, but... Well... I was a girl with strawberry lip gloss, running around, making out with the dead. Do I sound like someone with clear judgment? Anyway, it wasn't long before I actually heard from the other world. Actually, Death himself visited me, in my own room, non the less. Just as I was coming back from an expedition, having to spend the last few days digging through... Dust, mostly, to be honest. I had this very simple plan to take a shower, order Chinese food (with extra grease) and just sleep for the next few days. What I received instead was an extremely angry, surprisingly young looking man (not a man technically, as he loved to point out), who was giving it out to me. Now, a normal human reaction when you find an all-knowing, all-seeing, all-whatevering being in your room, accusing you (rightfully so) of throwing off the balance of the Universe and Life itself would be fear. What your man received, however, was... Me. Preparing to get into a screaming match. And succeeding. And I was really angry. I was mind numbingly, throwing things, screaming at the top of my lungs angry. I mean, who was he to decide who gets to live or die? (Apart from, the obvious, Death himself.) Anyway, we got into an incredibly heated argument. He was stating that I am just a simple human (I think he meant it in the sense of “dumb”) and I couldn't just mess around with the essence of life. Now, I will admit, bringing back to life a man who has died in a school shooting, only to find out that he was the one doing the shooting is, indeed, not one of my proudest moments, but I also get good ideas. For example, when the White Rhinos started to go extinct, I personally ensured their survival. (And got a rabies shot in a timely manner). Anyway, my point is that I was just a human and as such, I will sometimes make mistakes. Which was his point too. Naturally, I shared my highly educated point of view, in an extremely calm manner, that, as most men (not a man, technically), he was an emotionally unavailable prick, who excuses his lack of empathy and development under the pretense of rationalization. The fact that this was a job requirement in his case was absolutely besides the point. Anyway, We did not reach an agreement, because, well, who could reach an agreement with such a snobby, self-involved know-it-all? Sure, his hair looked nice and he had gorgeous blue eyes that pierced through my soul (literally), but like... Even this wasn't in his benefit, because it wasn't his actual shape, he just used it on Earth (as my small and tiny human brain could not comprehend his Majesty's actual form. Prick.) Moving forward. I really thought that there is nothing greater than Death (apart from my strawberry lip gloss), but I was wrong. Apparently, I was not the first human that played around with Life and there is a whole committee dedicated to dealing with “the likes of me”. (Direct quote from your man there. Snob.) The prick wouldn't even let me wash my hair before he transported me... God knows where, in my old jeans, with a nest on my head and boots that had three layers of mud. Not only that I was a human, but I was a dirty, unpresentable one. Was I scared? This time, actually yes. Did that stop me from defending myself? Absolutely not. And apparently I did defend myself a bit too well, because... I actually won? Not won-won, the Universe didn't just randomly decide that it's existence it's wrong and I, Elizabeth Archibald, possess the eternal wisdom needed to change its ways... But I had some kind of a point. To the extent in which they admitted that Thomas (this is what I started calling Death, as it did annoy him greatly) was a bit too strict with his rules. So they paired us together. Basically, someone would die, wow would go on site and we would decide together whether he was going to do his thing or I was going to do mine. In the beginning, we would mostly argue, which became annoying quickly, especially when the soul decided to get in the argument too, but overtime... We started to understand each other. He helped me see that sometimes saving a soul would cause more damage than any actual saving, and, well... I helped him understand the opposite. Something else changed as well. In the beginning, we would just meet for business, but as the time passed... Okay, if someone dies in Japan, do you really expect me to *not* stay and explore the sights for a few days? I mean, I'm already there anyways, what's the harm? Yes, this did cause further arguments in the beginning, but sooner rather than later, he grew curious, and eventually find, of the humans. So fond that he decided to become one himself. Mostly because, and those are his words, not mine, I am such an irritating human being, I made him wish to die. Next to me, if possible. After we've spent whatever time we can on Earth together. So... To the committee we went. I had the crazy idea that if I just kissed him, he would become alive, but he had the crazy idea that this would piss off everybody, so maybe we should ask first. I was a firm believer that it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, but we were in a relationship, those required compromise, so... Sure, let's ask first. I had this back up plan that when they deny, I can make out with my husband-to-be and have a tiny win before we get evaporated, or whatever it was that the Committee was doing with the likes of us. So I was highly disappointed when they said yes. I mean, I still got to make out with him, which was cool, but the rebel undertone was gone. There were a few things that we had to take care of, for example, we needed to find a new Death, and this is a whole other story, and I had to give up my strawberry lipgloss, which is why we had to buy you a new bunny and couldn't save the old one, but... Yes, this is pretty much how I met your father.

An ear-splitting ‘crack!’ filled the air as they hit the stone jetty. The tiny rowing boat split in two as if it were balsa wood. The black water swallowed both halves up with a reptilian slurp. Max and Steve fell backwards with a splash and found themselves neck deep in the water of the large lake. ‘Shit. That’s the spliff gone out,’ said Max. ‘Never mind the spliff,’ panicked Steve, ‘what about the boat? If we get caught, they’re going to kill us!’. The two friends waded and swam to the side of the lake and hoisted themselves on to the tennis court sized, neatly manicured lawn by the water’s edge. As they lay on their backs on the dew-soaked grass, Max and Steve realised that they were completely soaked through. They lay there breathing heavily. Drenched, shocked and shivering. Suddenly, Max was seized by paroxysms of laughter. Steve looked at him in confusion and then started laughing too. He just couldn’t help it. ‘Do you reckon they heard that up at the house?’ asked Steve. ‘Nah, not a chance’ replied Max confidently. ‘Everybody will be inside this time of night’. ‘Except for idiots like us’ laughed Steve. Max let out an amused snort in response The two friends lay there panting and laughing, gazing up at the full moon looking down on them through the fronds of the Monterey pine trees that surrounded them. They both felt the powerful warmth of eight per cent alcohol Belgian beer and brandy chasers swirling around their bodies. They had also smoked a couple of fully loaded joints of hydroponic White Widow cannabis. They’d decided it would be a good idea to go on a post-closing time adventure in the fifty-acre estate owned by George Harrison. Now here they were. Very naughty. Very naughty indeed. The ex-Beatle’s property was surprisingly easy to get into. The perimeter walls next to the main road were only about seven feet tall and dated from Victorian times. Highly ornate with plenty of places to plant your hands and feet. All you had to do was to wait for a decent pause in the flow of traffic (which was easy after the pubs had closed). Then scramble over the wall as quickly as you could. There wasn’t even a drop on the other side because there was a small grassy bank above that sloped up about a foot and disappeared into a clump of small beech trees. ‘The lads are never going to believe this in the Tuns when we tell them about this tomorrow night,’ laughed Steve. ‘Nope’ agreed Max. ‘Shit. We’d better get out of here’, Max added, ‘We’re bloody soaked and I don’t want to catch my death. Neither do you’. ‘But let’s have another smoke first’ replied Steve. ‘OK. I’ll do the business’, said Max. ‘Good lad’, remarked Steve. Max expertly crumbled the fragrant white widow bud into a large cigarette paper. He added some moist tobacco from his pouch. Finally, Max picked up the paper and rolled the joint swiftly and smoothly. He shoved one end in his mouth and lit the other with a windproof lighter. He took a few tokes and exhaled loudly, handing the joint to Steve. The two friends lay there, propped up on their elbows, smoking and sniggering. They contemplated the magnificent lacquered wooden, Japanese-style bridge that arced across the lake. Beyond the bridge, on the opposite side of the lake, a ten-foot-tall statue of Buddha stared benevolently down upon them, a satisfied smile on his face. Both Max and Steve felt an immense sense of peace and well-being wash over them. They lay in a daze for about ten minutes. Until Max said ‘OK, we’d better make a move’. Max and Steve got to their feet, swaying unsteadily. With an intoxicated effort, they bent down to pick up their jackets, both almost losing their balance. The wind had become much stronger, and it was drying, but at the same time, freezing their soaked garments. A cloud had blown in front of the moon giving it a certain eerie, ominous quality. It made Steve experience an uneasy, queasy feeling in his stomach. Suddenly, Steve was aware of a bright flash across his peripheral vision. ‘Shit Max. Did you see that?’ he asked. ‘See what?’ asked Max. Both companions turned to look towards the main house. They saw what looked like three criss-crossing torch beams raking across the immense, immaculate lawn in their direction. Steve could swear he heard a dog barking. The main house, with its imposing mock-gothic façade, glowered down through its massive arched windows and angry turrets. They could almost swear that the house could see them. ‘Damn, they must realise someone’s in the garden!’ exclaimed Max. ‘You think?’ retorted Steve sarcastically. The torch beams suddenly veered off to the left, the way Max and Steve had entered the garden. ‘Crap. They’re heading towards the main road’, said Max, ‘we can’t go back out that way!’ Steve’s stomach felt like it had shrunk to the size of a walnut as he offered ‘Someone told me that there’s a back gate off to the other side. That might be our only hope’ ‘I guess so too.’ said Max ‘Come on, we’d better get a move on.’. The surge of adrenaline from all this commotion charged both Max and Steve with an icy alertness. Almost cancelling out the effects of all that booze and weed. Sensibly, they decided on the opposite direction to the security detail. Setting off slowly and deliberately, the two friends picked their way up a steep pathway paved with glistening granite rocks. At the end of this path a tunnel loomed before them. As they stepped in, they noticed that it was dimly illuminated by ancient-looking, flickering electric candles. Max and Steve could vaguely make out that the walls and ceiling were covered in mock Egyptian hieroglyphs, Roman-style artwork and Freemason symbols. Momentarily forgetting their plight, Steve remarked ‘Wow this is so trippy. Let’s stay here for a bit’. ‘Christ no.’ said Max ‘Are you off your head? They’ll find us’. There was an uneasy silence. ‘Killjoy’ said Steve. They came to the end of the tunnel. Below them was a roughly five-foot drop down to another lawn which was dotted with three-foot tall concrete models of psilocybe semilanceata mushrooms. Better known as ‘magic’ mushrooms. ‘OK, let’s do this’ said Max. The pair dropped down, both bracing themselves for a heavy landing. Max landed first, springing up from a crouch as he righted himself. Steve landed a second later but lost his balance. He toppled over to his right towards one of the concrete magic mushrooms. As he put out his right hand to steady himself, his ring finger hit the top of the mushroom. He felt a sickening crack as his finger bent back agonisingly into a rather unnatural position. Steve let out a noisy howl. A gruff shout filled the air ‘Oi! Who the hell is that? Come here now!’. They could definitely hear a dog bark now. And a low snarling. ‘Run!’ said Max. They ran as fast as they could. Momentarily, Steve noticed that the pain of his broken finger was now barely perceptible with the freezing fear pulsing around his system. They saw that the household security detail was far closer than they thought. Too close. They were barely thirty yards away. With dogs. Big dogs. And now they realised they’d been spotted, as a torch beam shone blindingly in their faces. ‘Oi. Come here now you little bastards!’ an angry, gravelly voice demanded. Fortunately, the back gate loomed into view. Unfortunately, it was eight feet tall. Max reached it just ahead of Steve. With a lung-bursting jump, he managed to grab the top of the gate and lever himself over. Steve heard the crunch of gravel as Max hit the ground on the other side. As Steve grabbed the top of the gate and pulled himself up, he heard a guttural growl. He then felt a tug and noticed a dead weight hanging from the right leg of his jeans. He kicked out furiously. And felt a rip as the weight subsided. Steve heard a pitiful yelp as the Doberman hit the gravel beneath him. Steve commando rolled over the top of the gate and landed inelegantly on the concrete. On his hands and knees, he gradually looked up. He saw a pair of official-looking black boots and, beside them, a familiar looking pair of red Nike trainers. As his gaze came fully into focus, he noticed the yellow and blue Battenburg cake pattern on the Vauxhall squad car. There was no mistaking that. Max’s hands were cuffed in front of him, and he was leaning against the car wearing a deflated, downcast expression. Next to him stood a balding, overweight police officer in the familiar black uniform. He had a wry, amused look on his face. The radio tucked under his chin emitted a harsh electronic crackle. ‘Well well well. What have we got here then?’ queried the officer. ‘You two are a sight for sore eyes and no mistake’. ‘You’re nicked me old beauties!’.

I walked a mile to burn you, over parking lots and highways, across crowded children's playgrounds and the greenest of parks, through cricket games and grass half as tall as me, to a place under a tree where a man led me to ask for a lighter for his already-lit joint and to say I'd like a London kisser, a place littered with empty cans and torn up newspapers. It took three tries to light you, my thumb sore from endless fags and holding on to moving trains. Your smoke pooled around me despite how hard I tried to blow it all away, settling in my hair and skin. I immolated you while an aeroplane roared over the music in my head (praying for the death of a man i'll never meet) and cricketers shouted soundlessly, a field away. I watched you burn, cross-eyed, right down to your end, to the very first scrawled letter. It was your idea, really, writing names on cigarettes.

The bar sat in a glade in a mist-wrapped pine forest, and the first I knew of it was the blue neon sign cutting through the fog: *Juliet’s.* On one side of the sign was a flashing feathery wing, and on the other, a red-lit pitchfork or a trident. I couldn’t tell you how long I’d been wading through the mist before I found it. But I do know that my death, and my life prior to it, hung on the very distant edge of my memory. Trying to recollect it was like trying to grab a handful of the fog. I could tell you I had a wife and a daughter -- but I couldn’t tell you their names or even their hair colour. The bar was pretty dim and it took a while for my eyes to adjust. Music hummed, drifted like waves in the background. Bluesy saxophone with a woman crooning in the gaps. The tables were slats of wood. Lights dangled low from the ceiling like orange bowls on threads of string. “What can I get you?” said a woman standing behind the bar. Her face was winter-pale, hair pumpkin-orange. She was drying a tumbler with a dishcloth. ”What is this place?” I said. ”Juliet’s. Didn’t you see the sign?” “I saw it. But... I don’t get what a bar is doing in a forest?” ”Serving spirits.” She laughed at that but I didn’t. ”Want to try a martini?” she asked. “I do a pretty good martini. On the rocks.” I shrugged. ”Sure.” What else was there to say? “You must be thirsty,” she said as she poured the gin. “Bet you haven’t had drink in a long time.” ”I guess I haven’t.” I looked arounds at the empty booths and stools. “Why am I the only one here?” She poured a shot of vermouth into the glass. “I only just opened. You’re the first to find me!” ”Oh.” “Try this.” She slid the glass across to me and it was only then I realised I had no money. For the first time since walking in those woods, I looked down at my clothes. Jeans. Striped tee with a smear of red on it. Blood, I guessed. No wallet or coins in my pockets. ”Relax,” Juliet said. “I don’t charge. I’m not here for profits. And certainly not for prophets.” She only grinned at that one. ”Who are you?“ I asked. ”What do you think of the drink?” she replied. ”I haven’t tried it yet.” ”You should. Before the ice melts and dilutes it.“ She put her tongue out and bit on it. Then she said, “I’m someone who has been above and been below. Someone a lot like you, except you’ve not been above or been below.” “I don’t follow,” I said. ”I used to be an angel. Then I used to be a demon.“ That should have probably bothered me, being inside a bar run by a demon, but it didn’t. Nothing seemed to bother me anymore. The numbness where my heart used to be was everything. Like my heart had been replaced by a wad of tissues. “Oh, now I get the logo,” I said. “The wing and pitchfork. Angel and devil.” ”Exactly.“ “Are you Lucifer,” I asked? ”Hardly,” she said. “I wasn’t cast out of anywhere. I’m just someone who got fed up with everything. You know, before I quit the final time, before I left hell, they tried mixing the entire thing up. Sinners went to heaven to be fixed up, while the pious went to hell for being too pious.“ The song changed. The sound of an old fashioned bass guitar rippled down my spine. “How did that go?” I asked. ”A disaster. But who cares, right?” ”A disaster?” ”At least,” she said, “in my opinion. Because then no one was happy. You died and you got fucked -- excuse my french. You tried to live well, you got screwed, you lived the life of a sinner, you got screwed. Maybe rightfully in that case, but still, everyone got screwed. And that didn’t seem right to me. No nuance.” ”So you opened this place?” ”Yep.” ”And... Where is this place? Where are we?” ”Limbo,” she said. “They closed it down for centuries, you know? Because they couldn’t find anyone to run it. So everyone either went to heaven or to hell. Like I said, no nuance. You’re the first soul to arrive here, so that’s great.” ”Why did I come here?” I asked. ”Because I invited you! And I’m going to invite a lot more people.” I shook my head. ”I don’t remember that.” ”How’s the drink?” I still hadn’t tried it. I took a toothpick and stirred it idly. Finally, slowly, I took a sip. It didn’t taste of liquid. Or of alcohol. ”Careful,” she said. “It’s strong.” The drink tasted of memories. There I was at home. Hiding a bottle in cupboard beneath the stairs. There I was filling up a flask before work. ”Shit,” I said. There I was getting in the car. Drinking from the flask. ”*Shit*.” ”I told you it’s strong.” There was my beautiful daughter. My wife. Getting in the car after me. Headlights. Swerved too late. Screech. Scream. Shattered glass- “What the fuck,” I said, gasping, slamming the drink back down. ”Relax,” Juliet said. The drink had filled up my heart as if it had been an empty cup sitting in my chest just waiting for this. And now this poison had splashed into it, this black liquid. And it was being sent through my body, through my veins. This horror and self loathing, pumping through my being. ”Did I... Was that me?” Juliet placed a hand on mine. “Yes. But it’s okay.” ”Why am I here?” I whispered. “I should burn in hell if I did that. ” ”It’s never that simple,” said Juliet. “That’s why I opened the bar. It’ll be packed before you know it.” ”It is simple,” I said. “I killed them.” She shook her head. “It takes a lot of sun to grow a tree tall.” ”Huh?” ”Your childhood. Do you remember that? Your father? Do you remember being bullied at school? Losing your job?” ”What does that have to do with anything?” ”Take another sip,” she said. I stared at the glass. ”*No*. Never again.” “Take another sip,” she said. The way she said it, it was so gentle, so warm, that my body reacted before I had a chance to deny it. I picked up the glass and drank. ”Do you see?” she asked. I saw my daughter. I saw myself walking her to school every day. I saw myself skipping meals after I lost my job, so her and my wife ate. I saw myself having tea parties with her instead of socialising with work colleagues. I saw my wife, her mermaid-tailed dress as she glided across the church. ”You’re not good. Or bad,” said Juliet. ”You’re just a product of your life. Like everyone else.“ She took the glass from me and put it down behind the bar. I didn’t watch as she made a coffee, but I could taste it in the air. ”Here,“ she said. “This’ll suit you better. Why don’t you go sit at a booth? They’ll be here soon.” ”Be here? Who will be here?” ”I’ve invited a lot of people. Because there’s no one just good and no one just bad. Your family are on their way and they’ll want to sit with you.” A blade of ice-cold worry stabbed into my chest. ”*My family?* After what I did? I can’t...” ”You can,” she said. “This bar isn’t here to punish people. Or to reward them. It’s just a place where people can talk and be and help mend each other. And I’ll be here to help, too. So please, go sit down. It’s about to get very busy.

"How am I supposed to choose? To pick one would mean to betray the other. I can't there both so important to me" There I stood between the two most important people to me, my girlfriend and my best friend. They were my world but now my world was splitting in two. My girlfriend huffed and puffed and yelled a hurricane of complaints about my friend right at me, " LOUD! ", " MESSY! ", " WEIRD! ", " RUDE! ", She yelled with a face so red it would put even the ripest tomato to shame. My Best Friend with a force of equal magnitude roared a slew of insults in retaliation, " STUCK-UP! ", " NEEDY! ", " SELFISH! ", " CLINGY! ", his fists were balled so tightly I was afraid they were gonna burst. I shrunk back into my shell at the volume of the argument, I felt like a child watching the marriage of his parents fall apart. It was too much, my heartfelt low and groggy, my head was hot and fuzzy. I've never been able to handle conflict well. In a rush, I grabbed my coat and bolted for the door. The two still locked in their verbal battle didn't even notice me leave. I ran and I ran, I kept running as far as my skinny legs would take me until I arrived at a park. It was the afternoon and it was cold. The sun started to go down as I walked over to a bench and sat down. I just couldn't take it, this wasn't the first time that they had gotten into such a scuffle. Any time the two would come in contact with each other they always come to argue. I was tired of trying to make them come to terms. I've tried every trick and tactic in the book, I've wrung my brain dry trying to think of something, anything to stop their fighting, but the two were like oil and water they can never mix. I have tried to keep them apart, but they would just try to monopolize me to hurt the other. As much as they despise each other they are more similar than they would ever admit. One thing that they especially had in common was that they were both absolutely, unrelentingly spiteful, and they're both more stubborn than a mule. On my Bestfriend's last birthday, my girlfriend arranged a dinner party and invited her whole family just to spite my friend and on Christmas day which I was supposed to spend with my girlfriend my best friend had his parents invite my entire family on a trip. I'm out of options, if they can't stop fighting them I have to cut one out of my life, but how, how could I possibly do something like that. Both of them mean more to me than they could ever know, but if I don't do this they could end up hurting each other one of these days. Who, oh Who do I cast aside. I've been dating my girlfriend since high school, she's been driving me forward every day but what about my best friend we've been best buddies since prep school, he's held me up for years never let me fall. How am I supposed to choose, to pick one would mean to betray the other. I can't be both so important to me. Who do I discard my Sun or my earth, my gas or my break, my muse or my brush, I don't know. Even with my jacket the cold of the air still brushes my bones, I can't stop shivering, my teeth won't stop chattering. I get up ready to leave, the sky is lit up with a sea of stars but the only light near the ground is the dim shimmering of the lamp posts. My head begins to calm down at the sight of this scene but as my mind quiets my heart begins to race, the scenery through beautiful is unfamiliar, I am lost. Where am I, which way did I come from, is this park safe? these questions were boiling over in my brain. I began to walk, trying to find my way back, once I left the park I began to realize how truly terrifying it is to walk home in darkness. The Lights in the houses were off and there was hardly anyone on the streets. The quiet of my surroundings was absolutely maddening, the only sound was the faint noise of cars very far away and the clicking of my shoes on the concrete. I hope to find something familiar or recognizable so I can make my way home. The traffic light shone a bright red down onto me, the green man of light instructing me of my time to cross the street. I took a step onto the open road, I could hear a car approaching in the background, it sounded on its way so I had time to cross. About halfway across the street, the car was driving up. Its movement was unsteady and shaky. I hurried across as it approached, then suddenly, unexpectedly, I was on the ground, laying on my side. My mind is unsure of what had just occurred, my body still hadn't processed the reality of the situation. Red, a puddle of red, the darkest, most mesmerizing shade of red I'd ever seen laid beside me, Its size quickly growing till it surrounded me like a lake, Warm, it was warm, I felt so sleepy I could barely keep my eyes open. The car stopped behind me, the driver got frantic and called out to me but I could barely hear him, it was so nice and comforting, this quiet was different from the one from before, it was soft and loving, it was tranquil. Darkness started to creep around my vision but I didn't mind, I just wanted to fall asleep. Bright, so bright, nothing like the loving darkness, a white light shone onto my face. I felt so cold once again. My eyes crept open and my sleep slowly faded away. There I lay in bed, on one side my girlfriend and on the other my best friend, they were crying, their faces were soaking wet. Protruding from my stomach was a bunch of tubes and pipes, A breathing mask was fastened around my face. My lips curled into a smile, they weren't fighting anymore, we were all together and no one was fighting, I was so happy. Their hands were coupled around both of mine, their hands were cold and trembling, my hands began to numb until I couldn't feel their hold anymore. Both of them were speaking to me but their words couldn't reach me even though they were so close, I couldn't hear anything, as I looked into their dripping faces my vision began to blur and darken, I was getting tired again. I layed in that bed with my two favorite people standing right beside me. I couldn't see them even though my eyes were still open. I couldn't hear them even though they were so close. I couldn't feel them but I knew they were there. I knew that once I closed my eyes I would have the most wonderful rest, I knew that I wouldn't wake up but that didn't bother me because at the moment the two people I love the most are with me. This quiet darkness is absolute bliss.

I stare at the cracked mirror in the dimly lit backstage room, trying to recognise the person staring back at me. The once vibrant eyes now carry a weariness that no amount of success can erase. My name is Jake, and I've poured every ounce of my being into becoming a rock star, but lately, I've begun to question if it was worth it. Our band, "The Fallen," was born in the dingy basement of a rundown apartment building. We were just a group of misfits with a shared dream and an insatiable hunger for music. Countless hours were spent rehearsing, writing songs, and playing in empty dive bars, hoping for that one breakthrough that could change our lives. And finally, it came. We secured our first tour, hopping from city to city in a rickety old van, living off fast food and cheap motels. The late nights and endless miles became our companions as we played our hearts out in front of dwindling audiences. But perseverance paid off when we caught the attention of a record label executive who saw the raw potential in us. Our first album, "Blood, Sweat & Tears," became an instant hit. It climbed the charts, and our faces adorned magazine covers. The relentless touring took its toll, but we revelled in the adoration of fans, the exhilaration of sold-out concerts, and the euphoria that surged through our veins with every chord struck on stage. However, the dark side of success soon reared its head. The constant pressure, the unrelenting expectations, and the ever-mounting stress began to wear us down. I, in particular, felt the weight of it all crushing my spirit. The exhaustion led to sleepless nights and moments of crippling self-doubt that turned into bouts of depression. And then came the blackouts. I wake up in unfamiliar places, covered in sweat, my heart pounding against my ribcage. My mind is blank, unable to account for the hours that slipped away. Panic grips me as I frantically search for clues, wondering what I might have said or done during those lost moments. The fear of becoming a stranger to myself consumes me, and I'm left questioning my sanity. Inside the band, tensions rise. The arguments that used to be minor disagreements now escalate into full-blown fights. Trust begins to erode as egos clash, and resentment festers beneath the surface. The harmony we once had as a united force of music becomes distorted, replaced by discordant notes that threaten to tear us apart. As the fame grows, so does the darkness that lingers around us. I can't help but wonder if this is the price we pay for chasing our dreams. The success that once felt like salvation now feels like a curse, and I'm left wondering if there's any way to escape the shadows that haunt us. The once vibrant energy of "The Fallen" now hangs heavy with an ominous tension. We've reached a crossroads where the very foundation of our band threatens to crumble beneath the weight of our personal demons. As the second act of our story unfolds, the true horrors lurking in the shadows are about to be unleashed. The strain on our relationships becomes unbearable, like a frayed guitar string on the verge of snapping. Each member of the band carries their own burdens, and the pressure cooker of emotions can no longer contain the mounting resentment. Arguments turn into bitter confrontations, hurling accusations and insults that cut deep into our souls. But the dissonance within us pales in comparison to the malevolent presence that seems to infiltrate our lives. Strange occurrences haunt our days and nights, testing the boundaries of our sanity. Instruments mysteriously detune, creating discordant melodies that grate on our nerves. Eerie whispers echo through the corridors of our tour bus, leaving us trembling in the darkness. My blackouts intensify, their duration stretching into hours, and the fear of what I might become during those lost moments gnaws at the edges of my consciousness. It's as if a malevolent force takes control, using my body as a vessel for its own nefarious desires. I wake up with bloodstained hands, surrounded by shattered glass and broken memories. Paranoia takes hold, and we start to suspect each other. The camaraderie we once shared is replaced by a toxic cocktail of suspicion and fear. Our music, once a means of escape and expression, now becomes a conduit for something darker. The lyrics we pen are laced with sinister undertones, haunting melodies that seem to summon an otherworldly presence. As we delve deeper into the abyss, we discover a disturbing truth. Our rise to fame was not simply a product of talent and hard work but a pact we unknowingly made when we were desperate for success. The price we paid for our dreams was steeper than we ever imagined. An ancient curse, tied to the music we create, has awakened forces beyond our comprehension. Our very souls are entwined with the darkness, and it feeds on our anguish, our struggles, and our desperation. The success we once craved has become a prison, a never-ending nightmare from which we cannot escape. With each passing day, the malevolent presence grows stronger, its grip on our minds and bodies tightening like a vice. It's clear that we must confront the origins of this curse and find a way to break free, or risk losing ourselves entirely to the abyss. But can we find the strength to overcome the horrors that surround us and reclaim our lives, or are we destined to become mere instruments in a symphony of madness? The depths of despair have claimed my bandmates, leaving me standing amidst a gruesome tableau of carnage and unanswered questions. The discovery of their lifeless bodies shocks me to the core. Crimson splatters paint the walls, turning our once vibrant sanctuary into a macabre canvas. Their eyes, once filled with dreams and determination, now stare into the abyss, their souls forever silenced. How did it come to this? Did our pact with the shadows consume them, or is there a more sinister force at play? The room whispers secrets, but they remain locked within the shadows, refusing to reveal their dark truths. Fragmented memories of our recent days together haunt my mind, merging with the echoes of my blackouts. Did I become an unwitting puppet, dancing to the malevolent tune of the curse? Or was I merely a witness to a horror that defies comprehension? The weight of guilt presses upon my shoulders, threatening to break me. The once unbreakable bond we shared, the brotherhood forged in music, now feels like a curse. Doubt seeps into the cracks of my sanity, intertwining with the tendrils of the darkness that has plagued us from the beginning. How could I have let it come to this? Was there any way to save them, or was their fate sealed from the moment we struck that infamous bargain? As I stand amidst the wreckage of shattered dreams and shattered lives, the truth remains elusive, buried deep within the haunting melody of our story. The horror of the unknown lingers, forever shrouding our final chapter in mystery. Was it the curse that claimed their lives, or was it my own hand stained with their blood? The echoes of their music resonate within me, their voices mingling with the haunting questions that will haunt me until my last breath. So, as I stand above the four dead members of my band, covered in blood, I wonder, was it all worth it? The End.

A yearning propelled me forward. Freezing water lapped over my toes and made me gasp. I hesitated. Resolutely, I took a deep breath and shuffled a few more inches in. The murky water eddied around my ankles, but I already felt like I was in over my head. What was I thinking? Over my shoulder, onlookers gathered on shore. “It’s a cold world out there,” they warned. The older ones huddled in their cozy blankets, staying warm and dry and safe. The younger ones built castles on the sand, watched the surf melt them, then started over. Yes, I was doing the right thing. There had to be more to life than the shallow monotony they represented. I broke out in goosebumps, more from exhilaration than the temperature. I waded in further and jumped up as a swell approached, only to have my legs jerked out from under me as it receded. Floundering, I was sucked into the fray. Hecklers jeered, then quietened down and sank back into their chaise lounges. Now one of the flailing crowd, I swam blindly through the swirling mist blanketing the surface. I wondered what the others were after -- a hidden treasure, an elusive 'happily ever after,' a missing piece to life’s puzzle? Who knew? I sought meaning and purpose, and prayed I'd recognize it when I found it. Tossed by uneven swells, dumped on by crashing waves, and pushed around and down by others in their own selfish pursuit of what evaded them, I questioned my sanity. "Rocks!" "Sharks!" "Undertow!” Warnings hollered out, usually too late, caused a frenzy of thrashing as everyone did their best to steer clear of the dangers. Nearby, screams muffled to gurgling, then silence, as people were dragged under. A wave crashing on nearby rocks ended with a sickening grunt, the sound of a body slammed down like a discarded rag doll. Squawking signaled the scavengers swooping in and fighting over the choicest morsels. Shivering, I put more power behind each stroke and swam away as fast and as far as my tired limbs allowed. Unable to see through the hazy veil over the water, I couldn’t be sure I was safe. Tears and saltwater stung my eyes. Who was I in this sea of humanity, anyway? I certainly didn't know. No one seemed to care if I was struggling out here or back on land, as long as I didn’t interfere with them doing their own thing. I swore some were swimming in circles. Like everyone else, I worked to keep my head above water. Prickling at the back of my neck told me someone was watching me. I didn't know who was in the shadows, and I didn't want to know. I focused harder on the task at hand to distract myself. A glow in my periphery revealed Father hovering nearby. I ignored him. He waited patiently. Stubbornness and pride spurred me on. Every now and then, his alluring song or reassuring whisper reached my ears, "I'm here for you when you're ready.” Fueled by a determination to make it on my own, I doubled my efforts. The frigid water numbed my extremities and dulled my senses. This wasn’t the 'more' I’d been seeking when I started out. I doubted the outcome of this fateful quest. Fatigue and hopelessness settled in my bones. How could I find something when I didn't know what I was looking for? Was this even the right way? Exhausted, I sank to the rocky bottom, resigned to my soggy grave. A shaky voice I didn't recognize as my own caught me off guard, crying out from the depths of my being. My world dimmed. Rays of brilliant sunshine illuminated my Father’s hand as he reached for me and lifted me into his boat. I clung to him. My thankful tears mingled with the dripping seawater. “Dear one,” he said, wrapping me securely in his strong arms and kissing the top of my head. His embrace and the sun banished any hint of a chill. It dawned on me, this is what I'd been searching for all along. "Why didn't you tell me before I ventured out?” "Would you have listened?” he said, lifting my chin. There was no condemnation in those loving eyes. He raised an eyebrow at me. I shook my head and lowered my gaze. “At least you were bold enough to step out. Some people feel the cold, wet sand underfoot and retreat. Some like to test the waters and go their own way, no matter what. Everyone's free to make their own choices, but they must live -- or die -- with the consequences.” I knew it was true, but that didn’t mean I liked it. We groped blindly but were oblivious to the pointlessness of it all. We were directionless despite our perseverance, clueless but too arrogant to admit it, and our mindless activity only wedged us deeper in our quandary. *** My mission, now, was to help others come into the light. We launched the boat once again. Father sang his usual love song, dispelling the darkness from around the boat, and I used his strong searchlight to part the fog further. I wanted to trawl along with a net and scoop everyone up. Then they couldn’t choose to argue with me when I tried to get them to understand what they were missing out on, but I knew that wouldn’t accomplish anything except make people mad. I spotted my brother Kamron plowing through the throng of people. I was relieved he was still afloat, but then, he was smart, athletic, and up on the latest of everything, the polar opposite of me, so I wasn’t surprised he’d do well for himself. He forged on, sometimes grabbing the shoulder of someone nearby to help propel him forward. Despite the increasing waves, he made good progress. Part of me thrilled at his success, part of me was saddened by it. Why would he be interested in anything I had to offer? When a burly man pushed him under, he sputtered and choked, but recovered quickly and pressed on. Father maneuvered the boat closer. “Here! Grab the rope!” I yelled. Several people scowled at me. “Nah, don’t worry -- I’ve got this!” Kamron assured me. I’d thrown the life preserver within arm’s reach, but he swam on. Tossed around in the melee, his lifeline soon drifted away, but others could still grab it if they wanted to. “Anyone?” No takers, only mockers. “Are you saying we’re weak and need rescuing?” “You think we can’t handle this?” “Come on -- that’s for wimps!” “You’re going the wrong way! I know what you’re looking for,” I said, tugging on the rope and coiling it around my arm. I readied it to throw out again. “You’ve already given up, so how would you know, Miss High-and-Mighty?” someone said, splashing me. “Just 'cause you’re up there and we’re down here, you think you’re better than us?” “There isn’t a wrong way!” someone else piped up as they backstroked by, “We’ll all make it there eventually.” “Where is there? Do you even know where you’re going?” The sloshing of the ocean was my only answer. “Everyone’s going this way, so it must be right,” Kamron said. “What? And you’d swim through a swarm of box jellyfish if everyone else was?” I said, under my breath. Knowing him, he’d do it just to prove he could. “Sharks circling!” someone yelled. Screams followed by an ever-widening expanse of blood proved it was too late for at least one person. “Well, this is getting fun, isn’t it?” He laughed nervously. “Best get going then. Catch you later.” “Come on, Kamron! If you get in the boat, you’ll be safe. Then we can go home together.” “If I wanted safe, I would’ve stayed on the beach. Should I throw in the towel because you have? Don’t you see? I’m doing what’s best for me! Why is that so wrong?” I guess I touched a nerve. “I see more clearly than you do!” I said. I interrupted Father’s beautifully haunting singing and said, “You could make him get in.” “Yes,” he said, smiling, “but it’s got to be his choice.” “Yeah, I know,” I said, my voice flat, shoulders sagging. When I turned back, Kamron was long gone. “Let’s go. This is pointless.” “Listen!” Dad whispered, “There is one.” I cupped my hand around my ear and focused. In the distance, a tiny voice pleaded, “Help! Please save me!” Warmth bloomed in my chest. Yes, someone was ready!

There's a one day in past no one remembers... "I wish people could see that. No one is going to believe us." Miró put his camera on. "You were saying?" Tomazo smiled. His friend was always here to solve his non-existent crisis. "So, what are you going to say to our fans?" Tomazo stuttered. "We-we're about to jump from the plane, you know," When he spotted Miró, he added: ",with other members of Wackos International." Miró rolled his eyes at the nervous youngster. "Tomazo, Tomazo, what I am going to do with you? You're not scared of jumping from 700 metres but speaking to the public it's mortifying? Unbelievable." Tomazo pulled on his friend's parachute to make sure everything was in perfect shape. "I can assure you- fine, fine, check it for the thousandth time." Miró let his friend do the checks and went to look for other boys. "Hello, Wackos! Some words of encouragement for our fans?" They began to shout: "We gonna jump, you better watch it. 700 metres and no one's dying!" Miró laughed and joined them with chanting. "Are you guys ready, an aeroplane is here in a minute?" Instead of an answer, they started to dress up. Joel, the oldest of the group, smiled at Miró. "If I want to show my abs, I would do it in a gym. Not with you grinning behind the lens. Shoo!" "You never let me have fun, do you, Joel?" Miró grinned when Joel threw his sweaty top at him. "I'll show my sixpack to anyone, Miró." Emmanuel laughed. The cameraman pointed the camera at him, smiling. Emmo twisted his top over his head, wiggling around with his hips. Other boys cheered. "Why are you not ready? The pilot's already here." Tomazo entered the locker room, then twisted himself to run away, embarrassed to death. "Tomazo! Our virgin boy, don't you worry, we're leaving so you can get ready," shouted Arno. Miró stared at him in disbelief. How dare is he? ", chill, I am on my way out." The youngster added and left the locker room, laughing. When only Miró left, secretly leaving the camera on, he asked Tomazo: "What's the issue? My younger brother sometimes doesn't think about what he's doing, hell, he never thinks. That doesn't mean he's right about you." "Some scars are better to stay hidden, Miró." "Let me help you, then. I think you can trust me, after all." Tomazo shivered but then let him help. "Is it safe to jump with this?" He poked the thin tube hanging off his stomach. "I'll be fine, believe me. I need a tape, and you need to hold it for a moment." Miró nodded. "Hey, you will not rip me apart, hold it tight!" Tomazo blushed. It sounded harsh but Miró waved it off. "Tomazo, calm down, we are both men. You can actually hit me, you know?" The younger of the men shook his head. "No, Miró, I will not. Besides, Wackos are ready to game on. Don't tell me you can't hear their bickering from outside." Mir ́o slapped his arm and together they went outside. Every parachutist was checking its stuff, buckling themselves and joking about presidents and priests. Tomazo had to smile. They disagree, first, with this idea. But Miró was convincing and group of eight men and three women build up enough courage to set the meeting. To actually jump. With Tomazo, shy boy from Texas, first. He breathed in and out. He grabbed the rope. He breathed in and out again. Then he raised his thumb up and shouted: "On three!" Pilot laughed and slightly shifted the plane on the side. Tomazo screeched and he was gone. Free fall from the plane. Alone, dropping fast, yet he was relaxed. Screaming his lungs out, he let happiness fill him to the brink. Then he pulled the string and opened his parachute. At first nothing happened, then violent thrust of wind raised him up. Tomazo realized the parachute opened already and clutched the harness, maneuvering as he was taught in the class. Briefly, he could see Joel and Marianne, Wackos official founders, screaming and laughing around. Then others jumped in synchronized motion. Finally, they all reached Tomazo and caught him from both sides, creating a Wacko "circle of bravery". Tomazo couldn't hold back tears. Bunch of colleagues now turned into something Tomazo never had. A family. They were doing it for him. And with him. "That was amazing!" Emmo landed first, laughing his ass off from relief. "I'll kill you, when you land hard, men!" He shouted at the sky where men were falling. "It's not over. Next week, we are deep diving in Marine Trench." Miró remarked, being killed immediately with a look of slightly scared Emmanuel. "Are you okay, Tomazo?" When everyone landed, Miró run to his friend. He was white as a sheet, shivering. And big blotch of blood was trickling from his stomach. "Call an emergency, quick!" He shouted, breaking the panic silence. Joel run in search of signal while others were helping to unbuckle Tomazo from his parachute. "I'll be fine, no stress." He whispered, attempting to relax them. Arno shook his head and nipped: "You idiot! You cut yourself open and expect us to believe you'll be good?!" Miró wasn't in mood to scold him, focused on Tomazo, who was clutching his left arm in attempt to fight shivers. Emmanuel managed to free him from the harness and they lay him down. "The helicopter is on the way." Joel absent-mindedly wiped his face of sweat and announced the news. "Hey, buddy, what's that?" Hanzo, Joel's younger brother, commented when Miró accidentally pulled out Tomazo's suit. "Uhm," Tomazo went silent. "Heck no, Tomazo, they deserve to know. Now, grow into big boy pants and tell them!" Miró pinched his shoulder, sober look on his sweaty face. ",uh, I got PEG tube. Two years ago." Everyone went silent for a while, then Emmo sighed: "You ruined it now. I always thought you're gay vampire." The Wackos burst into a laugh. "Why gay? I get that part with not eating your food, but gay? Do you think you are turning me on? You're handsome, that's without doubt, but you know, I'm wet while looking at girls. Sorry, Marianne. It's rude to say it aloud." She waved it off, looking nervous as blood didn't stop trickling, making him less able to communicate. "Where's the-" Arno growled when they heard deafening noise from helicopter's rotating blades. After surgery, Tomazo was bored from watching cartoons and he switched the channel to evening news. He started to laugh, waking up his roommate. "Shush you, trying to get some sleep, wait- it's that you?" Tomazo swallowed tears and nodded. The evening news were full of his face. To be clear, Wackos International group was served as the main dish for local media. There was a record from Miró and also the part he was unaware of. The part of their conversation in the locker room. He reached for his phone, shaking. This hit him home. But before the phone connected to Miró, he knocked at the door and invited himself inside. With box of chocolates and grin plastered on his face. "I guess you would like to kick me. So I melted them first." "How could you? I trusted you with my- with this!" He pointed at his bandaged stomach. "Because you trusted me, I didn't tell a soul. Nor did you. Though you should be proud. Nothing of this would happen, if you didn't stand up for them. You save them, risking your own life. And now, you are part of us. Raining men. Wackos. Seize the day and save sorrow for the funeral." With these words he left the room, leaving Tomazo to think about the past he was running from. "What he was talking about? Who did you save?" His roommate wondered. "My name is Tomazo Fretta. I was deployed to rescue mission of American soldiers, held in captivity, in Iraq's war camps. I was attacked, bombed and I came home, damaged but saved them all. It was rainy, rainy day, when Tomazo Fretta, walked that way. I wanted to forget it, but Miró is right. I should be proud of what I did. Not pushing it away. And I owe them, my raining men...."

Maggie sighed and tossed her home renovation magazine aside. The glossy pages of beautifully decorated rooms seemed to mock the idea that she would ever get the beach house that she longed for. She was doomed to listen to Audrey and Maude burble on at the book club about their beach properties for ever. It was not for want of trying to convince her husband Tom that it would be a great investment for their retirement. She pushed the magazines under his nose, made him sit through hours of reality television about flipping houses and buying real estate and even dragged him to some open houses. Easy-going by nature, he rarely objected, but also showed no sign of acquiescing with her ideas. She looked at the clock. He should be home any moment now. She headed off to the kitchen to start dinner. An hour later, she was beginning to worry. He worked in construction, and she tended to go to worst case scenarios whenever he was late. She was equally irritated and relieved when she heard his key in the door. He came into the kitchen, beaming, and swept her off her feet into an extravagant hug. Maggie extricated herself and stepped back, surveying him anxiously. She hadn’t seen him this excited since their son was born thirty odd years ago. His usual greeting consisted of a peck on the cheek as he passed her on the way to the fridge to grab a beer. “Tom? Did you win the lottery?” He shook his head, grinning. “I wish. Next best thing. We’re going to look at a house at the beach tomorrow. That’s why I’m late. I was setting up an appointment with the realtor.” Maggie dropped her dish towel and flung her arms around his neck. “So, you were listening to me after all,” she said. “What’s it like? Where is it?” “It’s a surprise,” he said proudly. “You’ll see it all tomorrow.” Maggie tossed and turned that night, picturing herself admiring ocean views from the balcony, a glass of chilled chardonnay in her hand. She finally fell asleep with color schemes running through her mind. Sky blue, turquoise, azure and mint green perhaps, but absolutely no kitschy shell decorations. She woke early and heard Tom singing in the bathroom as she packed a lunch. It was a beautiful spring day. It occurred to her that she couldn’t remember the last time they had gone on an outing like this. Traffic was light and they made good time, singing along to the country music blasting on the radio. “Here we are,” said Tom as they reached the outskirts of the coastal town. Maggie eagerly gazed at the tourist shops, palm trees and seagulls, straining for a glimpse of the sea. She kept her eye open for ‘For Sale’ signs, but he continued past all the fancy, pastel colored ocean front houses with cute names like ‘Captain’s Rest’ and ‘Sea La Vie’ and turned down a residential street three streets back from the ocean. Parking the truck in front of a modest older home, he waved at a slim, well-dressed woman who appeared on the front porch. “This is Jenna, the realtor who’s been helping me look for properties,” he said. Jenna proffered her hand and smiled. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “Let me show you around. This place has so much potential.” Maggie’s heart sank. She knew what ‘potential’ meant from all the reality shows she’d watched. Inside, her worst fears were realized. There was peeling vinyl on the kitchen floor and dirty green shag carpet in the living room. The trim was dark brown. The kitchen appliances were avocado green and at least thirty years old. “Was this the only place you could find?” she said. “It’s going to be so much work.” Jenna, who had been hovering in the background, cleared her throat. “You could always tear down and rebuild,” she said. Maggie turned to Tom, a gleam of excitement in her eye. “What do you think?” “Excuse us for a moment,” he said to Jenna, who scurried outside. “This is the only thing I could find that fits our budget. It’s solid. I’ll renovate the kitchen and bathroom. You decorate to your heart’s desire. We’re not in the same income bracket as your fancy book club friends and I’m not going to get into debt to compete with them.” Looking at Tom’s hurt expression, Maggie flushed with shame at having been so transparent. “I’m sorry,” she said, hugging him. “You’re right. No point having champagne tastes on a beer income. We can make it special.” The next few months were a blur of activity. Tom was as good as his word and worked wonders with the kitchen and bathroom. Maggie was so busy stripping and repainting walls and sewing curtains and cushions that she had no time to hanker after her dream house. The result was cozy and eclectic, and if they didn’t have an ocean front balcony, they did have a screened back porch where she could enjoy her chilled chardonnay and Tom his cold beer. Even Maude and Audrey were impressed when they came to visit. “We thought about ocean front, you know,” said Maggie airily as she showed them around. “But this place has more personality than those cookie cutter McMansions.” Tom, in the background, smothered a grin. A few days later Tom and Maggie awoke to the sound of heavy equipment grinding away at the house next door. The house seemed to gradually double in size as a large extension was added. Tom followed the process with interest, chatting to the workers as all his old construction skills resurfaced. “Must be nice to have money like that,” Maggie said, with a pang of envy as they watched a large moving van pull up, followed by a car, a few weeks later. A tall, slim woman got out of the car and began directing the movers. “Beware the green eyed-monster,” Tom said, chuckling, as he headed out to the back garden where he was building a gazebo. Finally empty, the van left and the woman emerged from the house, stretching and looking weary. Maggie waved at her over the fence. “Hi, won’t you come in for a coffee? You must be exhausted.” “That sounds wonderful. I’m Val,” said the woman, smiling. “I’d love a cup and I’ll be glad to reciprocate whenever I can get unpacked and find my coffee maker.” Tom gave Val what he called the five-minute tour of their house while Maggie served cakes and coffee. “Your construction people did a good job,” he said. “That’s my line of work, so I know what I’m talking about.” “After seeing what you did here, I know that’s true,” Val said, gazing around at the house. “It’s so cozy.” “That’s one way of looking at it,” said Maggie wryly. “Having the extra space with your extension will be wonderful.” Val sighed and looked down at her coffee. “I’m glad you mentioned that. My husband was in a bad car accident a few years ago. It’s a miracle that he survived, but he sustained permanent brain damage. He has a mental age of about five.” Tom and Maggie stared, flabbergasted. “I am so sorry,” said Maggie, hurriedly passing Val the tissues as her tears welled. “You weren’t to know,” said Val, wiping her eyes. “Imagine a five-year-old six-foot-tall former football player and you’ll get the picture. He was in a private residential place for a while, but they claimed they couldn’t manage his behavior. The only other option was to send him to a state institution, but I wouldn’t keep a dog there if I could help it. We already had this house, so I used the insurance money from the accident to modify it and I’ve hired a nurse’s aide. I didn’t want you to be alarmed if you hear yelling or commotion from time to time. He would never hurt anyone intentionally, but like any child, he sometimes has a meltdown if he gets tired or his routine is changed. He’ll be fine once he gets settled.” “It sounds so inadequate but let us know if there’s anything we can do to help,” said Tom. Val smiled wearily. “I will. Thanks for the coffee. Now I’d better get going. He’s arriving later today, and I have a lot to do.” That evening, as they sat on the porch, Maggie looked from their house to the house next door as if seeing the scene for the first time. “I’ve learned my lesson,” she said. “I’ll be very careful what I wish for from now on.”

The magician, simply known as The Great Bardot, has been in show business for thirty years. He started as a child by learning all the common tricks of magic. Disappearing coins and foam balls squeezed between your fingers suddenly appear as if from nowhere into full-size balls in your hand. And, of course, a plethora of card tricks. Bardot entered many amateur talent shows and traveled with a troupe across Europe. As his talent improved, people started talking about him. Night clubs were his next venue. Now that his name was more recognizable, his pay increased, and he could purchase more expensive materials. With better equipment, Bardot was able to do more elaborate illusions. These illusions were so complicated that he would perform only one or two per show. These amazed and baffled the audience. With the complexity of each trick would come the question, “How do you do that?” To which Bardot would only say, “A good magician never reveals his tricks.” While Bardot is at the peak of his popularity, he epitomizes what a magician should be and what a magician should look like. Suave and debonair, the forty-two-year-old Frenchman strikes quite the figure. He is tall and slender, wearing his dark hair pomaded straight back. His tuxedo is perfectly tailored to show his broad shoulders tapering down to his polished black shoes. He does, in fact, look like an exclamation point expressing the wonder of his performance. He doesn’t have an assistant preferring to work alone. If he needs someone to help him, he’ll ask for a volunteer from the audience. Using a live audience member enhances the effect of the magic. One night after a performance, there’s a knock on Bardot’s dressing room door. “Yes. What is it?’ “I have a telegram for Mousieur.” The boy enters and hands the note to Bardot and waits. Bardot knows the young man is waiting for a tip and reaches into his vest pocket and produces a silver coin. Before handing it to the lad, Bordot flips it into the air, where it disappears. The young man stands slackjawed until Bardot reaches behind the child’s ear saying, “Ah, here it is.” He smiles as he watches the lad leave under a hail of thank yous. Bardot’s pulse quickens. He sees that the note is an invitation from the world’s greatest magician, Monsieur Matteo Descoteaux. Descoteaux retired and bought a castle in the Hauts-de-France region near the Belgium border. He has lived there as a recluse, with no one seeing or hearing from him in over ten years. The note expresses that it is imperative that he sees Bardot, for he has something most important to share with him. Bardot lays the letter on his dressing table with trembling fingers, fearing he’ll drop it. The performer is dizzy with excitement at the thought of the world’s greatest magician wanting to share something with him. What could it be? ... Bardot takes a train to Lille, where he rents an automobile. He then drives for forty-five minutes to reach the entrance of the three-hundred-acre forested estate containing Descoteaux’castle. The woods are dark and foreboding, and the road condition is poor. Bardot steps out of his car and feels a chill run up his spine. The air is cold and damp as he inhales deeply to bolster his courage. The clanging of the metal door knockers reverberates through the surrounding woods, scattering mobs of crows in its wake. As the massive oaken door screeches open, Bardot is greeted by an elderly servant. He is bent and rather shabby looking. “May I help you, Monsieur?” His voice is old and husky. Bardot presents the note. “Yes. I am here on the invitation of your master, Monsieur Descoteaux.” The butler takes the letter and asks Bardot to please wait while he informs his master of his arrival. Returning a few moments later, he shuffles up to Bardot. “If you will kindly follow me, the Master is in the library.” Bardot finds the castle to be cold and dreary. The surrounding forest is so thick that it allows little sunlight to enter through the stained glass windows. Everywhere he looks, Bardot sees thick layers of dust. The library is enormous, with beams of sunlight streaming through windows high up near the ceiling. The surrounding bookshelves are several feet tall and packed tight with numerous volumes. There are stacks of books measuring three to four feet high on the floor. At the far end of the library is a maple desk where Descoteaux is sitting. “Come closer young man. Let me have a better look at you.” As he approaches, Bardot sees that Docsoteaux’ left eye is cloudy white, with an agitated red and slightly swollen rim. His complexion is dull and gray. He has an open ulcerated sore on his forehead that he scratches now and then with knarled, arthritic fingers. The top of his head is bald save a few wispy strands of grey hair falling to his shoulders. His coat is thread worn and covered with dandruff. The ancient magician points to a nearby chair. “Sit.” Bardot removes several books and sees how filthy the chair is. He doesn’t wipe it clean, for that would be an insult to the Master. “Monsieur Bardot, I have been following your career rather closely. It seems you are quite successful. I’ve studied your illusions and have found them most clever. I was wondering if you would like to learn the secret of true magic?” Bardot hesitates and thinks, “He says the word magic as if it is something different than what I’m doing, performing tricks which is what we magicians do. But if he’s suggesting another, purer form of magic, then what magician wouldn’t want to know it.” A smile escapes Bardot’s lips, “True magic?” “Yes.” hisses Descoteaux. “True magic. The ability to create something out of nothing. To perform miracles, to dabble in the divine! Would you like that, Bardot?” Feeling like he’s drunk too much wine, Bardot murmurs, “What must I do?” “Come closer, my young friend, and lend me your ear. I shall whisper all the secrets of the universe into it.” An hour later, Bardot leaves the castle and drives recklessly down the ruinous driveway to catch the next train to Paris. While packing for an extended tour of the United States, Bardot hears on the evening news that the world-famous magician, Matteo Descoteaux, was found dead in his library. The one-hundred-and-two-year-old entertainer died of natural causes. The year is 1959. ... Over the next two decades, Bardot’s career soars. He appears on talk shows and variety shows like the Ed Sullivan Hour. Bardot receives a five-year contract to headline at Circus Circus in Las Vegas. He truly is “The Great Bardot.” But at last, no matter how great you are, people’s interests change. The world of magic is no different. With interest fading, Bardot continues to perform sparingly. Toward the end of the seventies, Bardot makes a rare appearance on the Tonight Show. Johnny Carson, once having been an amateur magician, introduces Bardot with great zeal. In the center of the stage is a common folding table and chairs. Bardot invites Johnny and co-host Ed McMahon to join him. He also requests that the cameras come close and focus only on the tabletop. Bardot addresses the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, what I will demonstrate tonight can only be true magic. Please watch closely.” He asks the bandleader, Doc Severinsen, to come over and examine the table for hidden traps. Severinsen feels around the table and announces, “Looks good to me, man.” Bardot then asks McMahon to press his finger as hard as he can into the center of the tabletop to demonstrate that it is indeed solid. McMahon does and reassures the audience it is so. Bardot stands and walks to the edge of the stage. “Might I please have someone lend me a coin the size of a quarter or half-dollar?” An eager young man from the front row rushes forward and hands Bardot a quarter. Bardot thanks him and asks him to tell the audience if they have ever met. The young man confirms they have not. Bardot calls the fellow over to the edge of the stage and bends down. Then in a low voice, “Are you by any chance a magician too? If so, meet me after the show tonight.” Returning to the table, Bardot hands the coin to Johnny. “It is real, yes?” “Oh, it’s very real.” “Good.” Bardot places the coin on its edge and holds it with his forefinger. He then tells Johnny to put his hand under the table about four inches from the bottom. “If I can have camera number one focus tightly on the quarter and camera number two focus on Mr. Carson’s hand, I shall begin.” Bardot closes his eyes and starts pushing down on the coin. His concentration is great, as evidenced by the beads of sweat on his forehead. As he pushes harder, the audience seems to hold their breath. There is dead silence. The intensity is so palpable that the TV audience at home can feel it. The coin beneath Bardot’s finger vibrates, echoing through the silent studio. As the camera records, the coin starts to shimmer and fades in and out until, all at once, it is gone. Camera number two catches it falling into Johnny Carson’s hand! Bardot leans back, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. Eyebrows raised and eyes wide, Johnny exclaims, “It’s hot! Ed, how can this be? Doc, you checked the table. How did it pass through?” The audience gives Bardot a standing ovation. Bardot bows and exits the stage. A short while later, there is a knock on Bardot’s dressing room door. Knowing who it is, he lets the young magician in and locks the door behind him. “What is your name, young man?” “Aldrich, sir.” “You want to know how I performed this miraculous trick tonight. Please have a seat, Mr. Aldrich, and I shall tell you how I became “The Great Bardot.” I lived in France a long time back when I was invited to the home of the most famous magician in all the world, Matteo Decsoteaux. He told me he could teach me to employ real magic in my routine. But there was one condition.” Captivated, Aldrich utters, “What was the condition?” “I will tell you in a minute, my dear Mr. Aldrich, but first, look into my eyes. Look deeply into my eyes and listen to my voice. Over the course of several lifetimes, I have emersed myself in the study of ancient books of Alchemy. I have learned to control others and transport my spirit into them. You are on longer in control of your body or your will. They are both mine. When Bardot visited me those years ago, I tempted him with the promise of using real magic. I then took over his body.” Aldrich struggles to scream, only to find he has no voice. He can not so much as utter a faint squeak. “ I possessed his body to carry on my life work of magic. This body that I now inhabit has contracted cancer and shall die soon. So here you are, Mr. Aldrich! A new vessel for Descoteaux to occupy for years to come! “ Descoteaux throws his head back and laughs diabolically. Tears of terror stream from Aldrich’s eyes as he feels the warm breath of Dexcoteaux on his ear, whispering his death warrant.

The form before me is positively massive, the sea dripping off in rivulets. My mind can’t even begin to comprehend it, as if in its very nature, it is wrongness given shape. I want to run away, howling madly, but I have a job to do. People have to know what is happening. What this creature wants. It raises its face, if you can call it a face, to look at me. Tendrils pulse and whirl around where the mouth would be. Its eyes are like enormous rubies, with a raging fire burning within. Those massive crimson chasms lock onto me, pinning me in place. From the outside, I hear a deep bellowing rumble. But within my head, I could hear a deep basso say,” Why have you disturbed me, peon.” All I can do is stand there, mouth agape, gasping like a landed fish. I wanted to escape those eyes, their scrutiny seeming to reach even the deepest recesses of my mind. “Can your kind not form thought into speech yet, small one,” it asked. What I could only assume as his brow rose like the tide. “Yes, yes I can speak. My apologies, it is rare that such a being as you is ever heard. Let alone seen. What would you have me call you?” “My true name would send you shrieking into the depths of madness, flea. You may refer to me as the dead dreamer.” “Alright, well Mr. Dreamer, why are you here? Do you come in peace?” I was really hoping it was not the alternative. “I come, because I was rudely awoken. I believe your fellow fleas have disturbed me with your drills, and your pumps. Taking what isn’t rightfully yours. My city was heavily damaged by the aftershocks of such activity.” “I will wipe this tomb clean of the filth that has caked the surface. A cleansing purge is often necessary to remove disease.” I gulped nervously. That didn’t sound remotely peaceful. But I had to press on. I raised my microphone as high above my head as I could, shouting, “So your purpose is to destroy then? What of the people that have grown to inhabit the planet.” “Well, they shall be destroyed, of course. Would you, pardon the expression, allow fleas to exist upon the back of your dog? No! You would purge the hound clean of the parasites. So it must be.” “Would you allow some of us to live?” It was but a small hope. “Possibly, if they were willing to serve. I believe I have unbeknownst agents amongst you already, so they may prove useful.” So that was it then. Humanity, save a small indoctrinated portion, would be wiped out. I could tell this was a promise, not a threat. Who’d have thought? Instead of being subjugated by some extraterrestrial, the greatest threat came from our own oceans. Finally dropping the pretense of this ill-fated interview, I fled. Screaming the whole way back to the van. Ross, my cameraman, was already behind the wheel. His eyes wide with panic, we careened away from the shore. We had to get away, spend what time we had left with those we cared about. As we fled, I turned and stared out the rear windshield. The Dreamer just watched us, serene as a statue. But the eyes, those damnable eyes, never left mine. I saw how it would end in that brief connection. I believe a small part of me snapped in that moment, because Ross told me I started to giggle wildly, speaking of the endless depths and those who live there. I remember none of it, only the eyes remain. Those damn eyes. Those damn eyes.

“ Are you coming tonight?” She screamed into the phone. She probably thought that Mr. Ken wasn’t hearing her above the noise of the vehicles for she noticed from background noises that he was in the bus. “ I don’t know as of now, I still have a lot to cover today, I will give you an answer in three hours time.” Mr. Ken Obiakor had been on the road since 6:00am. He knew from experience that Nigerian time is different from the rest of the world. When you’re hosting or being hosted in any occasion, just know that any hour you put on the card means plus one hour. It has became a tradition here now to add one hour on any occasion one is invited. Courts, banks, hospitals, ceremonies etc. Any kind of invitation. People don’t like being the first to arrive in any meeting or occasions for they see it as belittling themselves by loitering around waiting for others to show up. He was invited to lecture the market women on the do’s and don't's of fire prevention. It was scheduled to start around 9am and the journey was two hours journey. He left his house around 6am and got there by 15minutes to 9 but ended up staying another 50 minutes before people began trickling in and the event finally took off around 5 after 10. It lasted about two and half hours before he started his home ward journey. It was really a stressful journey but he doesn’t have choice nowadays like most do since after the covid-19 locked down was lifted. Most firms embarked on laying workers off and he was one of the victims of his organization's down sizing. He had gotten work in the privately owned firefighting firm after graduation. after his lay off, he had used his contact in getting lectures and demonstration on anything concerning fire out break. Thanks for four years knowledge he garnered in the firm. It has been the means he had used in supporting his family while hoping that his applications to government own firms would be successful. He had used the opportunity provided by the occasion to water ground like the saying around here goes. He handed over his contact cards to the organizers of the event and most women he believed has connections. He noted that they were impressed by his presentation and drill demonstration. On disembarking from the bus after two hours plus journey, he entered a restaurant nearby and ordered a plate of fried rice with goat meat. He would have preferred pounded yam and Egusi soup but he still have three invitations to honour, the food would be heave in him. He opted for rice. While on the food, he remembered that he had not returned call to his former classmate as promised. She and her husband is organizing Thanks given party for the contract her husband got in supplying spare parts to an oil servicing company in Rivers state. First part of the contract had been successfully executed and they decided to host their friends to little get together. While on the food, he did his calculations and decided that attending that get together was practically not possible. He signed, focused on his food and promised to call the lady after meal. On finishing the meal, his phone rang and it was his landlord calling to remind him that his jubilee wedding anniversary has gone half way already, “Where are you?” he demanded. “ Ah, sorry sir, I am on my way immediately” 30 minutes later, he entered the man compound. After presenting his gifts, and chatting with the celebrants and other guests, he excused himself to attend yet another birthday party of a friends kid. He entered a supermarket and demanded for a toy. “ Why is the gift too expensive?” he queried. “Sir, there are all foreign products” “foreign products?, you mean to tell me that toys can not be produce here?” “ No sir, no company like that exist yet” “ How do you mean, you mean that all these engineers don’t know yet that children toys are hidden treasure?” “ I am not sure that any foreign companies would listen to their advice to invest in the country sir” “ I don’t mean partnering with any foreign firm, I mean going it alone” “ Ah, sir, they don’t have that knowledge and money” “ How do you mean?, you mean they can’t produce toys?” “ Maybe manual wooden ones sir,” “wooden?, I mean like all these ones here” “ Ah, sir they can not. I think their lecturers don’t teach them these things” “ Don’t teach them?, ah, these guys can produce real cars for goodness sake” “ Sir, if they producer, would you buy?, the bridge they built in my village fell within three months and kill six people. No body will buy anything they produce, it is too dangerous” “ What type of mentality do you have?,, “ Sir, this mentality is normal I tell you true. my cousin was among the victims of that bridge. I see a lot of those engineers every evening here, they knew a lot of politics, money and women, not toys” “ Hand me my gift, I hope you wrapped it well?” “ sure, it will need scissors to open it” On getting to the friends building, he noticed a crowds of about 50 or more people gathered in front of the three storey house, he went near to know what was going on. He had only been there for a minutes when suddenly they were rounded by the police vans. Everyone was pushed into the van and taken to the station. On getting to the station, they pushed everyone inside the holding cells after collecting everything on them for safe keeping like they said. One hour later, they started calling them out one after the other for questioning. Mr. Ken's dilemma was that no one knows where he was. The friend he went to his house don’t even know he was arrested in front of his house, his family don't know too. His phone has been confiscated and Nigerian police and they cell is never anything to write home about. “ Who is Kenneth here?” one officer asked. “Yes, I am the one” “You seems to know a lot of caring friends, they have been calling this line for long now, you are the type of customers we need here. Follow me” As he picked up the phone, a woman voice barked into his ear; “What happened, are you coming?”

I post this as a warning. Learn from my mistake. I was in bed last night, scrolling through Reddit. I'm a fan of horror, and strangely I actually find it easier to sleep after a good scare, so I was browsing through short stories, clips and other horror-based content when I came across a post simply titled "**Don't rub your eyes**". As I began reading, half drifting off to sleep, I read a line that said "**I feel a slight tingling sensation in my left eye. It's almost not even there, except for the fact that I know it is**". The line took me by surprise, as I laughed at this attempt to unsettle me, only the thought wouldn't go away. I didn't feel anything in my left eye, did I? I couldn't tell if it was the brightness of the screen, or the fact that the thought was placed in my head by what I was reading, but I felt a twitch in my left eye. At this point, any sensation on my face seemed amplified, as all my attention focused .on what I was feeling. Even among being aware of all the sensations on my face I normally tune out, I was most aware of my left eye. Before long, the faint sensation became difficult to ignore, as I continued to read this story. I thought of raising my hand towards my face, when my eyes diverted to the title once more, "**Don't rub your eyes**". My heart began to race. A sensation I would normally welcome, but this was different. This felt personal. I wanted to close my phone and just go to sleep, but I couldn't. The sensation in my left eye was growing. It felt like there was dust there, or perhaps a little hair. Nothing that couldn't be solved by just cleaning it away. Yet I kept coming back to the title of the story that faced me, "**Don't rub your eyes**". But I couldn't simply leave the feeling be. I couldn't just ignore it. It was bothering me. So I made a decision. I raised my hand and rubbed my left eye, still continuing to read with my right. I could feel the irritating sensation ease up as I rubbed, and I smiled at my own trepidation a few seconds prior. It was just a story, nothing more. Whether it was dust, or hair, or imagined irritation, it was almost entirely faded away, when all of a sudden, I heard a ***POP***. In fear, I dropped my phone and sat up. The bright screen looked up at me. As my left eye cleared, I looked down at my phone, and all seemed fine, except for a strange soreness on my face. I tried to explain it as an understandable byproduct of my efforts to clear my eye. The popping noise meanwhile was surely just something to do with plumbing. Yet the strange soreness on the left side of my face wouldn't let up, as a creeping suspicion overcame me. I closed my eyes and covered them with my hands, and I could feel it. I told myself I was imagining it, but I could feel it. My left eye felt further into my head than my right. In a panic, I turned on my bedside lamp. Even amidst the new lighting, my phone lay on the bed, on my leg, shining up at me. "**Don't rub your eyes**". I checked my eyes again, hoping to be proven wrong this time. Hoping I could just laugh at my momentary lapse in judgement and go to sleep. If only. My eyes felt more misaligned than before, as my left eye seemed to be retreating into my skull. Unsure of what to do, I tiled my head forward, once again facing the stupid post. The soreness did not seem to fade, and so I tapped the back of my head, hoping to coax the retreating eye back in it's place. I don't know the science behind it, but at the time, it seemed a reasonable thing to try. But try as I might, the eye continued to sink. The pain was not significant, which I found strange. Only a tangible soreness that took over one side of my face. Perhaps it was the adrenaline rush I was feeling at the time, but by now, my vision began to distort. From my right eye, I could still see my phone looking up at me, but from the left, a strange circular border began to form around what I could see. I tried to close my left eye, but with nothing to hold their form around, my upper eyelid simply dangled when I tried. I'm not sure why, but I grabbed my phone, before I jumped out of bed and ran to the nearest mirror. As I saw my reflection, I tried to scream, but the sound was stuck in my throat. The vision from my left eye began to darken as I felt it slide entirely out of its place and fall back, rolling inside my head. I could see from my remaining eye, that all that remained was a dark red, empty hole. I looked down at the phone I was still holding tightly. I read one final time, "**Don't rub your eyes**".

Many times, I’d seen him, wild, bushy, greying hair framing his entire head like some kind of grotesque creature. Down the corners of where his mouth apparently was, there were brown lines fading into the beard hair. I was sure that if I looked deeper into the hairs, I would definitely find lost food particles. He would usually not acknowledge any greetings or waving. He was definitely “grumpy guts”! His clothing was always drab and stained with threads hanging off and he wore great heavy steel capped boots that looked like he never took them off as the caked mud went from trouser to toe all in an unbroken sheen. Over everything he wore a very old, tattered leather jacket, Davey Crockett, style. One thing though, I don’t remember him actually smelling bad, odd that. He would drive slowly past in his ancient, grey, Land Rover with miles and miles of looped binder twine hanging across the upper section of the flat tray. Some of it you knew had been there for nearly as many years as he was old by the colour because every few years the manufacturers brought out a new colour and there were examples of all variations hanging there. At the time, as a child of 10, I found him quite scary especially when he became convinced that I was purposefully tying knots in the manes of his “wild” horses. Even he couldn’t get near any of them. There were also reports from other people that he would fire his gun threateningly if he found them near his property....and bellow, I used to hear him roar at his dog sometimes. Our property’s boundary fence was also his and occasionally he would come up to the fence and holler for my father. After a brief exchange he would promptly turn and march away. This was how we found out that he thought I was knotting his horse’s manes as he indicated to my father that if he caught me, he would “tan” my hide. My father said he better not or else....and that’s when he stomped away. Of course, even I couldn’t get close enough to those horses to be able to do such a thing even if I had wanted to. I did used to handfeed them and rub their noses though, there were heaps of them, such beautiful creatures they were with show bloodlines. There was also a great herd of wild goats that roamed the entire area, coming and going through ANY fence at their pleasure. Technically he owned them since he was the one who originally started the herd but after that they owned themselves. Sometimes the bucks would come and try to fight with our goats, they were much “smarter” than our poor billy and we would have to rush to his rescue. Anyway, as things go, we ended up with some pretty coloured babies, much to my dad’s disgust. Eventually he got a new puppy. He called him Useless. I think after a good year or so the new dog grew on him and he seemed to love it, however unfortunately the name stuck. As the years rolled by we began to have a little more to do with him and he even used to get us to assist with injured horses when they needed daily treatment and he had to go away to his job. Later we were even permitted to walk across his property to get to a beach that was there. We had to be careful to only climb through specific “holes” in the fence and not climb over and only walk in certain paths. I started to see another side to him and under his bushy eyebrows I now saw the most beautiful blue eyes. Many years later I was helping another neighbour test a new cart behind his donkey on the road and suddenly the donkey decided that he had had enough of this business and bolted down the hill. The cart began to breakup and my friend and I bailed out. A little further on and the rest of the cart came loose and the donkey continued on with just the traces dragging and flapping behind. Grumpy guts came driving up the road and saw it all happening. He leapt out of his truck and stood in the middle of the road with his arms out to stop the donkey. He couldn’t stop laughing. He said to my friend, “Chariots of Fire, Chariots of Fire”, and nearly choking. One winter whilst he was checking on one of his boundary fences he found evidence that someone had crossed onto his land. He would have been furious. There was a little pickers hut in the bush from yesteryear when an orchard had once existed and a young couple in there trying to survive. They had nowhere to go and she was heavily pregnant. Instead of getting his gun out as usual and throwing them out he let them stay and even started taking them bags of food and other supplies. I don’t know how long they ended up living there but it just goes to show that despite living a gruff and meagre existence and appearing like he couldn’t and wouldn’t trust anyone and giving all who come near him a hard time there was still a tiny seed of decency and care for his fellow man. Maybe the woman reminded him of his only daughter that I knew he never saw. Maybe he thought one day she might be in need and someone might just come to her aide. I don’t know, but I do know that eventually he died alone in his rundown, dirt filled house. He never slept in the bedroom in the bed but instead lay on the couch looking out over the paddock and down to the sea. He drank black coffee with whisky in it and ate bacon fried in a pan that was so full of previous meals fat all black and gross that I am sure it was simply NEVER washed. He was a very odd man, a loner and alone. A product of several wars at whose end no side wanted him back so he ended up in the back of nowhere as far as you can go without going to Antarctica. Yes, as a child he scared me but no one should die alone!

My dorm wasn't as small as I thought it would be. 540 square feet. There was a small private bathroom included in the space. It was now filled with boxes. The only furniture was a full sized bed, a cafe table with three wire chairs, two bookshelves and a television stand. "Its actually too bad that your first day of class is tomorrow. It doesn't give you much time to get settled." Mum sighed, looking around. I nodded. "I had thought about petitioning the dean to give me permission to come early, but I was already worried about standing out. I didn't need to make it worse." I replied, dropping into one of the wire cafe chairs. She shrugged. Before she could say anything, there was a knock on the open door. We both turned and saw a pretty young female satyr standing in the door way. She was about the same height I was with a long caramel side braid, deep brown skin and bright jade green eyes. The fur on her legs was the same as her braid. "H-hello, My name is Margaret. I-I'm your neighbor. I've just moved in next door this morning, so I'm pretty new too." She announced nervously, shuffling on black hooves. She twisted the hem of her bright orange tunic. I waved from my seat "Its a pleasure. My name is Kiska Thatcher and this is my Mum, Deliverance. You don't have to be nervous, we won't bite." I added jokingly. Mum gave me a dirty look before turning back to Margaret. "Are you the only one here, Margaret?" She asked gently. Margaret nodded slowly. "My papa was supposed to come help me move in but he was called into work. He works for the Department of Natural Resources as a park ranger." She explained. Mum went over and pulled Margaret into the room. "I know that both rooms are probably a mess but I was thinking about getting a pizza or something for lunch, then we could start unpacking. Margaret, if you'd like we could help you unpack too. Would you like some pizza?" She asked as she sat the young satyr in one of the chairs next to me. Margaret nearly burst into tears. "Y-yes please." She mumbled, her chin trembling. "It's settled. I'll go get the pizza and you guys can start unpacking. why don't you start in Margaret's room." Mum advised as she strode from the room. I nodded and stood up, grabbing Margaret's hand. "Lets go, it'll take less time if there's the two of us working on it." I dragged the protesting satyr into the hall. She reluctantly showed me which side was hers and we opened the door to find very little in the way of her stuff. Her face suddenly disappeared behind her hands and she shuffled quickly on her hooves, giving the impression that she was doing a very awkward dance. "Margaret, you're gonna scuff holes in the floor if you keep that up." I entered the room and surveyed the small pile of bags, blankets, pillows and beanbag chairs. Everything that she owned, it seemed, was hand made with natural fiber fabric. I picked up one of the thick blankets and marveled at the softness of it. "Did you make all of your stuff?" I asked, turning to her. Still covering her face, she nodded. ***I couldn't tell why she was so embarrassed. The stuff that she owned, despite being small in quantity, was beautiful. The colors were so vibrant and vivid. The fabric was so soft yet so strong. I couldn't imagine making anything of the same caliber.*** "Margaret, I can understand being in a new environment, but you don't need to be shy with me. I'm not going to judge you or anything. Promise." I coaxed, putting the blanket aside. Slowly she uncovered her face. "I'm sorry, the humans in my neighborhood at home weren't always the kindest." She confessed quietly. I gave her a quizzical look but didn't pry. "Well, I'm not like them. Promise." I assured her, turning my curiosity into a beaming smile. Her demeanor seemed to open up a little as she smiled shyly back. "S-Shall we get started?" She offered, picking up one of the bags on the top of her pile.

The deer carcass on the edge of town was found lying next to an old tree by Heather on her morning walks. Her screams woke the tiny town of Hawthorne from its slumber. Dead animals were a common sight in the village. Hunting was a way of life, and if humans didn't kill it, a larger animal surely did. This deer's killer was clearly neither human nor animal. It had chunks of flesh torn in a symmetrical fashion, and a purple substance in the wounds. A few yards into the woods from the deer; two piles of the purple substance mixed with meat was found. Alien invasion hysteria gripped Hawthorne. Heather was briefly accused of killing the deer herself and being a traitor to humanity. Heather responded by slapping her accuser, and the matter was resolved. Three lone hunters took it upon themselves to hunt the beast themselves. One got lost and returned at sunset. One was found dead the next morning. The last survived and was traumatized by what he saw through his binoculars. Six long scale covered legs climbed through the trees like a car. Four tentacles vibrated around it. Two faced in the direction it traveled while the other two were constantly changing directions. The body was oblong and covered in fur. A fur pouch on the side covered a small slug with a mouthful of teeth drooling purple slime. He assumed another slug was on the other side. The town was divided on how to handle this alien threat. One group wanted to carry on its life as normal. This creature was no different than a bear or a puma. If it got in their way, they would shoot it and hope that it had enough meat for dinner. Another group wanted to leave town and start a new life. They were reminded that the world outside of Hawthorne was a wasteland, and the creature could follow them. The group decided to stay, but they would be sure to propose moving at every opportunity. A third group wanted the glory of the hunt; the surviving hunter reminded them that another hunter had died hunting the beast. The last group wanted to do a combination of setting up a watch around the town for security and send out parties to gather information on the creature but not confront it. In a shocking twist of events, reason prevailed, and the last group won. The watchers observed the creature never went near the town. When small parties of six were sent to the forest, they found a variety of animal carcasses and purple slime near the bodies. The creature was sighted running past the information parties, but it never confronted them. With this information, it was hypothesized that the creature was intelligent enough to not attack large groups, and it needed nutrients that were lacking in Earth creatures. This information changed group dynamics at the next meeting. The group that wanted to live life as normal proposed to continue living life as normal. The group that wanted to leave, proposed leaving again. This time, they proposed moving somewhere with nicer weather. The cautious group desired to continue studying the creature. The hunters had already left the meeting to kill it. Chip and Ken were two of those hunters. Their heads crouched and scanned the perimeter for signs of the creature. Their shotguns were close to their chests prepared to fire. When a deer ran behind them, Chip turned and shot it. Ken castigated Chip for wasting ammo especially since he missed the deer which was now running away from them. Fortune favored the stupid, and the creature dropped from the canopy to consume the deer. Ken stopped criticizing Chip and began running towards the creature shooting at it. Chip followed and fired his gun as well. Chip continued to be a poor shot as every pellet misses the creature. He did manage to hit a bird fleeing the fight. The creature did not move from its meal. Several of its tentacles were struck by bullets and drop to the ground. Its legs went limp crushing the carcass beneath it. The two slugs drooled purple slime. Chip and Ken stood over the body and fired several rounds into it until they were certain its dead. The town had no research facilities to study the creature so they buried it. A minor cult formed around the creature in the weeks after its death. The location of its burial was forgotten causing the cult to disappear quickly. Chip and Ken were briefly treated as town heroes until Chip crashed his car into Gayle's farm. They were then regarded as idiots again. Some long for the chance to study the creature further. The presence of an alien briefly made life exciting, and the existence of life in the stars posed engaging philosophical questions. If only Hawthorne could be graced by another alien creature, one that would not be murdered by local hunters. Until then, it was luck and stupidity that killed the beast.

Kill Count Pre-adventure: Gregory: 0 Brylynn: 0 Tedal: 0 Lubith: 0 Gert: ∞ The group looks determined as they prepare for their descent. Leading them is a small gnome. “The Lizard King has been sending up his lizardpeople through a large tunnel nearby. We don’t have the numbers to meet them head-on, so we are sending in our greatest adventurers through a smaller tunnel to ambush their general. His name is Otel Deraj. He is known for his bowtie and pretentious attitude. Kill him and we will reward you with 5 gold pieces.” Explains the teenie tiny gnome named Jerome. The party leads through the tunnel. In the front stands the gallant holy warrior, Gregory Hillyer. His sword is strong but not as strong as his conviction. He leads the way, torch in hand. Behind him is the eloquent elven mage, Brylynn Flowerlight. She can't cast healing spells so quit asking. She holds her spell book ready for action. Following is the halfling rogue, Tedal Shadowrabbit. He’s just a little guy. He pulls his hood over his head, blending into the shadows. Struggling to keep up is the Obese Dwarf Cleric, Lubith Brownheart. His fat is mere insulation. Sweat drips down his beard dripping onto his heavy plate armor as he pumps his arms to keep up. Behind Lubith is Gert. The ground of the tunnel is uneven dirt, and the roof is unsupported. The tunnel is primitive, like something a badger would dig, not like something made by a gnome. “I’m not used to being underground like this, I don’t feel safe,” says Brylynn. “Oh hush now. Being underground has never hurt anyone,” says Lubert. “Gert,” says Gert. They hike for what feels like hours to Lubith, until they encounter two lizardpeople sweeping the floor. One holds the broom and is yelling at the other sweeping the floor. “Hergthassasssaaasshhhhhhh,” says the sweeping lizardperson once he sees the humans. “Stand back infidel, repent or be slain,” exclaims Gregory. “Gert,” says Gert. Gregory charges first, slashing with his sword. Flying from behind him; a bolt of fire from Brylynn. The fire and sword collide with the lizard, applying a stab wound and burning a hole through his chest. The lizardperson pulls a sword from the broomstick and clashes blades with Gregory. The second lizardperson unsheathes his dustpan, revealing a blade at the end of it. Before the second lizard person could land a hit, Tedal jumps on his back, stabbing him in the head. Lubith follows with his Mace straight to the knees, snapping every bone in the poor joint. “Gert,” says Gert. The swords of the Lizardperson and Gregory cling. Gregory breaks through the bind and stabs the Lizardperson through the chest leading his intestines to fall out. Brylynn puts her hands against the lizardperson’s face and melts it off. The lizard person fumbles back and slashes at Gregory. The other lizardperson fights the grip of Tedal but is unsuccessful. Tedal stabs both of his daggers through the eyes of the lizardperson. Lubith holds his holy symbol in his chubby fingers and says a prayer, shooting a holy bolt of light straight at the face of the lizardperson being ridden by Tedal. The light glides gracefully and incinerates the lizardperson’s face. “Gert,” says Gert. Gregory lands the finishing blow against the Lizardperson with a clean strike. Lubith ends the other with a bash to the head. The party heads to the opening where the lizardpeople came from, seeing a dark stone dungeon. To be continued... “Gert,” says Gert.

“Dan, it’s pouring out here! Can’t this wait?” Deidre yelled over the roaring wind, buckets of rain pouring down their backs. “No! It can’t if I can’t get this thing running we might as well have packed up and moved back to the high country,” he said, water pouring down his face as he held the flashlight. Dan hovered over the engine of the sputtering generator that ran the sump pump. “Without the generator, we’re sunk, literally! Wait! Here’s the problem, this plug isn’t screwed in all the way. Hand me that pair of pliers, would you, honey?” Deidre reached out for the metal pliers inside Dan’s nearly floating toolbox when it seemed as if the world stopped for a brief moment, each of them feeling the hair stand up all over their bodies. About the time Deidre reached for the metal tool, blinding, searing lightning entered her body through her right hand and exited out the bottoms of her feet. The bolt, electrifying every part of her, including her heart. Dan, standing in water, got a shock but not like his girlfriend. Dan grabbed the wooden railing of the deck and thrust his aching body toward Deidre who was lying lifeless rain pelting her ashen face. “Deid! Honey!” Dan felt for a pulse, none. He reached for the cell phone on his waist, it was fried. “I’ve got to DO something!” He screamed. “Think, Dan!” He bent over Deidre, shoving the pliers off the wooden slab, tilted her head slightly and began giving rescue breaths and shoving his hands up and down, heaving her chest. Dan thought to himself, “Who am I kidding. I’ve only ever seen CPR done in PE class and that was over ten years ago!” “One, two, three, four, five.....breath, breath. Do I repeat it?” Dan continued for what seemed like an eternity then the color began to return to Deidre’s face as she gasped for air, sputtering water from all the rain. “Honey, I’m going inside to call 9-1-1. Don’t move, I’ll be right back!” Dan said nervously as he rushed inside, grabbing Deidre’s multi-colored rose decorated cell phone. His wet fingers slid all over the glass surface initially, until he dried them off on a paper towel. “Emergency services, how may I assist you?” The eerie calm automated voice on the other end gave Dan the creeps. “Send an ambulance, my girlfriend’s just been struck by lightning! Hurry!” He yelled. “Sir, what is the nature of your emergency? The voice said once again. “Lady, I need an ambulance. Deidre’s just been struck by lightning! Don’t you understand English!” He shouted in frustration. “Sending an ambulance to your location and thank you for calling Emergency Services.” “I can’t believe this is what the world’s come to”, he said as he went outside to help Deidre but she was nowhere to be found. “Deid! Where are you? Deidre!” Dan walked around the side of the house by the garage, saw the open door and walked in to find Deidre in the car with it running. “Aren’t we going to the hospital? You said you were struck by lightning, didn’t you?” Deidre asked. “No, honey.” He reached over to turn the car off. “You were! There’s no way I’m letting you drive. There’s no way I’m driving because I got a shock, too!” “So that’s what that light was. It seemed to go on forever, everything was lit so intensely for so long! Are you sure that was lightning?” She asked, clutching her chest. “Ugh, Dan, my chest! It feels like someone’s been pounding on my chest for hours!” As the ambulance pulled up, sirens roaring over the din of the pounding rain Dan reached out to help Deidre out of the car, collapsing at her feet. Deidre noticed something strange about Dan’s sneakers. They’d turned this strange shade of brown around the edges. At first, she looked and thought it was because they were wet, but the closer to the ground they were, the darker the shade of dirty brown. “Help! Over here!!” She cried, ushering the soaked paramedics to a breathing but incapacitated boyfriend. “Sir!” The first paramedic yelled, rubbing the middle of the dragon on Dan’s chest, his favorite tee from the glory days of high school football. “Ma’am, what happened?” The other paramedic asked Deidre. “I’m not exactly sure. One minute we’re working on fixing the generator, the next I wake to Dan giving me mouth to mouth! The only thing I really remember is right before I passed out, I felt a strange tingling sensation all over, then a sudden burst of heat, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.” The paramedic wrapped Deidre in a blanket, ushering her to the back of the ambulance where Dan was being loaded on a gurney. “Ma’am,” the paramedic started, then paused, staring at the profile of her face. “Wait! Are you Deidre Maxim, the Deidre Maxim?” He asked, astonished. “Yes,” she replied with a bewildered look on her face. “Do I know you?” “No, but I know you. You graduated from Ashtyn High School?” He asked, making sure he was talking to the right person. “Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?” Deidre replied, starting to feel a bit creeped out. “You, it’s really you!” The paramedic said, grabbing her hand and shaking it. “It’s such an honor to meet you. You don’t know how long I’ve waited to meet you!” “What on earth are you talking about?” She wondered aloud as the other paramedic hooked Dan,coming around but still groggy,to the heart monitor. “You’re the girl who saved my fiance's life! The reason why I do what I do today!” He replied with the excitement of a five year old being given carte blanche to a candy store. “Then your sister must be....Angelica? Deidre asked, unsure she was remembering the name correctly. “YES! You don’t know how grateful my family and I are to you! We’ve been trying to find you for some time now. We knew you went to Ashtyn High but the school, for obvious safety concerns, wouldn’t release even your mailing address. And here you are in my ambulance! Just goes to show you, there are no coincidences!” Deidre smiled, reaching out to grasp his hand. “High school can be rough. It was for me. I was just doing what I hoped anyone would do if I were in that situation.” “Yes, well, because of you, I have a future with an amazing woman. She told me the whole story, how you acted quickly, getting those sleeping pills away from her, getting medical attention, holding her hand all the way to the hospital, visiting her while she was recovering. It meant the world to her, especially after she’d lost so much that year, her best friend moving and her mom leaving without a word.” “Isn’t it strange how some life events can alter our lives in such a short time?” Deidre asked, holding Dan’s hand with a stronger grip than before.

Finally, it's summer vacation. You don't know how long I've been waiting for this day to come. Two months of fun and sun. Tomorrow me Aaliyah and my two best friends Clara and Reagan are going on an adventure of a life time. A once in a life time trip. We are going cross country from New York to California by train. I'm so excited to go. I've been talking about going on this trip since forever and now the day is finally here. Right now, I'm preparing my bags for the trip. I'm only taking one duffel bag and my camera. I'm going to document this trip with pictures. Me, Clara and Reagan chose to go by train instead of by car so we can see more of the country. I spend the rest of the day packing and reminiscing about summer vacations I took with my family and friends. I go downstairs to the family room and go directly to the photo albums I made. I take one of the albums out. This one is from three summers ago. I remember this one. This was probably the best summer vacation I took that is not with family. This trip I took with Clara and Reagan. We went to Europe, Italy to be exact. This was the first trip I went on without my parents. I loved every minute of it. Me, Clara and Reagan went to Rome, Florence and Venice, of course I document the trip using my trusted camera. I put the photo album back and I take out another. This one is from ten years ago when I was ten. This is the first road trip I took with my parents. This trip was the craziest trip I ever took. My mom was horrified when my dad came home and told us he rented an RV and we were going on a road trip to California. I was excited. My first time in an RV and my first road trip. This was also the time when I got my first camera. I took many pictures that day. That road trip began my love for photography. I put the photo album back. I look around at all the pictures I have taken through out the years, so many trips with family and friends all of them close to my heart. "Aaliyah." I turn around and see my mother. "Hi mom." "What's wrong?" "I'm looking at all the pictures I took of us throughout our many trips." "Are you nervous about tomorrow?" "No. This is another trip in a line of many trips I went on." "Then what's wrong?" "I don't know." "Clara and Reagan are leaving after this trip." "I know. my two best friends are starting new lives." "So are you." "I'm going to miss them a lot." "I know, but they will always be your best friends." I hug my mother. 'Thanks mom." This trip is not only about me, Clara and Reagan having fun, but also for us to create lasting memories. I'm going to have fun with the two most important people in my life besides my parents. I already planned so many things we are going to be doing and of course my trusted camera is going to document everything. There is a knock on the door. I go to answer. Clara and Reagan are at my door step with their luggage. "Hey chica." Reagan has always been the craziest of the group. "What are you guys doing here?" "Your house is closer to the train station." "Very funny Clara." "Are you going to invite us in?" "Come on in." I love these girls. They make everyday fun and they make my life fun. This trip is going to be one I won't ever forget. "I know you girlfriend. You have this trip planned out." "Of course I do and don't worry it's not going to be boring." Reagan gives me a wink and I burst out laughing. I don't know what I'm going to do without these two girls. Every special moment we share together will be in my heart. "Aaliyah this trip will bring us even more closer together. We will be sisters forever." "I know Clara. We will have the time of our life." I give Clara a hug. I go and show Clara and Reagan what we will doing and seeing on our cross country trip. The first thing we are going to do is get up early, eat breakfast, go to grand central station, get on board the trip. We are going coast to coast. New York to California, San Francisco to be exact. This is going to be exciting. Clara and Reagan nod. Once on board the train we will see the Great Lakes, pass through the Great Plains, through the Rocky Mountains, deserts, salt flats, and finally the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I will be taking pictures of everything we see. "This is going to be great." "It so is." I'm glad my girls are loving this trip. It took me two weeks to plan all this. After our long trip we will reach our destination San Francisco. "You guys really like the way I planned the trip?" "Of course we do. This maybe our last trip we take together." "I want this trip to be special for all of us." "It will be Aaliyah. Now we need to get our beauty sleep." "Okay." I recheck my bags to see if I have everything. I have enough clothes, shoes and other unmentioned items. I have my tooth brush, hair brush, and deodorant. I have my camera and journal. I'm relieved I have everything. Time to good a good night sleep. My alarm rings at 5 am. I get up and wake up Clara and Reagan. "Ladies wake up." "Five more minutes." "Reagan! get up now!" "I'm up." "Good." I go take a quick shower. I'm out in five minutes. Clara is next followed by Reagan. I get dress in record time. I wait for Clara and Reagan to get dress. "You guys ready." They both say yes. I see my parents are waiting for me, Clara and Reagan. They are taking us to grand central station. "You got everything?" "I do mom." Clara and Reagan are coming down the stairs. We all pile into my parents car. We don't say anything to each other during the ride. We get to grand central station in 15 minutes. We get out of the car and say our goodbyes to my parents. My mother starts to cry. "We will be fine mom." "I know you will. Take care of each other." "We will." I hug my father. He kisses me on my cheek and tells me to have a good time. I begin to walk inside. I turn around one last time and wave goodbye to my parents. They wave back. Me and my two best friends are ready for our once in a life time trip.

Mist roiled across the cobblestone stones as the moon winked through the clouds at irregular intervals. A lonely stature clad in a frayed cloak walked quickly through the streets. With a bang, they threw open the doors to the pug. It was like a completely different world, the lights were bright and the people were rowdy. The clocked figure threw off his cloak! The people paused and stared. A knight in shining armor raised his sword. “Cheers!” The knight cried. The place erupted once again. The knight made his way through the crowded place to the back tables. He slammed himself onto a bench and ordered a round of drink for the other 4 people there. After getting tipsy, he asked the table “Can you guys tell me about the tower outside of the city?” A bearded dwarf sighed. “You’re here for the princess too? You know that I might just be a legend, right? A 1000 year old princess in a tower guarded by a dragon? A human living that long is funny enough but the fact that she needs to be woken up by a kiss is stupid. If a witch wanted her to suffer they would have but a pain spell on her or something, and that kind of curse is harder then a pain spell.” The knight chuckled. “Thanks for looking out for me but I’m mostly here for the dragon. If there happens to be a beautiful princess in the end as a reward, all the better.” The dwark chuckled and chugged his beer. * * * The next day, the slightly hungover hero arrived in front of the tower. It looked like a typical wizarding tower, coned top, shooting into the sky, and magic symbols that had long decayed. The Oriental Dragon with it’s long body was coiled around the tower. From the knight’s distance it seemed like the dragon could wrap its body around half the perimeter of the average city if it wanted to. It was black with large purple horns pointing to it’s back. *Roar* It raised its head from the cone top and stared at the knight. It was true that dragons were favored species. WIth just that roar it, the knight could feel the mana running rampant. His Shining white armor with gold designs light up even more. The rampant mana was drawn towards his sword. It had a white and gold design with a dragon on it’s handle. *SHOOOO* The mana in a 40 foot radius was drawn into it. The dragon stared at the sword, it’s eyes widening. It uncoiled and ascended to the sky to create some distance. It roared again and the clouds parted making the sky clear. It’s figure cast an enormous shadow across the plains. Opening its mouth it gathered energy, the dragon watched the knight. The knight dashed towards the tower, his sword running across the ground. The dragon’s body swelled more and more. When it was close to bursting, if squeezed his entire body, blasting out all the mana in the form of a black beam. *DOOM* It streaked across the sky, hitting the earth in a second and shaking it. The knight quickly pulled out a sheild from its back. This was a multi colored scaly shield. It didn’t look that good, quite ugly in fact but as each of the scales lit up, the mana ran rampant once more and the image of a dragon appeared, tens of times larger then the purple dragon. This faint outline swallowed the black beam as he purple dragon adjusted it’s aim to follow the constantly running knight. The outline rushed towards the panicked purple and went through it. *Thump* *Thump* The purple dragon was filled with a sense of dread and emptiness. It decided run. But it was too late. The knight had finished drawing his inscription circle. He stabbed his greatsword into the center. “God’s Avatar:Imitation!” He cried. *SIIII* The ground evaporated in a perfect sphere with a radius of 100 meters in all directions. The knight stood on the patch of land the circle occupied, about half of a football field, balanced on a thin column of land, remained. The rest of the land transformed into energy that fueled the circle. A semi translucent, humanoid figure rose up from the circle. Starting from the size of a mouse, then growing the size of a human, then to a orc, then a giant, then to the size of the tower. Eventually it grew to the point the dragon would barely take up it’s palm. As it grew larger, the dragon flew away faster. With a speed that the knight’s eyes couldn’t follow, the giant leaped forward, quickly snatching up the dragon from mid air. They tumbled into some mountains, crushing them. The sound was deafening and the impact even more so. All the glass in the city was shattered and the people were stunned. The translucent humanoid, without missing a beat pummeled the dragon. By the third hit, the dragon was died and by the 5th, the humanoid had disintegrated. The earth shook and ruptured, the city was practically destroyed. The knight fell to his knees. He quickly took out potions to recover. With the knight’s measly mana of 5,000,000 points, he could only hold the skill for 3 seconds, hence why he got close to the dragon before using it. The knight quickly got rid of the circle, then he pulled out a teleport scroll and ripped it. He quickly arrived at the purple dragon’s corpse. Picking up a scale, he placed it onto his shield. The rest, he collected in his storage ring. He ripped another scroll and arrived back at the tower. Make no mistake, each scroll was worth hundred of thousands, but dragon hunting was a very rewarding job. The knight entered the tower, going through each floor, and each room. “Nothing. There’s nothing here???” Everything was barren, not even a scrap of paper was left. Whoever sweeped this place clearly did a good job. As the knight reached the peak of the tower he saw a stunningly beautiful women floating at the top of the tower. She was naked, her clothes probably stolen. ‘That dragon was one hell of a perv staring at her all day, how is she not cold while being so exposed?’ The knight thought. He reached out and pulled her down. He wasn’t gonna lie, this girl was hot. He smirked thinking about how she might ‘thank him’ for waking her up. He leaned in and gave her a deep kiss. Her eyes snapped open, piercing, cold. The knight who had his eyes closed felt shivers down his spine. He snapped his eyes open and pulled back. The girl’s expression was gentle, her eyes warm. She examined her body for a moment, then with a snap she rightened herself up and clothes appeared on her. She approached the knight and hugged him. “Thank you sir! It’s been so long since I was able to open my eyes, without your help who knows how long it would have-” She froze as she stared at the shield of scales on the knights back. She took a step back. “Sir, are you a dragon slayer?” She asked with a beaming smile. “Ha, ha, so you noticed? Yes, I am!” The knight, eager to impress the lady boasted about his feats, from slaying the ice dragon, Ignoi to his travels around the world. The lady listened, her smile growing wider and wider. As they walked down the tower, the lady pulled the knight into a room. She pulled the knight into a passionate kiss. Though the knight was caught by surprize, he was more then happy to go along with it. The lady snapped again and a bed fit for a palace appeared. The knight thought nothing of it, hile it was rare, there were cases of people inscribing themselves with spacial spells in which they could store items just like any spatial ring. Stripping the knights armor off, she pushed him onto the bed. It had been a while since the knight had seen some action because he was traveling so much that he eagerly took off his clothes. She quickly stripped and climbed on top of him. Leaning down she whispered “Mister dragon slayer, my name is Alisha, the Dragon Tamer.” The knight tried to get up, but like with the dragon, it was too late. A dagger had inserted itself inside his heart. Alisha got off the bed and drew a magic circle on the wall. A miniature dragon’s head protruded out of the wall. “Come forth the spirit of Olisha, the mother of all dragons! I offer this ones filthy blood and soul as tribute. Grant me strenth!” With a smooth flick of her wrist, the blood on the dagger was sent into its mouth.The head spat out a ray of light, hitting Alisha’s chest, before disappearing back into the wall. If an aura master was there they would have been shocked. The aura surrounding Alisha which was previously dim and faint grew brighter and clearer. It quickly expanded to fill the room and then the tower! She was a walking war machine! Teleporting above the tower she looked down at the cracked and destroyed land. “Hanna, last time you caught me by surprise, this time I’ll crush you.” This was the beginning of a new legend! The legend of the strongest mage in the past era, and her revenge. “Rise” Alisha commanded the tower. In the depths of the earth a roar resounded. The ground rumbled and split once more as a creature, larger then anything humans could easily comprehend rose from the earth. 1/100 of a continent disappeared as a dragon of stone rose. The tower previously seems was just a little horn on top of it’s head, barely noticeable. It reverted to it’s true form- a throne. Alisha placed herself on it and the dragon flew up, soon to become a symbol of terror everywhere.

Our family secret starts with an oak tree Jamie and Oliver are two brothers who share a sacred secret. Their green, freshly mowed grass touches the earth. As Oliver says to his brother Jamie " hey bro, let's plant our secret here. " Oliver dug vigorously to the earth's core, digging the fresh-grown mud and placing the secret together. They looked at each other, reasonably pleased with their accomplishments. Jamie smiles and says this oak tree is the best. Yes, because we planted it together pipes in Oliver. This will be our secret forever. The mystery was impacted against the glass from the end of the garden's greenhouse as it reflected against the shimmering light of the sun. The secret is still hidden in the heart of the soil as the sun shines twice as bright. Oliver and Jamie call it a day sweat drips from their heads. They melt like snow. Oliver wears a cut button shirt with brown base shoes. And Jamie is wearing a velvet brushed up hand me down like farmer Joe. They both look different as different faces become one. And as they scatter across the warm subtle path. The secret remains a mystery but something magical is lurking in the background a fire fly called Edal is making her creations come to life. Edal with her super powers builds a lantern path full of light as she tackles the nights garden. Edal watches on as Oliver and Jamie brother's for life two different souls. Make there way through the tinted glasses of there creation secret which lies in the mud. 15 years later A jaded curtain folds down the final goodbye of Jamie’s and Oliver's father. Both boys now men at the age of 21 they are grieving for the love they share for there late father allusive golden rays of fairies sparkle among the scattering ashes. Jamie looks to Oliver, who says nothing and then walks away from the funeral away from his brother. There mother floss is traumatized by the loss of her husband Eric and tries to conceal her children but she sees the moment that changes history she sees two brothers bonded for life fade into the background. She watches her eldest son Oliver walk away from the reality of the loss and grief he feels but the untouched antidote is not forgotten by floss as she sees with her own eyes the coldness of Oliver shudder in the four chambered walls she was not sure whether it was the weather drawing in or the fact that her husband had just been scattered across the tree house at the end of these family garden. But she couldn't help but notice the tears that fall high from her sons eyes as they cry like waterfalls falling high from the sky. As close makes her way towards her son Jamie who is crying hysterically the youngest of the two sons she reaches out to hug him tight . “ your father would be so proud of you and Olly " As Jamie tries to shrug his emotions he cannot hide anymore if this was a game of hide and seek which he used to play with his brother and dad so close they all were the three brothers of eternity however the game had ended when he lost his dad and now his brother is gone too his here trying to be strong for his broken mother. The walls seem to break down as Jamie can't control it anymore . “ mum why did dad have to go I miss him so much and now how will we cope how will we get through this ". Cried Jamie. My dearest Jamie everything will be ok not sure believing her words was enough he just welcomed his mothers warm embrace. Outside in the garden, Oliver is broken as he looks at a photo of his beloved dad. Dad he says what are we going to do without you . Just as the tears fall escaping the lids of his tiny eyes they land on the photo the wind flushes against the photo and it blows towards the oak tree that was built by his brother and him . It landed directly where they had built there secret that still hadn't been revealed just yet. In that moment Jamie came out with there mum and he witnessed this beautiful moment of his brother touching the place where they had built a secret so long ago. Dad would have been proud says Jamie Holding his arm onto his brother and mum. Oliver cried and broken held him right close to him. Just then a flash of light appeared it guided towards the three of them. It was a fire fly . Edal is that you the brothers say together shocked but delighted . Edal was happy to see them too she smiled the thing is Edal couldn't speak only blubber . But this time she came with good news somehow voice had come back and she formed words like the stars in the night sky. Edal spoke in crystal tongues my dear family it's ok I have spoken to your dad in heaven he is ok he sends you love always . As Edal speaks the boys turn to her you spoke finally they said And you have seen our dad how can we ever thank you . Well said Edal this will help she brings up the box like gravity . Engraved on the box it says our secret with the boys initials on. Amazing our secret is still here Olly. After all these years Jamie there mother smiled the first real smile in ages since her husband died. Mum do you know what's in here Its our secret The truth is we don't even know the secret ingredient to open the box it's been so long. And just then there was a thud, a sound of magnifying light. Out came the gracious key to open the box. It really is fate as behind the key was there dad . Dad Dad They both ran as fast as lightening to the arms of there dad. And his wife floss met his gaze in a loving way. You didn't think I would miss this did you he said I have waited too long to find out your secret boys. And here it is as the key floated simultaneously towards the box. It fell deep under the boxes spell as it opened in an instant they all looked around in awe. Oh my they said there is nothing here. The secret is here my boys right in front of you it's you two to love each other and to protect each other in times of need. But what dad does that mean It means my dear boys that the secret is love. You hid love here you built love here and there will always be love here in this home. You created Edal with love Edal smiled tears flicker in her little light eyes. You my boys are the secret. The reason you forgot it Is because I left to go to heaven in which I have to do again very soon . But dad you only just got here. There mother interrupted them and hugged her husband like it was the first time they had met they danced In the moonlight. My dear love you explain to them We will both she says quietly lost in the moment they both turn to there boys. Our dear boys we created you with love we have you strength now you must learn to have each others strength . It's time for mum and dad to go to heaven . But mum is here . I am always here in your heart I knew today would be hard when you said goodbye to dad so I had to be In person . You mean Yes we are both together again It's all thanks to you two . Our love for you has won over every obstacle in our life. Your secret is finally revealed and it's time for us to fly high in heavens light. But mum But dad they both said hurting tears in all there eyes. You will never know how much we love you both we love you forever in a day. Love you too it's time darling we must leave before the final light draws the curtain on our world. Mum I love you Olly says Dad I love you Jamie says Together in beautiful moments of peace everything fades to light. Mum and dad no more. As with one final word they say we will always be here for you and we will love you for eternity. Forever in a day until we meet again sons but for now let the love shine in your heart and always . They finally leave there mark and turn to the final light there they are taken to heaven. Two years later The boys love did grow and they found wives themselves with who they both had one child each Jamie had a boy he named him Eric after there dad. And Jamie had a girl in which he named her floss after there mum. In that moment there was not happier site. And the two children grew up with love in there hearts always forever in a day Olly says to Jamie Forever in a day. The night draws a close, and Edal watches on as she flies high in the night sky. As for the tree it's still planted in the end of the garden with a new secret in place but the same remains that love always saves the day. As the final curtain draws heaven remains very much alive. And Eric smiles at his wife floss. We did good floss. We did indeed Eric They both kiss and they watch there loves grow up and gracefully from above. Forever In a day a moment that lasts a lifetime .

Jason, Monica, his sister Kayla, and her boyfriend Jake were traveling down a desolate road in West Texas. "There's no way they'd create an Office show attraction out here in the middle of nowhere," Jason said. "See, The Office Experience, 50169 Route 118, Texas," Kayla said, pointing to her phone. "I don't care how great the show was; eight hours from Austin is too far for anything," Jake said. Jason got out his phone and searched for it. "We looked it up already," Kayla said. "I just want to make sure. Okay, here's Yelp; it has 15 reviews, all 5 stars, and three comments; it was fun with a period; it's a good place for family, and I be back soon, again with a period," Jason said. "It sounds like it was written by a foreigner," Jake said. "I don't think this place exists," Jason said. "You're wrong," Kayla said. Suddenly, a building appears out of the miles of flat terrain. Kayla lets out a sigh of relief. "There it is! This is going to be so fun." As they pull into the small parking lot, the building looks like the building from The Office television show. A banner is hung a quarter peeled off the building that reads, "The Office Experience," with pictures of Steve Carell, John Krasinski, and Rainn Wilson. They went inside and found a self-service kiosk that accepted all payment methods. They purchased four tickets, and an elevator door opened, transporting them to the attraction. It was a replica of the Scranton Branch from the show. "Wow, it looks exactly like I thought," Kayla said as she sat in the reception chair and twirled around. Monica entered Michael Scott's office as Luke and Jason sat in the sales chairs normally occupied by Jim and Dwight. She exited with the famous "World's Best Boss" mug. "I must say, they got every detail right!" Monica said. Dressed as Dwight Schrute, Rainn Wilson burst into the office and approached Luke. Everyone is shocked. "You're in my seat," Rainn said. Luke moves, surprised that it is the real actor. "Oh my God..." Kayla was about to say something else when Jim and Pam entered the office, and she fell into shock. Jim sat down after Jason moved out of the way. "Can I help you?" Pam said to Kayla, who was sitting in her seat. Kayla couldn't speak and sprang out of her seat. Jason approached Jim. "Hi, John. I really liked you in A Quiet Place. Can I have an autograph?" "I'm sorry, chief, but I think you got the wrong guy," Jim said. "Oh, sorry, you just look like the actor from the show." "No, the name is Dwight Schrute," Jim said, putting on convenience store glasses and imitating Dwight. "What are you doing, Jim?" Dwight asked. "Bears, beats, Battlestar Galactica," Jim said. Jason stepped back and whispered to Monica. "Is that really them?" Jason asked. "They're in character. Do you know how much they'd have to pay to get the real actors? Millions!" Monica said. The remainder of the cast then entered the office. Oscar, Angela, and Kevin were the first to enter. Ryan and Kelly then entered bickering and proceeded to the annex. Andy, Meredith, Creed, Phyllis, and Stanley walked in and to their respective desks. Andy stated as he passed Kayla, "Good day, lady." Finally, Michael Scott entered the room and addressed the staff. "I have some important information to share with you all," he stated seriously. "As you are all aware, there have recently been several attacks in Scranton, and the police have been unable to catch the culprit, who has come to be known as the Scranton Strangler." As Michael continued, everyone fell silent. "I have reason to suspect that the Scranton Strangler works here." The meeting was filled with gasps and murmurs as everyone glanced at each other in shock and suspicion. "This is too much for me, Michael," Angela said. "That's what she said, but seriously, I know this is difficult to hear," Michael replied, "but we have to face the facts. And to capture this person, we must take matters into our own hands," Michael said. "What do you want us to do, Michael? Right now, I have a medieval torture device in my car," Dwight said. "That isn't going to be necessary, Dwight. I designed a series of tests based on material from the Scranton Strangler case file, which may or may not have come into my possession when I hit a police officer with my car," Michael said. "You hit someone else with your car?" Meredith asked. "It's not like that; he was barely bleeding from the head when the ambulance took him away," Michael said. Jim stares at Kayla, and she smiles because it is the same stare he does in the show. "The first test is in the warehouse, so let's get started! Anyone who does not comply will be forced to spend the afternoon with Toby," Michael added as he led the way to the warehouse. Kayla, Jason, Monica, and Jake accompanied him to the warehouse; they thought the immersive attraction was great. Michael hops onto the forklift and addresses the employees in the warehouse. "For the first test, you will each use the forklift to..." Darryl cut Michael off in the middle of his sentence. "No one is using the forklift," Darryl remarked. "How can we catch a serial killer if we can't operate the forklift?" said Michael. "I don't care; no one is using the forklift," Darryl said as Michael climbed down. "All right, everyone will stack these boxes by hand in a specific arrangement. I'll take note of your methods and compare them to that of the Scranton Strangler, who stacked boxes to hide a body three months ago," Michael replied. Everyone in the office started stacking boxes, including Kayla, Monica, Jason, and Jake. Michael is taking notes. They made their way to the conference room once everyone had finished stacking. "The first test results were inconclusive," Michael explained. "I want you all to complete a series of questions in this next test, and I don't mean crossword puzzle questions, Stanley," Michael remarked. "You're an idiot," Stanley said as he resumed his crossword puzzle. "As Assistant Regional Manager, I demand to know who the murderer is immediately!" Dwight insisted. "Assistant TO," Jim declared. "Right, Assistant to the Regional Manager. I still want to know right now!" Dwight stated. "Everything will be alright. In Threat Level Midnight, Michael Scarn prevents Goldenface from blowing up the NHL All-Star Game by determining that the bomb is in the puck. Today, I'll figure out who the murderer is by analyzing your responses to basic questions and comparing them to the Scranton Strangler's phycological make-up," Michael said. Michael's short quiz is taken by the entire staff and visitors. Michael threw the answers on the ground after analyzing them. "There is still no killer!" said Michael. "What happens now, Michael?" Pam asked. "The last test will be at an office party, which will be held in one hour. The killer will be revealed at the party," Michael said. "You want us to plan a party in one hour?" Anglea asked. "I have everything you need," Michael said. The party planning committee (Angela, Pam, and Phyllis) decorated and put out food provided by Michael. Kayla, Monica, Jason, and Jake explored the office for the next hour; they spent time in the breakroom, reenacted their favorite scenes, and took a ton of pictures. There was no cell service in the building, but they would post them later. The entire staff attends the party. "I have provided an assortment of food; please eat the refreshments," Michael insisted. Kayla, Jason, Monica, and Jake also ate the food. After a few minutes, everyone collapsed to the ground, and it revealed that all the characters were bug-like creatures who were digitally altered to look like The Office characters. "What's going on? Are they okay?" Kayla asked. Michael takes a seat in front of the four guests. "No, they're no longer alive," said Michael. "Who or what are you?" Jason asked. "As aliens, we discovered that people will go to incredible lengths to be entertained. Being out in the middle of nowhere helps us to kill humans without being discovered," Michael explained. "Are you going to kill us?" Kayla asked. "Yes, but first, if you're so inclined, we'd like five stars and a favorable review," Michael explained. "This was fun." Jason typed on an office computer, making sure to put a period.

With a sigh, Charles Abbot placed his now empty cup of coffee on the table. He lowered the rims of his horn-rimmed glasses and pinched his nose as if he was willing his headache away. He could feel the eyes of his two colleagues on him, and with a grimace, he said, “This is the second time today that we have a potential candidate not show up for their interview on time. Does your generation care nothing about punctuality, Cassie?” As Charles Abbot, a man just beginning to gray around his sideburns, sighed and placed his empty coffee cup on the table, his young colleague, Cassie Fisher, frowned. She was now the same age he was when he initially hired her for the company. Ten years later, she had his position, but Charles still insisted on treating her like the newly graduated twenty-two-year-old he had first met. She looked at her notes and gave him a smirk. “Although I appreciate you still thinking I look like I’m in my twenties, I’d appreciate it if you stopped grouping me with everyone under forty. After all, I don’t curse your name whenever someone is going under the speed limit.” Charles scowled at Cassie and eyed his last colleague, Maggie Kilfer, who was stifling a giggle. Meanwhile, Cassie checked her watch and lightly drummed on the table. With a nod, she continued, “I don’t see any problem with giving this guy until I finish my coffee. I’m in no hurry to get back to work anytime soon.” “I’m fine with that,” Maggie said approvingly. She flipped the applicant’s resume before her and reread his name at the top. “Frank Horton seems worth the wait. He’s everything we’re looking for in an applicant. He has a couple of years of experience under his belt, and he even has a couple of solid recommendations.” Charles waved the comment off and flicked the resume away from himself. “Do we really want some who can’t even...” Before Charles could even get the last of his complaints out of his mouth, the door to the meeting room flung open, followed by the panicked voice of the receptionist, “Excuse me, miss? I told you! You can’t just barge in like...” The young woman quickly closed the door behind her and cut the receptionist off. She was out of breath and sweating and leaned against the wall to steady herself. All three watched the young woman as she finally steadied herself and gave them a rather mischievous grin. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, but this is where you are interviewing for the new sales consultant - the one for The Wagging Tail pet store off of 5th and Lilac?” Cassie looked at Charles, who stared at the unknown woman with his mouth agape, while Maggie raised eyebrows as if trying to put the situation together. Cassie cleared her throat, and everyone’s eyes fell on her. “That’s right, but you might have gotten the date wrong. This interview is actually for someone else.” “Frank, right?” The young woman said without missing a beat. That surprised Cassie, who only gave the mysterious woman a nod. A look of relief washed over the younger woman who walked over to the seat opposite the table, the one meant for Frank Horton, and began jabbering, “That’s great! I’m here to tell you that he’s running a little late! Also, I hope to convince you not to bail on him. I’m Arty, by the way. I’m not sure if I introduced myself yet, but now I have! Anywho, Frank will be here soon.” With that proclamation, a dead silence lingered for a good while until Charles took the task of trying to bring the situation under control. “Listen here, miss...” “Arty!” the young woman supplied with a helpful and youthful tone. “Yes...Arty,” Charles said with annoyance. “If Mr. Horton was running late, why didn’t he just give us a phone call?” Arty leaned in conspiratorially as if she had been waiting for someone to ask this question all this time and said with a bit too much exuberance, “Ah, you see, the thing about his phone is...” -- Frank looked at Arty with the same look he always gave her when she dragged him into a situation that he knew would be a story he would be telling his grandchildren forty years from now or another trip to the emergency room. “So, let me get this straight,” Frank started as he tried to piece everything together while Arty bounced on her feet with anticipation. “You want to take my old mattress...and you want to ride it down the hill?” “It’s a perfect idea, right?” Arty said with the amount of energy that only she could muster, and threw her arms up in the air as if she was trying to release some of it before she exploded. “How else will we graduate you into adulthood by getting rid of your old twin bed? Obviously, by riding it down a snowy hill like a sleigh, like any responsible adult would do.” “Ah, I see...so we are responsible adults because we are riding an old mattress down a hill?” Arty nodded, glad that he finally understood. “Yup! I’m also sure it will be the most action that bed has ever gotten. I mean, if I walk into a guy's apartment and see that he’s still rocking a twin bed, I’ll assume that he’s never grown up and find myself a real man.” With that said, Arty jumped on the bed, which was currently teetering precariously on the hill, and beckoned Frank to join her for the ride. “Now I’m only going to say this once, as I’m sure no woman has told you this while you owned this thing - are you ready to ride this thing with me or not?” Frank gaped at her. “Wait, did someone use that line on you?” “Someone?” Arty scoffed at him. “I said that line to Caleb. Do you remember Caleb? I wanted to see what crazy things I could say to the guy to where he would consider not having sex with me. It was kind of like a sociology experiment. Turns out that you could say anything to the guy, and he would be more than willing to jump in the sack with you.” “Wow. Thanks so much for the tip,” Frank muttered as he glanced around for an escape route. Arty was now patting next to her and spoke in a tone that would suffer no more disobedience. “Now. Get. Into. Bed. With. Me.” Frank chuckled at that and, without complaint, sat next to his childhood friend. “Oh, give me your phone,” Arty said with complete glee. “We should definitely record this.” “Yeah,” Frank said with a mock groan as he handed her his iPhone. “It’d be great to have something to show the paramedics as they bring us to the hospital.” -- “...and that’s what happened.” Arty finished as she leaned back against the chair of the interview room, and her audience waited for the rest of the story. “What?” Maggie said with a frown. She waited a few more seconds until she realized Arty finished with her story. “That doesn’t tell us what happened to his phone.” “Sure it does!” Arty exclaimed like nothing was ever so obvious in her life. “So, we rode down the hill with the phone recording the whole thing, and that was when we rode straight into a tree, the phone flew out of my hand, landed in the middle of the street, and that was where a Tesla Model X ran over the damn thing. Luckily, no one was hurt...except, you know, the phone...” Charles could only stare at the young woman sitting across the table from himself. He was tapping his pen against the table, and that was when he asked the obvious question, “How long ago did this happen?” “About four days ago,” Arty said helpfully. “And Mr. Horton couldn’t have bought a new phone within that time?” Charles asked inquiringly. “Well, he just bought a new mattress,” Arty said pointedly. “Mattresses these days are pretty expensive, and he waited until he knew he had a new job before deciding what phone to get.” “That sounds perfectly reasonable,” Cassie chimed in, remembering what it was like when she just graduated from college. “I’d probably would have done the same thing. It also explains why he couldn’t tell us he was running late.” “Silly me,” Charles said sarcastically as he eyed Cassie disapprovingly. Cassie had now finished her coffee, and this “interview” was now running far beyond schedule. He needed to end this nonsense and get on with his day. “So, tell me this, as a couple more questions come to mind.” “Sure, I’ll be glad to help in any way I can,” Arty replied without missing a beat. Charles cleared his throat as he leaned across the table inquisitively. “First, how did you know that Mr. Horton was running late if he didn’t have his phone? Second, and probably most important, why is he not here?” Charles punctuated the last question by pressing his index finger hard against the desk. “Oh yeah, I guess you would like to know that, wouldn’t ya?” Arty stated while she gathered her thoughts together. Charles opened his mouth to snap, but Cassie interrupted him before he got the chance, “If you wouldn’t mind, we’d appreciate it. At this point, we’ve waited this long. What’s the harm in waiting a tad longer?” “Our sanity,” Charles scoffed. Arty snapped her neck to the side with a grimace and began her story, “It was about half an hour before this interview was going to start, and...” -- “Yup, that cat is definitely stuck in that tree,” Frank said bluntly as he and Arty stared up at the orange tabby, meowing worriedly at the humans below. The tabby's owner, a young girl about ten, stood beside Frank and held his hand for emotional support. “I’d call the fire department, but you know, my phone got Tesla’d.” “Geez, you still haven’t forgotten about that? And did you just make Tesla into a verb? I approve!” Arty said happily with an impish grin pointed in his direction. As for Arty, she had gone for a run and had forgotten her phone at her apartment. Frank had called her a psychopath for running without music, but she often used her runs to collect her thoughts and enjoyed the silence. After her moment of self-inflection, Arty waved her finger at Frank and spoke with a lecturing tone, “That was like a month ago. Women don’t like a man who holds a grudge.” “It was four days ago!” Frank said a little too loudly while giving Arty a look that made it seem like he wanted to strangle her. He glanced down at the small girl who was holding back her tears. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we can find someone to lend us their phone.” “Why don’t you go up and get it?” Arty asked inquiringly. “Because I haven’t climbed a tree since I was her age, and I’m wearing a suit for an interview that starts in less than thirty minutes. Speaking of which, why don’t you climb the tree and get the damn cat?” Arty punched Frank’s shoulder and pointed at the little girl before he could complain. “Language, mister. I’m afraid of heights, and Frank, we both know it’ll be at least an hour before the fire department arrives. What if something happens to the poor cat before then?” Frank opened his mouth, but any argument he had died quickly as the little girl’s grip grew tighter, and the waterworks flowed freely down her cheeks. The cat even began to take on a more pleading tone, as if it was asking Frank why he was going to abandon it. Frank felt a light pat on his shoulder as Arty grinned at him. Her typically sarcastic and flamboyant nature faded to reveal one with a hint of admiration hidden behind her eyes. “We both know you would have climbed that thing eventually. I’ll tell you what. I’ll run ahead and tell them that you’re running late. I promise that I won’t let them leave until you get there. Deal?” -- Arty finished her story and gratefully took a glass of water that Maggie had given her. “And that's about it. Do you have any other questions?” “Do you honestly expect us to believe that story?” Charles Abbot said with an air of frustration. “Believe what?” Charles leaned forward and pointed accusingly at Arty. “The whole thing! You expect us to believe your friend is running late for his job interview. Mind you, this is a position for a pet store, and he is late because he was getting a cat out of a tree?” Cassie could only give Arty a sympathetic shrug. “He does make a good point, Arty. It seems too fantastical of a coincidence. Plus, your friend still isn’t here.” Arty opened her mouth to argue for her friend, but at that moment, the door swung open to reveal a bedraggled-looking young man. His jacket had several rips across the sleeves and the shoulder to the point where one looked like it was about to fall off. He had a singular scratch across his right cheek that would match a cat’s paw perfectly, and finally, a few leaves were tangled into his hair. “I’m sorry I’m late,” the man said, trying to catch his breath. “There was this cat stuck in this tree. I would have called, but my friend threw my phone at a Tesla, and...” Frank Horton stared at the four people in the small meeting room and flushed slightly with nerves as if he had just remembered that he had come for a job interview. “What? Am I too late?”

No one will dispute that if the mid-west were a country that Chicago would be the Big Apple or the New York of the mid-west. Chicago would be the news and entertainment center of the mid-west. Kansas City Missouri would be considered a business and financial center, a much smaller version of Chicago. It is usually overshadowed by St. Louis. Kansas City Kansas isn't mentioned very often because when you say Kansas City, most people think of Missouri. Even so, both of the Kansas Cities are the step-children of the mid-west. While it's true that both cities are known for having good medical hospitals and government agencies, Kansas City Missouri is more known as being a business and financial center than it's little brother across the river. Kansas City Kansas is a much smaller size about 153, 000 whereas Kansas City Missouri has 491, 000. Kansas City Missouri is more like the big brother to Kansas City, Kansas. . The big brother who gets really annoyed with his little brother from time to time. A rivalry but not one that is out of control. From time to time they get into disputes over things and one feels that the other has more of an advantage. They works things out usually. Depending on where you live, you will favor one or the other. I'm not going to do that but will admit that I've visited both cities which are very different (the Kansas side is growing up and is newer than the Missouri side). I know more about the Missouri side. The history and politics of both states are interesting but I will not get into this. You can read about it if you are interested. If you have a child in the Missouri side, they will learn about Missouri history in school. I assume the same is in Kansas. When talking about mid-western medium to large cities, Kansas City Missouri is like an after-thought. The Kansas side isn't really thought of at all. Some people think that Kansas City Missouri is a boring unexciting city which it isn't. Back during the time of Prohibition, people often put their money in the banks in Kansas City Missouri for safe keeping. Many people liked Kansas City because it was more peaceful than Chicago (like any city you had crime, but it was a lot lower than other cities during that time period). I have enjoyed on both sides going to various art and historical museums, performing arts theater, gardens and other activities. Of course it was on a much smaller scale than Chicago but I believe more people could enjoy these things and the cost of attending events were less than Chicago. The Kansas City Airport (on Missouri side of course) is north of the city. When it was built, it's very passenger friendly. They are remodeling the airport or starting to remodel the airport so that it conforms to other airports. It's smaller than others and easier to get around. I wish they would keep it the same and upgrade it. It's a nice airport. People in Kansas City on both sides are friendly (something you don't always see in a large city). If you like trains, there are a lot of them in Kansas City.

This was a challenge many, many years in the making. I first thought of doing it, when I read A Sari for a Month for Newsweek by Shoba Narayan. I loved the idea, and since then, it remained in my mind as something I would do one day. What’s the big deal for an Indian born and raised, 50-year-old woman to wear a saree for a month ? It’s not a big deal for most women of my age, especially if they were raised in India, just as I was. Even today, I have cousins, both older and younger, who wear a saree and feel no constraint and are completely at ease with it. But for me, it was a challenge. And what better way to embrace the new year than take on a challenge? I have always loved sarees. Loved their vibrant colors, their stylish drapes, the way the cloth felt. Talk to me of elegant women, and I immediately think of a saree clad woman. My mother, aunts, and cousins all drape it well and look so refined and put-together in a saree. However, my love for sarees lasted only till I left the shop with it; wearing one was never my choice. I didn’t know how to drape a saree well, and I was never comfortable in one -- and it showed. While I love the Pottu (dot on the forehead), I dislike the other jewelry accessories that go with a saree. I wore sarees as infrequently as I could, and eventually, I got worse at draping, worse at walking in it. Even with pins, the sarees unspooled. And driving -- “Why did I get married if I have to drive even while wearing a saree?” Part of the problem was that I did not have the kind of sarees I could be comfortable in for many hours. Mine were either super heavy Kanjeevarams, or super soft ones that spooled all over if I moved just so. I got so used to comfort wear -- my faithful sweats or a pair of jeans -- and left my sarees hanging in my closet like prized pieces of art. There was always the guilt, though, and then the inevitable what are my girls learning from me about the saree and, by extension, about India and Indian clothing ? Well, I did find out what the girls thought of it. We were talking about clothes, colors etc. and my daughter said (I paraphrase) “Sarees are not comfortable and are for old people -- young people would never be able to wear it.” When I reminded her that her grandmothers lived in a saree day and night and did everything, far more than we did, she said, “Exactly. Old people can be comfortable in it. You wouldn’t be able to wear it all day and be comfortable,” Challenge accepted. I would spend 31 days (1 month) in a saree. All-day, every day. I did give myself some outs: It was winter in California, I would wear the saree with sweaters. No Jewelry. I would wear the saree from my morning shower till my night shower -- typically after my cup of tea in the morning, until I was ready to go to bed. I gave myself three sick days, days when I could not wear the saree for health reasons. If used, I would make them up at the end and keep the challenge. I used one. If I could do it in sweats, I would do it in a saree, but if I could not do it anyway, then it’s not on the ‘saree’. So how was my journey? In two words, very comfortable. Once I decided to do it, a switch went off. This is what I had to do, so I was going to do it and be comfortable. I give huge merit points to the sweaters. Without the uncomfortable blouses or the constraining jewels, it was me in a saree and not a foreign being. It was night and day in comfort compared to all my previous experiences. What did I do or could not do? I did everything I would normally do, and then some. I increased my physical activities dramatically. Things that needed me to move more. I upped my dance aerobics by three times what I used to do. I did more hikes, more walks. The household chores, the work -- all of it. One thing I wish I had done more of -- I did not go on video calls as much. I did go on some, but not too many. There was the professional side of me that did not want to use up meeting time to explain my challenge and attire to non-Indian colleagues. In all fairness, even before, I never did video calls. So no one thought any different when I didn’t switch the video on. I do not think what I wear has any bearing on what I do or how I work or how I think...but that is a different challenge I guess :) Did I see many questioning glances? But of course -- you can’t go hiking, shoe shopping or walk in the rain in a vibrant saree and expect no one to notice. There were many eyes on me, but they didn’t make me or the folks with me uncomfortable. Would I do this again? In a heartbeat. But I would not call it a challenge! So, the changes that came in because of this: I can now drape a saree well. I still do not look as great in a saree as I have seen others look, but I do not look sloppy or uncomfortable either. My biggest win is that I do not use pins at all. Not a single one. Not even when I do aerobics or hiking. That is a huge win, as I have never seen my mom use pins either and it always bothered me that I needed them. Well, not any more. The other big win: thanks to my large-hearted friend S, who loaned (and now says she gifted) me 10+ sarees for the challenge, I now know the sarees that I am comfortable in. Things I like, can drape, and can live in. I also have a closet full of them. WIN Today is day 31. Am I going to miss wearing a saree...well, no, not really, but I liked it while it lasted. Loved dressing up every morning, the whole process from what will I wear to finding sweaters that match, the daily photos, etc. I have happy thoughts associated with a saree. But I can’t wait for sunrise tomorrow and to don my well-worn sweats and t-shirt as I get ready for another workday. What is the one thing I hope you get out of it? Exactly the lesson that my kids got and acknowledged on day 10 of my challenge -- sarees are the perfect combination of elegance and comfort. You can do anything in them and do it more elegantly than you would in any other attire. If I can do it, anyone can. Wear it with grace..... for 31 days.

They were scared of their own shadow. A line you’ve heard often when referring to someone scared of many things. But little do you know that phrase has truth in it. Shadows are dark, empty, and unknown. People fear the unknown. I grew up being able to see the shadows as they truly were. The dark twisted versions of ourselves. Our desires, our fears, our hatred. Despite what you may think, they do serve a purpose. The reason they exist is to hold those dark attributes so that that darkness doesn’t reside fully in us. But they’re always trying to escape the bodies they’re bound to. That’s where trouble occurs. It was a chilly October day when I learned what was happening; Mason Armon’s little sister had gone missing, and Mason hadn’t shown up to school. Quite rightfully, but the problem was that no one had seen him for over a day. “It’s just awful what happened.” “I hope they find her soon.” “That poor little girl.” So many whispers among people that morning and afternoon at school. No one was focused on lessons and homework, that was for sure. In a smaller town like Endwood, word travels fast among the locals, and there had been a new word that someone supposedly spotted Mason wandering the outskirts of town, but they couldn’t find him since. No one knew what had happened to him or how Emi had gone missing. But I knew what had happened. His shadow had escaped. Shades, what we Hunters call them, weren’t immediately dangerous. They begin by causing simple mischief, but slowly they evolve into more harmful acts and if not caught, will eventually destroy the life of the person they were bound to. Which meant I had to act fast. Seeing as Emi was taken somehow, I’d guessed that the Shade has been loose for about a couple of weeks, so I was running out of time. I had to go out tonight. I couldn’t let this last any longer, or else something worse could happen. I looked up at the sign above the dark red awning before me. END-RADIO stood in dark bold lettering. The radio was owned and run by Mason’s father, and Mason often came here after school to help him run things. I’d heard him managing the stream a few times on the radio when stores would play it over their speakers. Mason’s father had to have some information that could be useful in my understanding of what had happened before this and where I might be able to find him now. I’d babysat Emi lots of times the past year when Mr. and Mrs. Armon had to work and Mason had sports tournaments he had to attend, so it would luckily not be too odd for me to be asking him questions. I pulled open the door and climbed the narrow stairway up to the top floor of the building where the studio resided. The walls were the same dark red color as the awning outside and lined the walls to the END-RADIO studio door which was black stained glass with simple framing and an average metal handle. There was a faint reverberation of a drum beat from inside. I turned the handle and pushed open the door which stuck a couple of times on the carpet that was placed right inside the doorway. I could hear the muffled noise of music coming from the back left corner where the radio room stood. The rest of the main room was an open space with a few colorful couches, a coffee table set in the middle of them, a table against the back wall with coffee machines and kettles, and a long soundboard against the left wall below the window that looked into the radio room. “Mr. Armon?” I spoke out, my voice filling the small space easily. I heard a shuffling sound and then Mr. Armon appeared at the open radio room door. “Hey, Cassie,” he said, stepping out into the main room and walking towards me. I could hear the exhaustion in his hoarse voice, and his eyes had deep circles beneath them. “How’s it going, kid?” “It’s fine,” I smiled, linking my hands together. “I heard what happened though, I’m so sorry.” He glanced toward the floor and nodded slightly. “Who hasn’t heard,” he chuckled under his breath. “Nice and hard thing about living in a small town like us, everyone comes together to help you, but there’s not much privacy either.” I nodded softly. “I’m positive they’ll find her. Emi’s so smart, I know she’s fine.” Mr. Armon nodded again and gave a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. All we can hope for.” I shifted on my feet, judging the best approach to this conversation. “I heard that no one’s been able to find Mason, is that true?” “Yeah, we have no idea where he is either,” Mr. Armon ran a hand through his hair, “last time Leah and I saw him was two days before Emi...” he paused, then continued, “he was with his friends and was going to spend the night at one of their houses after the football game. And he hasn’t shown back up at home, or texted, or called us, just nothing.” Mr. Armon’s voice was low and hoarse like he was trying not to get too emotional. “Did he spend the night with his friends?” “At least for a time, his friends said when they woke up, he was already gone, his bags and all. They can’t reach him and haven’t received any signs either.” He let out a shaky breath. “And then the next day Emi was gone too.” He turned around and I saw his arm raise to his face. I was silent for a few moments, noting all the information in my head. “Do you know any place he might’ve gone to?” “No clue, I only ever knew him to go to one of his friends when he was upset, or something wasn’t going right. I can’t think of anywhere else he might run to.” “Had he been acting weirdly at all before he was gone?” I asked, cautiously. Mr. Armon gave a small nod, still facing away from me. “He was much more irritable than he usually was, snapped at us a lot. He started to ignore us for the most part, including Emi, which was the strangest thing. You know how close those two are.” I nodded. Even being eight years apart in age, those two were as close as if they were the same age. “Emi was concerned about him, tried to make him feel better from whatever seemed to be going on, but he only blew her off every time.” There it was. The most out-of-character thing someone could do was oftentimes a sure sign of trouble when their shadow was loose. It didn’t automatically mean a Shade had escaped, but if a Hunter knew of a Shade’s disappearance and then it occurred, then it was improbable of being anything else. “I’m sorry, Mr. Armon. I’m sure they’ll both be back in no time, they’re both smart kids.” Mr. Armon nodded again, and turned back to me, his eyes beginning to redden. “I had heard a rumor that someone had spotted him by the train tracks outside town, but no one’s been able to find either of them out there.” The train tracks . Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of it first? I thanked Mr. Armon for talking with me and gave one more condolence before exiting the studio and jogging down the stairs, racing to get back home. I knew what to do now. When night fell, I stood over my desk, gathering my things. I glanced out the window at the full moon, it would make searching a lot easier. I stared down at the small dark dagger laying before me. It was time. If I didn’t finish this tonight, then it could very well be too late. Who knows what might happen. I took in a sharp breath and stuffed the dagger into the side of my boot. I turned off the lights in my room and slid through my window, closing it softly behind me. I left a note for my parents in case they came looking for me, but I didn’t want them to worry about me handling this Shade. The bright moon lit my surroundings enough for me to navigate through them. I was heading to one spot. The train tracks. Since someone had claimed to have seen him there, that was likely the last place anyone else had seen him, and I knew from sharing an art class with him that his favorite place to sketch was the tracks. Even if he was taken over by the Shade its actions would still be influenced by Mason’s memories and emotions. I trekked over the crunch of leaves as I finally reached the tracks. I quietly followed them, listening and watching for any noise or sign of movement. It was eerily silent. No crickets, birds, or animals. Even the wind was completely still. Which made my presence there that much more noticeable. I waited for what felt like forever, just listening, and watching the open land before me, the moon to my back. My shadow was cast long against the old, splintered wood of the train tracks, following any minute movement I made. I scanned the darkness of the woods to the left and right where anything could be easily hiding, the moon made the glow of the area easier to see, but it was still night, nonetheless. I glanced down at the tracks again and I froze. I could see my shadow straight ahead of me, but next to it was an inky darkness, resembling a shadow, that spread out just behind mine. And then I heard the sound of a foot on old wood. I whipped around, grabbing my dagger and holding it out at Mason’s tall figure. Despite the brightness of the moon, he was shadowed and dull compared to the rest of the area. “Hunter,” the Shade hissed in a low, static-like version of Mason’s. “I’m going to make this quick,” I muttered and lunged. The dagger sliced Mason’s upper arm, but instead of blood, inky shadows leaked through the cut. The Shade hissed and raised a clawed hand. It struck down but I jumped back before it raked my face. I swung again and cut the edge of his face. “Leave him or I will tear you apart,” my low voice rang out loud in the silence. The Shade snarled and the inky darkness of Mason’s body sank into the earth. Mason’s body dropped and I caught him, dragging him to the side and laying him down against a tree. I moved away from him and searched for the Shade. The wind had now started and blew hard and cold through the trees. I finally heard a crunch behind me, and I turned and threw my dagger. It struck the tree behind and lodged into the bark. My breath caught and then I was thrown to the ground. I gasped for air and turned my head up to the Shade looming above me, his head cocked. It lunged at me, and I rolled but felt it catch my arm and I yelled in pain. I backed up against the tree and stood, dislodging my dagger and gripping it in my now-injured arm. My arm shook and I scanned the trees hastily. A hissing laughter rang out in echoes and my heavy breathing matched. It was toying with me. I realized instantly what I would have to do. I sucked in a breath. It was risky. I stepped out into the open, the moon shining down brightly, casting a shadow of myself and the trees surrounding. I listened. And I waited. The wind picked up in an instant and the Shade appeared from the shadows and threw me to the ground. My back slammed against the hard tracks and ground, and I gasped for air. I tried to find my dagger somewhere next to me. The Shade raised an arm and swung at my head, but it missed. Until I realized what it was aiming for. My throat seized up and I let out a cry of pain as the Shade began pulling at my shadow cast by the moon. I thrashed, trying to roll away, get out of its grip, anything. I cried out as it ripped harder. My vision was blurring, and my breaths were sharp and ragged. I had to finish this now . With a shaky hand, I tapped around the cold ground, and finally, my fingers felt the hard handle of my dagger and I gripped it as tight as I could in my fist. I let out a yell and swung the dagger at the Shade’s face. Everything was still for a moment. Then it fell beside me with a thud. I gasped and sat up, painting. I watched the Shade as it melted into the earth, leaving no trace of it behind. Signing in relief I stood shakily to my feet and walked over to Mason, who groaned and regained consciousness. He was confused and dazed, but he was alright. I helped him and we retraced the Shade’s steps to where he had hidden Emi. Once they were both safe, I returned home and collapsed into bed. In a few days Mason’s shadow would return, he would only really remember everything as a dream, and everything would go back to normal. The next day I stood outside the radio station. People walked past; their shadows as clear as crystal. Everything was normal again. It was a regular sunny October day. Or it would have been. If I hadn’t noticed it. A bright sunny spot where my shadow should have been.

Right after we got engaged, before we ever got married, my groom-to-be and I went shopping at a discount department store, and I found these darling ceramic drink coasters with gold “H’s” painted in the middle. H for Harp, our soon-to-be shared surname. They were one of the first things I ever purchased for us. For our life together. He told me they were silly and that “no one uses coasters anymore.” But *we would,* I thought. I used to daydream that we would be the kind of couple who lounged on the couch together on Sunday afternoons, noses buried in books, with our teas or coffees or what have you placed neatly on our personalized coasters on our coffee table before us. We would be that couple that everyone was envious of, because down to the last detail, down to our coasters, you would be able to sense how strong our bond was. How committed we were to each other as people, and how committed we were to each other’s dreams. I loved those coasters, and what they represented. We were stylish and cool, with better, modern versions of old stuff that “no one uses anymore”. We were the better, modern versions of our parents, committed for life but with a sleek new spin. We had that old school love but with fresh, new, gold paint. When I bought the coasters, we were in college. Freshly engaged and sketching plans for our lives together. So full of dreams for ourselves we were rarely present in reality. We had it all figured out, and I had my coasters packed away in a box in a closet in my mother’s basement, tucked away from the clumsy carelessness of everyday life. I remember when we moved out of the dorms and into our first house, a trailer in the woods outside of our college town. The coasters were transferred, coming out of the box and into a cupboard in the kitchen of our new home, a black ribbon still tied around the four glass disks, still with the price tag attached. We were busy working on our degrees and were rarely home. The calm afternoons of coffee and reading would have to wait. The coasters gathered dust. Over the next couple years, big changes happened. We had jump started our lives and were running beside them, trying to keep up. We went from a trailer to an apartment with lofted cathedral ceilings and a big back deck. He graduated and got his first job. We started hunting for houses. I was chipping away at my degree at a steady pace, counting the days till graduation. We were talking about kids. So much was happening, our afternoons were the furthest from calm, almost hectic, with no end in sight, but we were excited and in love and blinded by our dreams igniting into reality before our eyes. We were busy, but so happy. And the coasters stayed tucked away, in the spare room, still with the ribbon, still with the tags. Still with my dreams attached to them, and every time id pass over them while looking in boxes for something else I needed, I would smile. Because I knew my calm days were coming. 2015 was a big year for us. We purchased our first house. We moved in on the evening of my 22nd birthday, and spent our first night in our first house. It doesn’t feel real, saying it now. How perfect that moment was, like something from a movie. I remember we slept on an air mattress on the floor, exhausted and covered in paint. We were so tired, but we were happy. Sometime in the following weeks, I unpacked the house, including the coasters. I proudly displayed them on our cheap particle board coffee table from Walmart. They were the only thing besides the remotes I wanted sitting there. I remember setting it up, and taking a step back to just take it all in. It was mine. I was building my space and this is what it looked like. I happily went back to work decorating and unpacking other parts of the house, making it our own. It strikes me now how organic that moment in our lives was. We created a home from some walls and some paint. We grew into our environment, and expanded, and reproduced, and made it our own. It really was a beautiful thing. But in our growing, we made messes. Got careless. Our coffee table turned into a dining table, a work table, a counter, and with as much stuff as we were constantly putting on and taking off of it, he must have moved the coasters to the desk in the foyer, because one day I just didn’t see them there. But, what you don’t see cant trigger memories, and such the coasters slipped from my mind just as they slipped off the table and into a quiet, undisturbed space, pushed back against the wall behind his computer monitor that collected dust and blocked them from view. The dream I had for us slipped silently from my mind. Our daughter was born, and suddenly things like glass coasters wouldn't have been okay to have around her anyway, so the thoughts of the golden crested coasters never crossed my mind, until the day that he accidentally knocked them off the desk. He was moving the monitor over to make room for something on the desk, most likely his printer, and in the commotion, the disks slid off the desk and onto the hardwood floor. Immediately he started apologizing, and as he picked them up and turned them over in his hands one by one, he discovered that one had chipped. A perfect “V”-shape out of one of the coasters. He clicked his tongue in slight disappointment, turned to me and said “Sorry” again, before discarding the chipped coaster into a plastic trash bag on the floor. I don’t know why those coasters meant so much to me, and I realize now that I finally understand why he wasn’t as silently devastated in that moment it broke as I was. I kept searching his face for a mirror of what I was feeling, but all I saw was sheepishness. I never told him what they meant to me, I’m sure to him they were just cheap coasters we never used. But to me, those coasters represented how uninterested he was in utilizing the space we built for peace, how little he cared about the small details. The worst part of this story is that there isn't a happy ending. Sometimes in life, you plan your future down to the very last detail. These dreams you build for yourself grow and change second to second, and small details get left behind. But when you grow up and realize that what you thought was a small detail at the time actually turned out to be a big, significant detail, and you can’t get closure on it, what you're left with is a disappointed hollow feeling. Sometimes, in life, you will work your ass off to achieve a dream, and all you will be left with is a broken coaster. And you have to learn to be okay with that.

Well, Halloween was cancelled 2 weeks ago in our small New Hampshire town. This Covid 19 crisis was taking all the enjoyment out of the holidays. I don't want to even think about Thanksgiving and especially Christmas. My mother says I was being selfish and if we do not follow the guidelines then we won't have a life to enjoy anything. Blah, blah, blah I hear as I walk away. Halloween is my favorite holiday, and my best friend Soosie too. We cannot let it slip by and not celebrate it, and no, not by ordering a pizza and watching a bunch of scary movies on TV, as my mother suggests. Soosie comes over and we decide to think of something really spooky to do. We google scary things around town and besides boring stuff we see something about 'Blood Cemetery' it is really called Pine Hill Cemetery, in Hollis. I have heard the stories of this place but never been there. The ghost of Abel Blood haunts it. Supposedly Abel's gravestone changes at night so the finger on the stone points down instead of heavenward. It says it is closed dusk till dawn, and the police patrol regularly especially at Halloween. We decide to drive by it anyway, I call Soosie and we make plans for the next night, Halloween. Our parents already think we are sleeping at each other's house, so our secret plan can not be deterred by our meddling parents. I fill my backpack with snacks, drinks, a flashlight, fill my gas tank and make sure my phone has a full charge just in case we get lost on the dark unlit back roads. I'm the most cautious of the 2 of us. If Soosie was in charge we would be stuck in a ditch in the unholy darkness, right in front of Blood Cemetery. I shiver at that thought. I tell my mom "I'm leaving" she waves bye never looking up from her phone. I feel slightly guilty lying to her, but more excited about the fun and scary night ahead for Soosie and I. So I text Soosie, "On my way" and back out of my driveway and the song 'Thriller' comes on and I laugh out loud. I wonder if we will see any zombies come out of the graves. Soosie is already outside waiting for me when I pull in her driveway. I just love her purple curly hair she must of dyed it today for she had her natural red hair yesterday. She is tall and skinny as opposed to me. I'm short and fun sized, my stupid brother says. But I hate my too straight brown hair. The door opens and we both start talking and laughing about our Halloween adventure. Wow, pitch black is a great adjective to describe this night. As we approach our destination the fog gets thicker, where did that come from. My hands tighten around the steering wheel as I listen to Waze direct us not to our deaths I hope. Soosie is oblivious to our surroundings, thinking all this is so cool. "You have reached you destination on the right "Waze whispers. I pull over onto the leave covered grass and we try to see thru the fog that seems to arise from the graves. Soosie puts down her window like that will make a difference. We squint and the fog magically thins out and we see the old crooked grave stones. Now that we are here I think we are both afraid to get out. Soosie senses my fear and locks her door, forgetting her window is half way down. Soosie turns to me pretending she is glad we are here, I ask her "wanna get out, we came all this way? It's suppose to be spooky." She answers bravely "It's just the fog that makes it so spooky." I reply "and the dead people," as we open our doors slowly, and try to walk quietly into the den of the dead. I hand a flashlight to Soosie and we feel a little braver. We are not alone for an owl spooks us. We look around with our high powered flashlights and spot him high up on a long thin leafless branch, he stares back at us. We keep scanning our surroundings, there are lots of trees and nothing else. Not a light of any kind for as far as we can see. It starts to lightly mist and it gives the air a smell of the woods just beyond this graveyard. We are starting to feel a little at ease and start taking selfies with the gravestones as our backdrop. There is some very old gravestones here, as we search for Abel Bloods grave. I hope we are not disrespecting the dead, we decide to turn off our flashlights and enjoy the natural environment we are in, but we hold onto each other for comfort. Just then we see a light in the distance and then hear the sound of a truck. We duck down instinctively, I say "someone had the same idea as us, unless the police have a truck." Soosie nods and we wait very quietly to see if they drive by or stop. They stop and we slowly raise our heads above the grave stone we ducked behind. I tell Soosie be quiet for we don't know who they are or what they are up to. She nods as she squeezes a tight grip on my arm. As we watch we see 2 people, male voices we know, but not what they are saying, for we are too far away. The rain is coming down in a steady stream, but we stay where we are waiting and watching. Soosie says she feels like we are on a stake-out, obviously excited by the events. Not me, I am wary of what they are doing here. We keep watching and one of them opens the back gate of the truck, they grabs shovels and start digging. "Are they grave robbing?" asks Soosie. We watch which seemed liked a long time and we are soaked to the bone, but we are not leaving till we see what they are up to. Just then they stop and one of them jumps into the bed of the truck. He is doing something we can't see, I grab my phone and open camera and zoom in, I see the other man grab something and it must be heavy for the other man jumps out of the truck. I relay what is happening to Soosie, she grabs her phone to see it too. Just then an arm falls out of it's encasement. We can't look away even though we are traumafied. A word I just read in a book, describes this scene exactly. We continue watching when they uncover their secret, a dead body. It seems a woman by her long hair. Just then Soosie takes a picture, her flash is on and the flash of light attracts the attention of these 2 grave diggers and probably murderers too.. They look our way, "What have you done Soosie, run." We get up as fast as we can and start running for the car, too afraid to see if they are giving chase. I can here Soosie behind me crying and I reach for her hand. As we see my car I reach for my car keys and I can't find them. I stop backtrack a bit, but it is so dark and everything is wet. I look up and I can see 2 figures getting closer, I turn on my flashlight to see my lost keys or it is certain death for us. Soosie is screaming by now wanting to know what I am doing. As I bend down searching, I look up and see the shovel aiming for my head. I wake up with such a headache, Soosie shaking me asking "you ok?" I realize I am home in my room, "what are we doing tonight for Halloween Jenny, Blood Cemetery still?" I instantly reply, "no Soosie, let's stay in and order a pizza and watch scary movies." She looks confused, I tell her you are not going to believe the dream I just had. She smiles and we live another day by listening to my mother.

You call out for help and it never comes, so you seek it directly, and it answers that it will not help fix what is not theirs, their time is far more important to be spent on you. So you turn and face it alone. And you lose, and the powers that be chide and scold you for your choice of solution. But you had no choice but to guess the solution. You knew you wanted help but you rememberd how you were pushed away. It comes again, you call for help, again a denial, a wave of the hand, you turn and face you problem alone. Again. Stronger you think. "I can do it this time." But this too fails. Another scolding. More chastising. The problems come again. You dont call for help. You're on your own. You know this now. Surely the powers that be have been clear that you must do all of this alone. You fail. It's worse. You should have come to us they say. But you know they would not have done anything differnt. They've trained you to value their time as they do. So you face them down alone. A few successes, many more failures. And something changes. In you? I the world maybe? You're for is batted away with ease. Still some foes leave you defeated, a few more scoldings and comments on your choices. You persevere. The powers look not down but at you admonishingly, proud they say they are, so much more mature, but you feel none of the praise, or the pride. This was no accomplishment to you. It was a war, a war you fought alone, no glory no reward, words are empty now, what once would have made you beam with pride, is now shrugged off for the hollow words they truly are. You know now. You were forced to know, you will not forget for their sake, what have they done to help but turn you into a weapon. A weapon against problems, against yourself. And a new day comes, you meet others that are not like the powers, they are like you, and they look to you to help them, and you know it is your new duty not just to yourself, but to these equals, they need you, and you will not let them down. You know better than that. Something tells you you do not know why such a duty burns within you like a furnace to power your resolve. You turn to the powers, perhaps they know, but you turn away. What good would it truly do. Time passes, you feel welcome for the first time in a very long time, these equals turn to you in times of need because they trust you. And you trust them, but ask nothing of them, it seems wrong you think. And another new day Dawn's, and you must move on again, and it hurts. Many of these equals have helped you when you needed it. Far more than the powers ever have. But one felt closer than any of the others. Even the sibling equal you met who did not stand behind you when you faces your foes, but beside you. This one got to your heart, and had to leave it, and a new pain appears you do not understand. Another trip to the powers, that ends as soon as the thought enters your mind. I have a duty. That is what will get me through this. And it does. But a wound is a wound. And this one bleeds... You begin a new journey, many equals left behind, some still promise to be beside you in spirit, and for the first time you believe that you are still not quite alone when they are not near. You meet new equals, and even some beyond your own, some gravitate towards you, as if they know what you are. What you can do if need be. And you feel welcome again. Your duty is needed here. This journey is different, the powers are not close. It is truly your journey, and you force yourself to face this alone. You must you tell yourself, this is your time to prove what little they could do for you. And the worst part is. You are correct. You make fewer visits to the powers, they change before your eyes each time into something, less powerful. And yet another new day arrives, and you realise that the powers, had none. They should have but they did not, you are baffled, confused, "but surely" you tell yourself, "there is something that I'm missing." But you are not. A higher power reveals itself, but this one reveals only truth. This power is to be trusted, the wisdom of it is powerful. And they reveal an inconvenient truth. Your powers that you sought help from, are incapable of it, this higher power apologizes to you, for you were never to have faced those foes alone the way you did. You were let down. You trusted something that had nothing to give. And you are livid. Why? you ask this higher power, "why did I have to face everything alone?" And they comfort you as best they can, "Because you proved to us you could." And they needed no more excuse to leave you to the world yourself. They failed you. They were lazy. They left you for their own sake not yours. So you clench your fists. "But the credit is mine you say." And the higher power agrees. "Yes it is yours. And you are right to keep it from them." "But you are not supposed to fight these battles alone." You turn to your equals your freinds, your siblings in arms, "what am I to do?" you ask them. And they have no answer that eases your new pain. So you continue on with your duty. It's all you feel you have left. Alone now more than ever. Your friends are there but do not share the pain, they cannot truly lessen it. Your old wound still bleeds. More so from newer wounds to your heart. You ask yourself "what will I have left of myself for me?" And you do not know. You yearn for a new equal not to care for your wound, but protect it while you heal. Proof. That is what I need you say. I need proof that I can trust someone to protect my wounds. So that I may heal. But a few wounds from your back remind you, that some equals took advantage of all you had to give, and left you bleeding. But I will not break, I will not change who I am, another blow into your back. The wound bleeds again. You stand and face your foes again, they are stronger than ever before. You grit your teeth and say to yourself. "I will not betray my duty and who I am Even if it leaves me open to be betrayed." "My back is mine to protect." But you want someone to trust. Someone to be behind your back forever and always. But trust you remember. Is something that has never once been promised to you. It was the only job the powers truly had. It was the thing your closest equals betrayed. Between the battles you drop to your knees, beaten, tired, always so tired. "How, How am I to truly trust someone with my heart?" When not even my parents could make me trust them? Those few true partners left me bleeding. A few freinds stabbed be squarely in the back. I face the world alone. Hurt. Scared no one wants to have the back of someone who cares too much for those who need him. Tired. And they tell you to give up. And ignore it. And you refuse. "I have stood here before. I will stand here now. And I will die here if necessary." "But I will never change what I am standing for.

Past 2am. He was awake, again. While his corpulence always exhibited the inadequacy of his duvet, tonight his sweat had also soaked it. He reached out for the glass of water by his bedside. The glass had a thick curved bottom, ornate on the top. It rested on a table with a surface of pure silver. He loved shiny things. A voice of some late TV presenter was ranting. Pictures of a massive processions interlaced with that shriek of a voice. He knew exactly who the presenter was, he knew all of them. His life centred on TV as much as TV centred on him. He pressed the power off button. "How dare they...", he said in a tired, almost morose manner. He had given his listeners a new lease of life and they used it to destroy him. All his life he sought to serve the people around him. Favours, deals, everyone being happy. Everyone that mattered of course. You can't make EVERYONE happy, that would have killed him. \- "How is your wife?", the blank TV says. His own face starring back at him, with an eerie translucence that flat screens are experts on. His own eyes piercing right back at him. Oh... \_He\_ was also awake. "Still angry with you?" the translucent figure says. \- Beads of sweat formed around his forehead. His voice crackled, "No... Please leave me alone tonight... please! I have barely slept this week". \- "I sensed you needed me. I sensed you being weak again. Let me comfort you. Forget that ungrateful bitch." \- "Yes... she is so angry... Until this gig is over I can't even divorce her..." \- "She is not the only angry with you, you know", the figure on the TV now smiles a golden smile. "The whole world is. Actually... the whole world despises you" \- "No. They love me! I woke them up! They hugged their little pillows until I showed them that they ruled by darkness. I brought the light!", he retorts. \- "You brought fear. You brought loathing. You brought power! It's not light that you gave them. You didn't wake them up to lead. You woke them up to destroy them. For me to destroy them", the figure smirked. \- "Yes... and now... who is left in my corner? Constant bickering. I'm so lonely". His fingers played with each other. Weaving an imaginary web and promptly dismissing it. \- "What about your friend, Vladimir was it?", the figure on the TV now smiles a golden smile. The figure on the TV is patiently waiting for his reply but he stared down. His lips tremble. "I have not heard from since...". He missed Vlad. When Vlad was around - physically or even in his thoughts - he felt the world was no longer a land of wonder and opportunity but of certainty. Yes. He was the dealmaker and thrived on opportunity but in this new gig... they wanted him to certain. About everything. The whole fucking time. \- "He was never your friend, you know." \- "What?!" The figure on the TV leaned in to whisper, as conspirators often do. \- "He is like a russian doll, layers upon layers. He showed you what you wanted to see. What you wanted to hear. He manipulated you in this misery so HE can look strong.". \- "No. NO!", his face became red. \- "Oh yes my friend. HE isolated you. He is loved. You saw the the news. That was a procession in his honour.". \- "That... Is... Ugh. Yes. I saw". His sweat had evaporated. His eyebrows closed in as he processed all that information. He had been so caught up in his emotions to see the obvious. Not only he had been played but he was being played now as well. Images and sounds. Images and sounds... he had listened for too long. \- "Yes you saw and listened. Now listen to me, I can guide you through this if you just... oh shit...", the figure in the screen opened its eyes wide as the image got distorted and then were no more. There were shards everywhere now, the remote control embedded into what remained of the flat screen TV. \- "ENOUGH! I had enough!", he shouted with vigour. He had to do more than just deal with this the figure in the screen. He had to resolve this permanently once and for all. All images and sounds would have to be silenced. TV boxes, radios, the Internet. All the LIES would have to surrendered. There was only one way to ensure that. Only one thing could disrupt all of the lies. He saw it in a movie. An electromagnetic pulse from a nuclear explosion. A lot of nuclear explosions. But he couldn't do that. No... Someone else will have to be "inspired". He acted on that thought and put his phone away. Peace was upon him. The kind he had rarely felt before. Filled him in every hair of his being. That and confidence. Soon. He would be loved unconditionally by everyone on the side of good. Past 5am. Reconciled, Donald fell asleep, wrapped around with his own arms. The rest of the world was stealing a few extra moments of slumber before being confronted with the New World he had just tweeted into creation.

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Piles of burning leaves lined the streets, sitting in front of each house. I was standing alone in the middle of the road, the only one seemingly curious about these fires. What time was it? Was it too late for anyone else to notice? I looked for the time, but it was nowhere to be found. I heard a soft beep that came from behind me as if someone needed to change the batteries on the fire alarm, but not the actual alarm signalling the fires. It was strange how quiet the street felt with this chaos. My fear was telling me to run, though my brain ignored the signals altogether. Suck in the middle of the road, my eyes stuck on this pile of scorching leaves. For a moment, I felt completely outside of myself as if I were a spirit observing the present day. There was a slight tapping coming from the window of our house. My beautiful wife and youthful daughter were standing next to each other staring at me from the window. The expression on their faces felt soulless. My daughter began moving her hand up slowly, placing it on the window. They didn’t move from the window, or instead, they couldn’t move from the window. I opened my mouth to call out to them, yet I heard no voice. I felt the hot air escape from my mouth, though there was absolutely no sound that followed. My screams merely trapped in my own mind and for no one else to hear. I tried to make any movement towards the door, but only my eyes made it. My front door appeared to be nailed shut with wooden planks. The wooden planks began to shake on the door like a zombie trying to break in. Still, my daughter held her hand on the window as my wife stood beside her. As I stared at them, though they were right there, I was somehow missing them. They felt so unreachable, and yet this was my house - our house. My heart was empty, while my mind was full of restlessness. There was that beeping again. What was it coming from? It certainly wasn’t coming from inside, it sounded as if it echoed from a speaker hidden in the skies. My neck finally loosened up as if it were unscrewing itself. I turned to see where the sound was coming from. Standing a few houses away, stood in the middle of the street, a dark stretched out shadow in the form of a person. The shadow seemed transparent and then concrete, like a flickering light. It stood utterly grounded, yet it’s apparitional feet nearly touched the ground. For a moment, it was still, as if it analyzing and questioning my presence. Soon it began to take its first step towards me. Something within me told me to fear it, and I did what I was told. It started taking more giant steps and moved faster towards me now. Then, it began charging at me. Without awareness, I was running. With every stride, the ground beneath me appeared as if I was moving with distance. When I looked straight ahead, there were rows of houses, each with a pile of burning leaves on their yard. Different persons each household appeared at the window as I ran by--each neighbour with the same expression on their face - soulless and hopeless, as one person from their family reached their hand up and pressed it against the window. I called out to them, but no one responded. My voice still confined way in the depths of my mind, feeling so distant. My breath grew heavier with each passing minute. The untouched leaves from the burning piles began to escape by the wind. As the leaves fell into my path, I heard crunching of the dry leaves with each step. Soon the whole road beneath me glowed of bright red leaves. I didn’t look back, I refused every ounce of my muscles not to look around. I have no clue why my body was doing the complete opposite of everything I wanted as if it were controlling itself on its own fate. My legs came to a complete halt, and I turned ever so slowly to face the darkness behind me. The shadow had its own dark glow, a glow darker than night. The air between me and the shadow felt warmer. As it grew closer, it became more sociable and harder to breathe. I felt suffocated in a sauna of sweltering panic. Instead, I was locked inside of a wooden chest and thrown into a hot tub to drown, with the chest nearly full of water taking my last chance at inhaling as much air as I could. Simultaneous to sucking what was left of breathable air, the shadow standing in front of me dissolved into my last breath. Its ice-cold essence slipped into my mouth, gliding my tongue and into the back of my throat like chugging ice-cold water. It stopped in the middle of my throat as if I were choking on an ice cube with sharp edges, scratching my throat as it forced itself further. I felt this piercing ice cube of darkness slipped further past my throat, melting into my lungs. However, somehow there was more water filling my lungs. Once again, I gasped for air. Only this time, I couldn’t exhale. A bright light began to evade my sight, and my senses were entirely cut off. Then, there was that beeping again--that irritating beeping. While still, holding my breath against my own will, a rubber hand appeared out of thin air gripped my arm that kept me in place. A single brightest red leaf floated gracefully above. I watched it slowly sway back and forth, dancing with the rhythm of the air around me. Another rubber glove grasped my chin, securely moving the back of my head to meet the end of my neck. The bright red leaf was soon floating downward right above me, landing delicately over my mouth. Immediately, the dark shadow choking me was liberated and flew out from my mouth. I took the chance at once, and with all my energy, I freed my breath with a vast cough and my eyes shot opened wide. ..... “You were quite shaken up, how are you feeling now, Stanley?” the doctor asked as she reached her rubber hand on my arm to comfort me. “I’m alright.” “Well, that’s good to hear. We had to assist your breathing while you were asleep. It seemed as if you were having a tough time. I’m glad to hear you’re doing alright now. Call if you need anything, Stanley.” The doctor walked away and moved on to check in on the next patient. The intensive care unit seemed to have grown by the hundreds. The nurse behind her approached my bed quietly. “Hi sir, your wife and daughter came in again earlier today. Your daughter wanted me to give you this, she said she wanted to bring the outdoors to you. They say they miss you and hope you’ll be able to come home soon. She also said she knows that Fall is your favourite season, and felt like this might make you feel better.” The nurse reached for her pocket and placed in front of me,... the single brightest red leaf.

“Snowy. It’s snowy. The ground is covered with snow. A cabin. A cabin in the middle of that distant place is decorated. There are Christmas lights-- Blue, green, red, yellow. A Christmas song can be heard from far away. A tree with red decorations inside the house. Steps. Hard steps due to the snow. Someone walks towards the little cozy cabin. Now, I see a car. A blue car covered with snow. It’s parked next to a garbage can. The door is opening. Someone is going outside. A woman. Middle-aged woman. Black hair, purple shirt, a leather jacket. She gets a cigarette. Smoking now. Into the cabin, a family. A small family. An old lady completes a puzzle. A very young boy plays with his smartphone. A couple kisses under the mistletoe. Happy. Everyone is happy... Now, they eat. Eat the food and smile and laugh.” I lose the old woman’s hand and clean my throat. In my front, Cynthia smiles. Her white hair contrasts with the light. The woman looked satisfied, she was bursting with joy. It’s so easy to make her happy, it’s just to say something good and let her imagine those things. “That’s it, Cynthia,” I say. “70 dollars” “Thank you, young lady. Thank you!” The woman gives me the paycheck and very, very, very, extremely slowly gets up. “Do you need help?” “No. I’m not as young as you but I can still handle it.” I fake a sympathy smile. Doesn’t she know that I have more clients? That more people want to know their “future”? I couldn’t believe it yet. I finally had a great job. It’s a scam but, who cares? People that are muggles to believe, I just enjoy it and get the money. “Are you sure?” I ask the old lady once again when I see Felicity coming. Felicity was a very loyal and good friend. She’s kind of crazy but...you know, nothing besides the common. With her redhead and short hair, I’ve met her a long time ago. She helped me to start this business. “Hi, girl!” She says. “Am I the last?” She asks. “Nope,” I say staring at the blue ring in my middle finger. “So, after you finish here, go to the bar in the corner of the street. I’ll be there celebrating my friend’s birthday. You’re very welcome.” “Yeah. Sure.” I “see” the future since I remind me as a person. I started with this “I’m a fortune-teller” bullshit when I was in high school. It was my biggest accomplishment. For sure. ... I woke up. Head is aching, I’m in a bed with a thin blanket over my legs. I feel a body next to me. I don’t remember anything from last night. I realize I’m naked. I scream. The man wakes up. “Who... are you?” “Can you stop screaming?” I scream more. “Please, you’re breaking my ears.” Quickly, I get dressed. I’m dizzy. I stumble and almost fall. The man says something, but I don’t listen to it. Pictures. Pictures of me were around the room. I felt like I was having a heart attack. Where was I? Where he had taken me? Who was he? “Where...where...?” I can’t say. It’s like there is a frog in my throat. “In...your place...?” I look around. The place was filled with pictures of me and animals, but it wasn’t my house. It isn’t my home. I don’t live here. My bed is not this one--it’s smaller. My walls are blue, not red like those in this room. I have a lampshade next to my bed and this room doesn’t. It isn’t my home. It isn’t my room. “I...I...it’s not- “Are you fine?” He asks “ You’re a little pale.” Everything is spinning. I listen to bells, see lights, snow, blood. Bells. Lights. Snow. Blood.....Bells. Lights. Snow. Blood... An image passes through my head. I know the images even though it is a little blurry. Scared. I feel scared. Something was wrong. I feel it. “Linda?!” the man says worryingly. I try to put those images away from my mind, but I can’t. They keep coming back. With a gasp, I fall. Hitting my head against a headboard. I feel pain. A lot of pain in my head. ... Bells were chiming. Lights were low. The room was filled with life. Christmas lights. Christmas songs and choirs. Presents surrounded the place, the tree was decorated. No one was inside the cabin. It was just me. What had happened to the others? The song was getting more intense and louder. Twinkle. The lights started to twinkle. The song was getting darker and rougher. A leak. There was a leak somewhere. I heard the sound of the water falling against the wood. I followed the sound in those flashes of colors and horrible sounds. I was getting closer. I could feel it. The bathroom’s door was closed but I just knew that the leak was there. It needed to be there. I saw a drop. One, two, three... I had found the leak. It was in front of the bathroom. I just needed to get a bucket an- A drop fell on my arm. Another drop fell. They kept falling. But there was something strange about them. The drops were different--they were dense and weren’t transparent nor colorless. They were red. An extremely bright red and it was warm. I looked at the ceiling and noticed that the drops were getting bigger and bigger. My body was filled with blood. My heart? I couldn’t feel it. Seemed that it had stopped. I entered the bathroom to clean my body. I washed it so fast that I barely could think about what was happening. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out. My mind kept telling me, insisting that I breathe. Numbers. Murmurings. Sighs. Numbers. Murmurings. Sighs. Numbers. Murmurings. Sighs. I started to listen to numbers, murmurings, and sighs. Someone was there. Slowly, I started to get out of the bathroom. Scream. A painful scream. The shatter of glass. The end of the song. The lights were off. They weren’t blinking now. It was dark; very dark. But a weak light was coming from behind the sofa. There was a low light next to it. Destabilized, I walked towards the light. The white light in the middle of the room. Stop. The time stopped; I stopped. Blood. There was blood all around the cabin. I was walking on a lake of blood. Dark and light red blood. Brand new blood. I found the fountain; the matrix. It was coming from the body. It was so vivid, so scary. Someone had died there. Someone died while I was there and I didn’t know that there were people in the cabin. There was blood all around the place. I was covered with blood and I had just cleaned myself. The body of a girl was drowned in the blood. A dark-haired girl with a mutilated face. She was frozen, frozen in time. Her hands were tied and she was without one of her feet. It had been a recent amputation and most likely, against her will. And then, I realized. The dark-haired girl was familiar. I tried to untie her hands and, on her neck, I saw a tattoo. A butterfly with a glasses tattoo. That tattoo wasn’t common and I knew who had it. I had it. It was me. My body. My death. I was dead. Dead. Without breathing. Heard a noise. It was time. Time to die. Heart jumping. Body shaking. Someone was coming, chasing me. Steps. Loud steps. A touch on my head. Dark. Dead body. Blood. I was drowning in the blood. ... The blood was gone, the body was gone and the dark was gone. I was waking up, an awakening of death. Whispers. People are whispering around me. The glimpse of light doesn’t let me open my eyes completely because of vertigo. I raise my hand. “Linda?!” A familiar male voice says. The same voice from earlier. I see the shadow of the man. “Are you fine?” I don’t answer. Who was he? What he was doing here? Why did he have pictures of me? How did he know my name? The doctor approaches. Abruptly, he opens my eyes and throws a yellow light into my eyes. Hurts. It hurts. “What’s your name?” He asks. “Linda,” I say. “How old are you?” “32...,” I wasn’t sure. How old am I? I noticed the doctor and that man exchanged a look. “When were you born?” “19 of November of 1993.” “So, how are you 32 if we are in 2021?” I think, “You’re 28.” “No.” I was getting sick again. My head was aching again, my heart was jumping again. I was going to my death again, I was being thrown to it. Those images were stuck in my mind. I couldn’t forget it. It was so realistic and truthful. Everything in that dark and lonely hole. The lights, the sound, the body. My death. That was my death. I didn’t remember that man and barely knew what was happening in my life. But I was sure that it wasn’t 2021, right?! I couldn’t stay there. I passed out. Once again. ... Christmas carols were singing, snow was falling. The winter had arrived. Everything was different. I was in an unknown place, an unknown world. Who was I over there? Why was I in the middle of a street? What I was doing with a lamplighter? Nothing. No idea. I couldn’t remember the reason. I couldn’t remember. Though I remembered my name and my roots, I had lost my essences, I didn’t remember what moved me, what made me be me. I was simply following rules. Rules of a game. A game that I didn’t understand, that I didn’t know and that I didn’t wanna play. A car honked as it passed to me. The lights of the headlight made me uncomfortable. But there was something with the image of my death. That terrible vision of how I might die. Was it true? Was that my future? ... Someone was calling my name. I know the voice. A sweet voice with a gummy and pleasant sound. A calm voice. “Hey, darling. You’re opening your eyes again,” my mom said. She puts her hand in my head. "It’s okay. It’s just a scare.” My mom was there, I'd get better and go home. My real one. Everything would be just fine. I’d get out of the hospital and- Images. Images came through my head. A red Corolla in the middle of the highway. Three people inside the car. The rush to get to the game. The voice of a little boy saying “you’re too fast.” The red light of the traffic light. The crash. Violently, I escape from her touch. Her warming and comforting touch. She shouldn’t be there...she shouldn’t. And, before I had noticed, words escaped from my mouth. “You're dead,” I move further away from her, she stares at me with that worried maternal look. “No, hone- “You’re dead.” I interrupted her, “The accident... The accident. You died there. You and the boy....” I was mumbling and sliding to the side. I needed to get out of there. “Relax,” I fell out of bed and crawled to the window, “Sam, calls the doctor.” I just noticed that the man (apparently called Sam) was still there. I thought that he had left. Why he didn’t? What he was? A boyfriend? One nightstand? An ex? A friend? The world was spinning again. Everything was spinning. More images reached my mind. The pain was coming back. But this time is stronger. I yell. A lake; a frozen lake. A park. I walk in the park. Someone walks with me; a redhead woman. She talks. “Sometimes you need to jump; to go away,” I don’t say anything, I just pay attention. The park was strange. Just the two of us were there and it was the holiday period. Blinding sunlight passed through my eyes. “Sometimes people disappear,” she takes something shiny out of her pocket. Something sharp. “And, sometimes, karma happens.” The knife pierced my belly in a region just below the heart. I couldn’t talk. I saw the blood leaving my body. The woman wasn’t there anymore; she had gone. There were loads of blood coming out of my body. I couldn’t feel my legs nor my arms. A piercing pain hurt my belly. I was getting dizzy again. My legs give out and I fall. Fall into the frozen lake and into the darkness. The last thing I heard before jumping is a scream. A grievous scream. I was flying now. Floating in the magnificent sky. No more pain nor confusion. It was a dream and I was escaping from it. I’d wake. I’d wake at some point. I kept falling. Never hitting the ground. Never awakening. I fell into eternity and into the loneliness. I fell into a trap that I couldn't escape.

Most kids in high school spent their summers at the pool or on vacation, but I preferred to spend mine in a library. Mind you, this wasn’t just any library. This was a good old-fashion card catalogue extravaganza of county birth recordings, cemetery records, drawers of family archives, and an unholy number of biographies on Abe Lincoln. It smelled of must and brewing coffee, and the ceiling creaked like a ghost was moving in the attic. I loved it. It was there that I first encountered Cyril Aberforce. Years after the fact, I wondered if I remembered his name because it was so strange, but likely not. It had more to do with the words Murderer Convicted over his head in bold newspaper print. In April of 1838, this Mr. Cyril Aberforce was found in a pool of his wife’s blood in their kitchen, a butcher knife still in his hand. His wife Maggie, was Mr. Aberforce’s only relative in hundreds of miles. They had no children nor were likely to, being in their sixties. The fragile, yellowed newspapers read that it was the result of a drunken rage, for the man was prone to take moonshine in his bad harvest seasons, and the rain hadn’t shown many signs of coming, so maybe he was planning ahead. Other chronicles said a demon had come over him as punishment for his past sins. Unfortunately, I couldn’t precisely discover what these past sins were. That was understandable given that sixty years of not the best recorded history had preceded the murder, but I couldn’t help but question it all. I was reading a lot of romances at the time--Austen, Gaskell, Heyer--and I couldn’t believe a man would murder his wife. And of course, there was the fact that Cyril swore he didn’t kill her. He said he’d come in and found her lying in her own blood and was so upset he took the knife and laid beside her until one of the farmhands found him. I was still considering all of this on the drive home when a sudden thought struck me. I turned my mom’s car around and drove to the largest house in the town, owned by the brittle, tightfisted Julia Erford. I knocked for nearly ten minutes before the door was opened. The ancient creature herself answered, more than making up for her four feet seven inches with a stare like an iceberg and a voice as shrill as a crow. She wasn’t happy to see me, and I doubted she would’ve been happy to see anyone, but when I asked if I could look through her collections of old papers, her eyes lit up. Mrs. Erford had long since hoarded a collection of letters and other documents from her family, who had lived in the town for nearly two hundred years. She refused to give them up to the museum, saying those greedy Democrat monsters would photocopy them to high hell and sell them to the highest bidder. I let all this pass without comment, and the only account of myself I had to give was that I indeed was not what she considered the most deplorable of occupations, an academic, but merely a teenager interested in the past. Mrs. Erford’s study, where she kept all of the papers, might as well have been the library, as it smelled just the same. Still, an hour in I was missing the tidy card catalogue as I sat beside mountains of deteriorating parchment. I heard the click of her cane down the hall outside and she opened the door. “Find what you were looking for?” “No, unfortunately not.” “Might I ask what was so important that you threw off my dinner time?” I looked up guiltily. “I wanted to find out more about the Aberforce murder.” “Mmm, ah. Nasty business. My family preferred not to talk about it.” Cocking my head, I asked, “Why’s that?” She looked down at me like I was an idiot. “Because the Aberforces were my relatives! Erford is a derivative we took after the Civil War so people would stop banging on the door asking to see where Maggie died.” My eyes widened. “Maggie died here?” “Are you quite sure you’ve read about this? My family has owned these thirty-five acres since John Aberforce laid his claim in 1805. He was Cyril’s father, you know. The house was always in the same place.” “But Maggie didn’t actually die in this house? I saw the cornerstone on my way up the porch. It said 1847.” Mrs. Erford sized me up, new respect in her eyes. “Yes, so it was. No, she died in the original farmhouse. It burned down, and my great great great great great grandfather built this mansion.” For a moment, I was caught off guard, wanting to laugh at the thought that maybe there weren’t so many greats in between then and Mrs. Erford, but I controlled myself. “So the line’s been continuous since then?” She puffed out her chest a bit. “It has.” “Wait,” I said, holding up one finger. “How’s that? The papers said Cyril had no family, not even children. Did a family member come from somewhere else and take up the line?” Mrs. Erford hesitated. I could tell she was reconsidering the wisdom of letting me into her home. “Well, yes and no,” she said at last. “My ancestor, Henriette Aberforce, came with her husband and son, but they also came for another reason.” “Which was?” She sighed resignedly. “To care for Cyril’s child.” “But you said--“ “Oh child, how old are you, eighteen?” she snapped. “A man doesn’t have to be married to a woman to impregnate her!” I rolled my eyes. “You might have just said so. But that still doesn’t add up. Why wouldn’t the papers have given a clue to that as a motive? Who was the child’s mother?” “Twenty-year-old Beth Smith. A charity orphan turned nurse who’d come to take care of Mrs. Aberforce in her sickness. The baby wasn’t born until after Cyril had been hanged.” I cringed. “That’s disgusting! She was young enough to have been his daughter!” “Men are men,” Mrs. Erford said with a saturnine smile. “Now, I expect you’re going to be wanting the letters of Henrietta Aberforce.” “How would those help?” “How should I know? You’re the one playing detective, making free with my family’s history.” “It’s history in general, Mrs. Erford,” I argued. “And I didn’t ask for your opinion! Now do you want the letters or not?” Not ten minutes later, I was sitting at the study desk, unwrapping the dusty bundle. Lacking the latex gloves of the library, I had to be especially careful opening and turning pages. Making out the spidery, feminine script of the mid-nineteenth century was nearly impossible. I was on my twenty-something letter, nearly about to pack up and leave, when I caught sight of the date at the top, April 13, 1838. Not only was it the day of the murder, the letter was addressed to Maggie! Though most was of no importance, a passage caught my eye. What nonsense you are talking! You certainly are no longer in the prime of life, but I will not hear of you speaking of your death in this way. And stop saying Cyril will not miss you when you’ve gone, for I’m certain no husband could be more devoted to his wife! Did he not engage a village girl to look after you in your ill health? I look forward to meeting her, anyone who looks after my dear relatives so well is worthy of the highest respect! You may expect me only a few weeks from the time you get this letter! I looked up as the letter returned to domestic inanities. Maggie had known she was going to die? Did she know her husband had been chasing another girl? Had Beth or Cyril killed her to get her out of the way? “Did you find anything interesting?” Mrs. Erford’s voice startled me out of my morbid reflections. “Yes!” I said excitedly, repeating to her the passage and my thoughts on it. “Hmm. I wonder if the answer lies in Maggie’s diary.” “She kept a diary?” I asked, barely concealing my joy. “Supposedly,” she said. “No one could find it. If they had, no doubt it would have been key evidence in the trial. But my cousin Hetty’s journal of the goings on at that fiasco bears no mention of it. And before you ask, I’ve read them and there’s no mention of Beth Smith. I don’t think they wanted the scandal, and Hetty’s letters show she didn’t know the child was Cyril’s until it was a few years old. After that, she took it in as her own when Beth died.” “So the baby wasn’t used as motivation for the murder? Then what was?” Mrs. Erford scoffed. “The story from the trial was that he had become violent from too much to drink and lost his head.” “So he took a butcher knife to his wife?” I asked incredulously. “I don’t care how drunk a person gets, that makes no sense.” “Well I don’t see how you can work it out now. The thing happened almost two hundred years ago.” “I know. It just bothers me. He swore his innocence.” “Mmm, yes,” she agreed, pushing up her wire glasses. “His innocence was always taken as gospel in this house, but that was because Beth’s child, my ancestor David, said his mother knew he was innocent.” “But did Maggie know about Beth’s pregnancy?” I asked, my mind working at fast. “Even if the court didn’t know, she might have, and someone killed her to keep her quiet.” “You think it was Beth?” Mrs. Erford asked, pursing her lips. “That’s who my money is on. If only I could find that diary!” “Good luck with that. None of the original buildings remain, save the old outhouse.” “Why’s that?” Mrs. Erford laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “It was the only building that greedy historical society could get the paperwork for before it was demolished! Everything else is gone.” “Could I look around there?” I asked hopefully. The old woman stopped laughing and eyed me curiously. “I’ve never seen a child so interested in the past.” “It just doesn’t sit well with me, a man murdering his wife or being hung for something he didn’t do.” “Hanged,” Mrs. Erford corrected me. “Well, I suppose you can take a look at the outhouse, but not tonight. Come tomorrow morning.” *** I was up bright and early the next day, barely pausing to grab breakfast before jumping in my car and starting for town. Before going to the Erford mansion, I briefly stopped at the library to check a hunch and, being right, arrived at the house ready to go. “The rains weren’t bad in 1838!” I practically shouted as the front door opened. “What the?” Mrs. Erford scowled at me. “Cyril had been a farmer all his life,” I went on buoyantly. “He would’ve know what the signs for a good season were. He couldn’t have been drinking because of that!” “Do you know how old I am? Do you want to give me a heart attack?” I grinned, wanting to suggest that I didn’t see her dying of something so pathetic, but I merely apologized and let her lead me through the house and to the backyard. The grounds consisted of a swimming pool, covered despite the season, and large gardens, overgrown from lack of care. The outhouse was precisely what I expected, a molding shack surrounded by weeds. The door creaked as it gave way to my determined pull, throwing light into the putrid square of blackness. “Ugh, it stinks like bad water,” I said, realizing the obviousness of the statement too late. “Maybe I overestimated your intelligence,” Mrs. Erford said flatly, also wheezing a little from the smell. “I’ll be in the house. Don’t bother me.” I looked around the exterior of the little shack, checking for anything strange on the walls. Then, I went inside, covering my face with the collar of my shirt and using my phone’s flashlight to look at the interior. The only other option seemed to be digging. Finding a shovel wasn’t hard, and I quickly took to the task, grateful that my early start was allowing me to beat the heat of the day. The soil smelled worse the deeper I went, and I tried not to think about what gases and other things had been released in hundreds of years from human excrement. Some time passed, and I was just regretting my decision to turn down going with a friend to the movies when the shovel hit something solid. Forgetting the smell for the moment, I knelt down and reached into the two-foot deep hole. A flat, smooth surface greeted my palm. I quickly dug around it and felt it to be some kind of box. Thankfully, lifting it out was not difficult as it was about the size of a shoe box and not heavy. I used water from a hose to clean away the filth and found a large MA was carved into the top. Unfortunately, the box was locked, and no amount of years had harmed its integrity. Despite her apparent indifference, Mrs. Erford’s eyes lit up when she saw the strong box in my arms, and she padded away, saying she needed to get something. She came back with an ancient ring of keys. “These have been passed to each head of the Erford family for generations,” she said, handing it to me. “Try them out.” We sat in what she called the breakfast parlor, methodically sticking each of the fifty or so keys into the lock. On the twenty-eighth, it clicked, slowly, reluctantly, but it clicked, and the lid lifted. Within was a single sheaf of papers, bound with a leather sleeve and cord. This too had an MA inscribed. My instincts made me go to the last page, dated the same day as the murder. Perhaps it was my excitement, perhaps because my eyes had become acclimated to old time cursive, but whatever it was, I made out the entry in a few seconds. My eyes widened. “What does it say?” Mrs. Erford asked nervously. “Does she guess at her killer?” I shook my head. “But she knew about the baby?” I nodded. “And she knew who her killer would be.” “Who?!” Mrs. Erford’s knuckles were white on the table. “Herself,” I breathed. The old woman blinked uncomprehendingly. “Maggie Aberforce killed herself,” I explained. “She says here, ‘I’ve planned it tonight, as that little slut will be gone, so Cyril will take the blame. When he’s hanged, hopefully the shock kills his Bathsheba and her spawn of the devil.’ ” I leaned back in my chair and took a deep breath. “What a psycho.” A silence descended for a minute, as we each pondered this revelation. Then, Mrs. Erford, who had been so tense before hearing the truth, stood up and said in a calm voice, “I don’t know. The Aberforce and Erford women have been doing things to protect the family name for centuries.” “But this was so evil !” I cried, aghast at her rationalization. “You would never do something like this!” The old woman smiled and shrugged, saying nothing more.

I noticed the door a few days ago. It was bright yellow, nearly impossible to miss unless you were just blind. It had a sign on the front: “Caution: Active Construction Zone.” The rule was clear, and I wasn’t one to break the rules. I continued walking, noticing the faint sound of metal clanking coming from inside. It wasn’t disturbing or scary in any way. The sign was loud and clear, it was a construction site. The next day, as I was on my way to the bakery, I heard voices coming from inside. Echoing syllables that I couldn’t quite make out. It was as if they were almost words, but some piece was missing. Typical of a construction site to have workers, no need for alarm. Although, I couldn’t help but feel a bit uneasy about what I was hearing on the other side. The sounds, those strange grunts that were one vowel away from being a proper word, seemed to echo through my head as I tried to sleep that night, instigating curiosity. The enigma behind those disembodied grunts had me in its grasp. I had to know what was making such otherworldly sounds. As I walked by the door the following day, I noticed a bench across the narrow, brick paved road. It was vacant, and gave a perfect view of the metal door. It would be the perfect spot to conduct a little stakeout. I perched upon the bench, seating myself inconspicuously on the right side. The metal armrest gave me the perfect opportunity to appear nonchalant as I scrolled through my phone without purpose. My eyes would shoot up as crowds of people walked by the door, waiting for anyone to open it and walk in. After dozens upon dozens of pedestrians walked by without so much as acknowledging the yellow eyesore, I felt my curiosity burning. There had to be someone, anyone who worked at this so-called “active construction site.” After another half hour of sitting and waiting, and losing count of the pedestrians who walked by without entering, I’d begun to grow impatient. In the whole span I’d sat in that seat, from 10am to 12pm, not a single person entered or exited the door. Yet, I could still hear sounds coming from inside. A repetitive hammering of metal beating against metal coupled with those inconceivable sounds that had no place in the English language. What was in there? How were the people getting in and out? Was there a second door that I didn’t know about? Yeah, that had to be it. There was just a second door. If I went around to the other side of the building I’d find a metal door, probably the same color with the same sign. So I walked. I circled the block, going from Fourth Street, where I’d been posted up, over to Fifth. As I walked halfway down the block, estimating where the adjacent door might be, I was met with a brownish-red brick. No door. No, no, no this couldn’t be. This can’t be possible. There has to be somewhere for people to get in. Somewhere for them to get out. The door couldn’t exist without ever opening. The thought raced across my mind that, perhaps in the time I’d spent walking the block, a handful of people had entered or exited. Perhaps I was missing it! “No!” I shouted, bolting down the street through crowds of pedestrians. I received concerned glances, furrowed eyebrows, and mumbled curses as I pummeled my way through the groups of people. When I finally found my way back to the door, I hesitated. I didn’t know if I should be the one to tear it open. To be the one who discovers what is really going on. It felt as if I’d begun a descent into madness. My mind raced back and forth with possibilities. Perhaps it was just a construction site down there. Maybe I’d open the door just to find a crew of greasy men in white tank tops and yellow hard hats smashing away at something with sledgehammers. But what if it was more? What if whatever was down there was some sort of secret begging to be revealed. The Illuminati’s secret base of operations, or the remnants of the UFO crash in Roswell, New Mexico all those years ago. It was my civic duty to make it known to the world! I grasped the handle, smooth and cool in my hand, and slowly depressed it. As it fell in a counterclockwise motion until it was perpendicular to the ground, my heart began speeding. Blood rushed rapidly through my veins and caused my face to begin burning, ever so slightly. A bead of sweat formed on my brow. Anticipation and anxiety gripped me and my breathing became shallow. I pulled the door. “No...” I said, in utter defeat and disappointment. “No, no, no... NO!” I’d begun to shout, attracting the attention of passers-by. The constant drumming of metal on metal had grown louder, but what was on the other side of that door was nothing more than a brick wall. An identical brick wall to the one over on Fifth. That door that I’d grown so curious of was nothing. Upon closer examination I’d found that it was simply leaning against the wall, not attached to anything. It wasn’t at all possible. It couldn’t be. I could hear that droning. The sounds of people murmuring those strange consonants playing in my ears. A group of teens walked by, mumbling to themselves. The sounds seemed so familiar. They were like distant echoes of strange syllables that didn’t quite make words. I had no clue what was going on. Why were they talking like that? I needed to know. “Excuse me,” I said, stepping in front of the boy who led the group. He was a bit off-put, staring at me in contempt. Then I heard a sudden and extremely loud POP. I winced as the high pitched squeal echoed through my head. I grabbed at my ears, covering them tightly in an attempt to halt the static noise that accompanied the pop. I turned my gaze back toward the teen as he looked to his friends, appearing to mouth something followed by a silent laugh. His friends joined in. “What is going on?!” I shouted, unable to comprehend. Another group approached from behind me, silent. As an older man put a hand on my shoulder I jumped, startled by his sudden appearance. I stepped back, pressing myself against the wall as he silently mouthed words to me. Was I going crazy? Had I finally lost it? He pulled out his cell phone and dialed something, looking at me as he spoke on his phone. The words were void of any sound now. There weren't even the strange groans I’d been hearing before. All sound seemed to be absent. After a few minutes, I saw red flashing lights approaching. An ambulance. Two men jumped from the front cab, removing a small case as they hurriedly came toward me. Their mouths moved silently, and I assumed they were asking questions. I simply returned with a gesture of pure confusion, shrugging my shoulders and letting my jaw hang open, dumbfounded. They looked at each other, exchanging a look of disconcert before turning back toward me. One man, a burly guy with stylish hair, approached holding a medical tool. An otoscope, as I’d learned it was called. He placed the hammer-like tool in my ear. After removing it he looked at me and slowly, exaggeratedly mouthed the words “Can you hear me?” I shook my head. He nodded before removing a small memo pad from his breast pocket. He pulled a pen as well and scribbled something down. “Sudden deafness.

Olivia woke up to the bright sun peeking through her half-opened blinds. She yawned as she sat up in bed and drowsily looked at the clock on her bedside table. It read 7:22 am. She took the sun’s early greeting as a welcome into the new year. Today was New Year's day. The realization struck Olivia and she rushed to get ready for work. For Olivia and Seek For the Better You, the company she worked for, New Year’s Day was the most important and busiest day of the year. She had completely forgotten about the early start time they had implemented to try and fit in as many people as they could and she silently prayed she wouldn’t be too late. Seek For the Better You, also known as S4BU, was a company dedicated to help people break their bad habits, find their true calling, and ultimately leave behind their unwanted and unenjoyable lives. Olivia could understand why the first day of the new year would bring the most customers. People used the new year as a fresh start. Most who came in looking to start a new life had been wanting to for a while and used the arrival of the new year as their final push. S4BU’s large white building loomed over Olivia, mocking her 10 minute late arrival as she rushed inside. She swerved a disheveled small woman who was standing inside the front entrance, oblivious to Olivia’s hasty entrance. She hopped in the elevator and set the destination for floor 3. As she traveled up, the glass elevator revealed a very full waiting room on the second floor. It’s what Olivia was expecting, but the large crowds of people guaranteed her a long and tiring day. The elevator door smoothly slid open and Olivia wasted no time heading to her boss’s office to apologize for her tardiness. She politely knocked and her boss, Miriam, called her in. When Olivia entered her boss’s organized and brightly lit office, she saw that Miriam didn’t look annoyed or mad, but exhausted. “I’m so sorry for how late I am,” Olivia blurted out. “I totally forgot about our early start-” Olivia was cut off by a wave of Miriam’s hand in the air. “It’s alright, Olivia. Your first customer should be waiting in your office as I told him you should be in soon,” Miriam quietly said. Olivia realized Miriam must’ve had a lot to deal with already that morning and she thanked Miriam and excused herself. She anxiously headed over to her office wondering who her first customer would be. The people who came to S4BU consisted of every possible type of person. There were young people in their early 20s and 30s who had no idea what to do with their lives and were seeking to find a purpose, there were those in their 40s and 50s who hated their careers and life choices and wanted a fresh start, and then there were those in their 70s and 80s who had lost a great amount and wanted something in their life to look forward to and to live for. The age limit of 18+ prevented youngsters from coming in. Olivia understood that it was because they were still legally under their parents supervision and needed to follow their rules, but she felt sorry for those who were born into a rough family environment and had to wait to change the bad hand they were dealt in life. She opened the door to her familiar office to see a large burly man sitting in front of her desk, his back to her as she walked through the door. “Good morning,” Olivia said to the man as she sat behind her desk. “Sorry I’m late. Let’s not waste any more time. You can go ahead and tell me why you’re here and I can outline the different ways we can go about finding a proper solution to your problem.” The man introduced himself as Bartholomew and his southern accent was strong as he explained the reason he was there. He took his time explaining his life as a farmer and how his constant working diminished his chances at finding love. “I really only became a farmer because my father was one, but I am not a fan let me tell you. Those long hot days, the constant prayer for rain, and lastly nobody really wants to marry a farmer. So I guess I just want to start over. Find a career I really want and give myself another chance at love.” Olivia nodded at the man and smiled kindly. She found it adorable that this huge rough looking man was so keen on finding true love. “Well the good news is this sounds like we can find an effective solution. I’m going to give you a few aptitude tests to find out what career would best suit you and I’ll do some research on great programs and groups you can join to meet new people who are also looking for a life long partner.” Bartholomew grinned at Olivia, his chipped front teeth not quite reaching his bottom set of teeth. “Thank ya so much! I am greatly appreciative of you and your patience.” “Of course!” Olivia said smiling. “I will send these tests off with you and once you send them back we can set up another meeting and hopefully you can start anew.” Olivia walked the man out and sat back down once he left her office. She smiled to herself. Bartholomew was a very kind man and although he was very chatty, it was a good start to the morning. The morning slowly turned into afternoon as Olivia worked with many different people, helping them through their life problems and offering them solutions to the various situations they were in. Olivia did not have a break from her appointments for 3 straight hours. And after her 50 minute break she was met with another endless stream of meetings. The clock hit 6 and Olivia received a message from Miriam telling her she had one last appointment. She looked up as a hunched over figure rushed through Olivia’s open office door and took a seat on the plush wooden seat. Olivia sat up in her seat and eyed the small person. They were wearing a large jacket, the hood pulled over their head. “Hello how can I help you today?” Olivia asked. She was a little suspicious of the strange figure, but she wanted to quickly get through this last appointment and go home. The person looked up at Olivia and she realized it was the woman she had almost run into in the lobby early that morning. “Ok well...” The woman paused and glanced nervously around the room. “Do you record these conversations? Or- can anyone hear me?” The small woman looked down at her hands, unable to meet Olivia’s eyes. “They are not, no. It’s a part of our mission statement to protect our customer’s privacy,” Olivia answered. She was even more suspicious of the strange woman, but this was not the first time a customer was hesitant about sharing their life story. “Mhm, ok.” The woman nervously shifted in her seat. “Listen,” the woman whispered, finally looking at Olivia. She motioned for her to lean in closer. “I’ve done some... not so great things,” she said, still whispering. “I’m... well... I mean.” She sighed. “I’m running from the police and I need you to help me change my identity or do something because I have a wonderful daughter at home who I’m not going to leave. And I’m not going to jail. So that’s why I’m here.” She leaned back in her chair and breathed out a sigh of relief. Olivia squinted her eyes at the lady and pursed her lips, thinking. “Well, that is certainly the... uh... the problem you have there.” Olivia had never had to deal with a fugitive before, but she was fully aware of the rules against aiding in anything illegal or withholding any illegal information from the company and ultimately the police. Olivia did feel for the woman, who mentioned she had a young daughter she needed to take care of. “Have you thought of putting your child in foster care and then turning yourself in? This might give you a chance of receiving a lesser sentence or punishment.” “I’m not leaving my daughter!” The woman practically shouted at Olivia, but immediately put her hand over her mouth. She took a deep breath before speaking again. “She’s so young, and she needs me! No matter what, I’m not putting her in some sketchy adoption center and allowing for the possibility of some horrible family to get a hold of her. Just- please. Please help me.” The woman quickly swiped at the tears that had begun to silently roll down her thin face. Olivia quickly typed something into her computer and scanned the results and nodded at the screen before turning back to the woman. “Ok,” she said. “There’s this very underground organization I know of. They may be able to help you. Give you somewhere to hide, take care of your child, and help give you a new identity so that the police can’t find you. It’s risky, but I believe they will be successful at helping you.” Olivia passed a small piece of paper over to the woman, an address and other important information scribbled on the front. The woman stared at Olivia and thanked her over and over again. Olivia just smiled. “It’s the least I can do.” The woman thanked Olivia again as she left the office. Olivia went home more exhausted than she thought she would be. It was tiring being a partial therapist, partial life counselor, and partial business woman all in one. The endless people’s lives she had tried to fix in one day was a great feat and was not something to be taken lightly. She was also not proud of what she had done to help the fugitive who had bravely entered Olivia’s office, desperate to find any possible way to not abandon her daughter. Although it went against the company’s strict rules, she had done what she felt she had to. She would probably never find out if it was indeed the right choice or not, but she felt in her heart that it was. That night, Olivia reflected back on all the appointments she had. All the people who had wanted to start anew, to leave their old lives behind, and who wanted to find their purpose in this confusing game called life. She was thankful she was able to help them, to play a part in their journey to a new successful life. Olivia knew this was her purpose and she slept peacefully that night knowing she had helped so many turn from their old habits and lifestyles and change for the better.

The Migration Patterns of the Great Northern Pine Cabin Demetri spotted the 2 men in black wool suits at the bottom of his exceptionally long footpath leading to his house on the top of his exceptionally steep hill. Demetri estimated it would take them 45 minutes to reach his porch, where he had a pitcher of iced tea waiting for both of them. The two men in identical wool suits were men only in that their identical ID badges read Mr. Eric Carter. Unrelated, the two Eric Carters both found employment at Mooney Regional Bank as property adjusters. Both were lanky, with a strong brow line. Mister Eric A Carter had a much fairer complexion, and striking blue eyes. Mister Eric C Carter’s distinguishing characteristics were dark bristly overgrown eyebrows. Both Mister Eric A Carter and Mister Eric C Carter arrived exhausted at the stoop of Demetri’s cabin. Demetri stood with a sly smile and motioned noiselessly for them to help themselves to the tea. Both quickly downed a glass and poured themselves another. “Mr. Guster, I a-” Started Eric A. “Demetri, Call me Demetri.” “Demetri”, Eric A started again, “I am Eric A Carter, and this is my associate Mister Eric C Carter. We are here from the Mooney Regional Bank. Are you aware of the government's plan to install radio towers on this very hill? We can offer you a very attractive compensation pack-” “Let me stop you right there sonnie. I ain’t leavin for nothin so just give it a rest.” Eric C sat sipping slowly at his tea, avoiding having to say anything at all. Eric A tried again, “Mr. Jeremy said you would say as much. But me and Eric here have come up with a plan where you get to stay on your land. And the radio towers get to be built. The radio towers really only need to occupy the top of the mountain. Where your cabin stands now. If we demolish the cabin and build the towers, we are willing to purchase you your very own mobile home to place at the bottom of the mountain still on your very own property sir. What do you say to that Demteri.” “Have you studied the migration patterns of the great northern pine cabin?” “Well no sir I can’t say I have. But I fail to see the rele-” “The great northern pine cabin is a domicile constructed across North America. It can be built by one man in one year working hard every single day. Thousands of men have used the timbers of the Great Northern Pine forests to do exactly that.” “I see sir. And I take it you are one of those men?” “No. I am three of those men.” “I don’t follow.” “I’ve built this house three times.” “I see.” “No. You don’t see nothing sonnie. Do you have any idea what it took to build this cabin? To do it again, and again. To drag the timbers one by one up this God forsaken mountain.” “Well, no sir. I guess I don’t. But if you don’t like climbing up this mountain, why not move to the bottom like we suggest sir.” “Now there’s a bright idea! Don’t build a log cabin at the top of this damned hill! This ain’t my first rodeo boy. Like I said, I’ve built this cabin three times. “Can I ask what happened to the first two?” “The first cabin I built from white spruce. I bought the nails, a saw, and an axe at Seneca Trading Post. It took me two years truth be told to make the place truly liveable. But my wife didn’t mind. That cabin lasted until my daughter’s fifth birthday. That spring, floods washed it off its foundation and tore it to pieces.” “Sorry to hear that Sir, but modern mobile homes are built to b-” “So that night I started dragging the remaining logs of this cabin higher up this cursed mountain. Just below the tree line. I built the walls thicker and deeper, with an added attic space. We lived there happy for another 4 years.” “Glad it had a happy endi-” “That summer, a forest fire took my wife’s life and most of this cabin with it.” “I see sir.” “So I dragged the remaining logs higher still, to the peak we rest on now boys. And built this cabin for me and my daughter. It’s built deep into solid stone, far from the woods where danger could harm my family. And it’s walls are a foot thick to keep the winter cold at bay.” “I am sure your hard work was certainly appreciated by your daughter. Happy it all worked out for the be-” “My daughter died that summer from typhus.” “I see sir.” “Demetri, why don’t you just sell the land and go live comfortably somewhere far away from these troubling memories” offered Eric C Carter just now regaining the faculty of speech. “Erics, I’ve spent my life working against the grain. This mountain has kicked my ass for forty years. But I am still here, and this cabin is still here. I’ve fought flood, fire, and pestilence to sit on my porch and enjoy this cup of tea. The grass may be greener, but the sweetest tea is at the top of the mountain.

The pain was intense. As my driver pulled into the gravel driveway, I adjusted my position and winced. "Is everything alright, Miss Daniels?" said my driver, Weston. "Yes," I said. "I'm fine." Weston sighed. "Very good, miss. What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?" "I'll call you," I said, as I slammed the car door with my good arm. As I carefully made my way up the drive, I saw a white farmhouse with black shutters. I heard the front door slam, and a woman in her sixties jogged up to me and pulled my overnight bag out of my good hand. "Mercy!" she said, as she stopped for a moment and stared at the cloud of dust from the car. "Why did your man peel out of the drive like that? Did you two have a fight?" Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. "That's just Weston, my driver. He forgets how to drive sometimes." The woman's mouth hung open, just a little, and I saw that she had a cheap metal filling on the back of her right molar. "Oh," she said. "Well, you know men. Most of them don't know their rear ends from a hole in the ground." I laughed politely, and my new friend smiled. "Welcome to Blue Bate's Bed and Breakfast," she said. "My name is Twila." "Nice to meet you," I said, shaking her right hand with my left. "Is somethin' wrong with your right shoulder?" said Twila. "No, why do you ask?" I said. "Nothin' she said, as she rested my bag on her shoulder. "It's just that my husband, Ralph, was a doctor and he always said that you could tell a shoulder injury, down to the side, by the angle of a person's walk." "That's fascinating," I said. "Did Ralph pass away recently?" Twila's eyelid twitched. "How did you know that?" "Lucky guess," I said. "Right," she said, narrowing her eyes. "I'll show you to your room, then." I smiled. "That would be lovely," I said. ***** The door creaked open, and I smelled my new digs before I could see them. Mildew and rust, mixed with eau de manure. Great. Twila laughed, a singularly displeasing sound. "Is the room not to your likin'?" she said. I looked around and took stock. A shabby but serviceable bed was in one side of the room, and a large fireplace was located on the opposite wall. "It'll do," I said. "Does the fireplace work?" My hostess smiled through gritted teeth. "I just cleaned it myself this morning," she said. "You won't have to worry about a smoke smell on those designer clothes of yours, if that's what you're thinkin' about," she said. "Good," I said. "Great. As a matter of fact, I'd like to freshen up before dinner. Would you put my bag on the bed?" Twila muttered something under her breath, but placed my Prada bag gently atop the bed pillows. "Dinner's at 7 o'clock sharp ," she said. "I hope you like cornbread." I sighed, and lightly massaged the back of my neck. "It's my favorite," I said, "but like I said, I really want to take a shower before dinner." Twila's face softened. "Awww, you must really be tired. You take a nice shower or bath, and I'll have some hot food ready for you when you come down." I nodded eagerly, and closed the door behind the proprietor of the Blue Bates Bed and Breakfast. As I heard the sound of her steps fade away, I flung open the bathroom door and ripped the bandage off of my right shoulder. In the mirror, I noticed that yellow fluid was leaking from the wound. "Fuck," I said. I slowly opened my overnight bag with my left hand, and injected myself with enough cortisone to kill a horse. As the drug took effect, I took a hot shower (as hot as I could stand it) and laid down on the bed. As I fell asleep, I made a mental reminder to call Weston on my cell. I doubted the B and B had wifi. "Hey," said a kind voice. I coughed. "Is that you, God?" I said. There was a soft chuckle in response. "No, silly Billy, it's me," said Twila. "I brought your food upstairs on a t.v. tray that I used to use for Ralph, when he was sick. I hope you don't mind." "What time is it?" I said. "Never you mind," said Twila. "I can see you're sick and in pain, plain as day. Have somethin' to eat first, and then I'll be more than happy to tell you the time." I started to protest, but my new caretaker interrupted. "Eat first," she said, pointing to a dish of roast pork. "Talk later." My stomach growled, and Twila smiled. I reached for a spoon. "No, no, sweetie," she said. "You'll want the fork and knife for that pork." I grabbed the spoon, and drove it into her eye. "No, no," I said, gasping for breath. "I want the spoon. Easier to catch you off guard that way." Twila fell to the floor, clawing at her face. Blood and viscous fluid ran onto the wood. "That's going to be hard to clean up," I said, "but I am relieved that you don't have carpet." I grabbed the quilt from the bed--I believe in cleaning up as I go--and felt a white hot stab of pain in my right shoulder. "Oww," I said, as I whirled back around, screaming. "That really hurts, Twila!" "Goo!" she slurred. Then she fell to the ground and I heard the satisfying sound of a skull cracking. An empty vial of cortisone gently fell out of her hand, and I picked it up. "I really wish you had put up more of a fight," I said, as I fished my phone out of my trusty black bag. "Makes me feel less guilty about killing you." I called Weston. "Hello," I said. "I need to change the pick-up time. Can you be here at 3 am? Also, please call our client and tell her that the work is finished." "Excellent," said Weston. "She'll be very glad to know. How is your shoulder, and how did you get that injury? I am curious, you know." "I accidentally shot myself in the shoulder," I said. "Are you happy? I fucking shot myself in the shoulder." "That's what I thought," said my old friend, laughing. "I'll be there as soon as I can." ***** Weston and I watched the last of the blood swirl down the bathtub drain, and I gave the area one last swipe of bleach. "I think we've got everything clean," I said. "I'll check the rest of the house, one last time, to make sure." "Do you hear that?" said Weston. "Hear what?" I said. "Would you help me carry these trash bags? They are heavy, and I can't carry them by myself right now." "I know," said Weston. "If we had cut up the body like I said, instead of burning it in the fireplace, the bags would be lighter." "No," I said, shaking my head. "You're mistaken. Ash is always lighter than the human body." "Would you shut up for one second?" said Weston. "I will not," I said. In that moment, we both heard it--the faint but distinct sound of a human voice. "Shit," I said. "It's coming from the basement." ***** "I still can't believe Ralph was chained up in the basement," said Weston. "Really?" I said. "I can. Twila was a textbook sociopath. I'll bet she even tortured small animals as a child." Weston rolled his eyes. "You didn't torture small animals as a child." "Yes, but my father was a sociopath and taught me to be one. I am a different kind of creature, so to speak." "Exactly, Miss Daniels." "Are you being sarcastic, Wes?" I said. "Don't call me Wes," he said. Just then, there was a loud thump from the trunk. "Don't you think our client will be a bit upset that her beloved grandfather is in the trunk of our car?" said Weston. I thought for a moment. "No," I said. "She'll be happy that he's alive and well." "Right," said Weston, the man that I love. "I certainly hope that you are correct." "I am," I said. "I'm always right." "And you always have to have the last word," smiled Weston. "Yes," I said. "I do."

Alone, she watches the water flow over her cave dwelling. This cave has been her home her entire life and the small forests and cliff that surround her are the only world she’s ever known. She gets up and begins to walk alongside the flowing river as she has done 1000 times before. She’s lined the river with different edible plants that she was able to find foraging. Outside of the occasional bird or fish this has been her main sustenance. As she walks she picks a few different fruits for breakfast. She follows the river all the way down the 2 mile path she knows by heart and arrives at the falls. She looks over and sees no bottom, nothin but mist and fog. She looks around, the landscape etched in her memory. Cliffs surround her, and for all but the falls it is a harrowing and impossible fall, no where to climb and no way to jump. She thinks to herself that she could be happy with life above the falls. That she has everything she needs and lives a life of peace, she doesn’t need more. For the first time in a long time a stabbing thought, a jaded memory comes to the front of her mind, her as a young child laughing with her parents sitting on a soft bed. She can’t remember her parents or anyone else well. She can’t remember a time where she was not by herself and not responsible for herself. She still questions how reliable this thought is, it’s the only memory that ever comes to mind, how does she know these people are her parents? How does she know they were with her here? There was no trace of them, has she always been alone on this island? Do other people exist? She has nothing more than a feeling, a yearning, to go on, but lately the fire inside her seems to be growing and pushing her to find out if there is more out there. She takes another look out on the horizon and turns around to walk back towards her cave. With each step she begins to feel more sick and upset. By the time she is back she breaks down crying. She looks at the cave wall by where she sleeps and sees the picture she has drawn using berries, a crude drawing but none the less effective, her present day sitting with the two people from her memory. In that moment she realizes that she needs that as much as food or water. She can’t live another day without anyone to share it with. At this moment she decides she’s going over the falls. She spends the entire night foraging for anything she can find that may be useful -food, sticks leaves, anything. She builds what she can of a bucket and raft over the next few days testing it in her small, calm part of the river. Once one was able to hold her afloat she loaded it up with everything she had and walked with it alongside the river holding it upright with a long stick. When she made it to the falls she looked once more out and looked for resolve within herself. A reason to not do what she was about to, a doubt, but any semblance of one was gone. She jumped into her make-shift raft and floated toward the falls. The river rages and almost immediately flips her over, but she holds on and gains a balance squating on the raft. She tied everything down best she could with leaves and branches and she held them as secure as she could. She used a large trunk to steer her way away from rocks and towards the center of the falls, she figured this would be the place with potentially the deepest and most clear bottom when, if, she lands in water below. She moves closer to the edge, her heart now racing. She closes her eyes and dreams one more time about a life with people she loves. She opens her eyes, she is inches away from the falls. She looks out to the horizon and sees what looks to be artificial lights in the distance.

“Look!” A man shouts from the tightly packed crowd, pointing towards me. “The Antichrist!” “Oh sweet Mother!” A woman moans, holding her face in her hands. “How horrible! How unholy!” Another man screams. I look from them to my pale hands, my doughy arms, my faded black pants and shirt, my shoes that were bought five years ago on clearance, then back to them. “So, um... Yeah. Hi.” “Oh God!” A few scream as they sprint away. I watch as they scurry like packed rats down the street, turn at the corner, and disappear behind a row of brick buildings. After a while, there’s nothing but silence, stillness. The clouds drift in reverse here, and there’s no sun, at least not one I can see. The four-way I stand in is empty, trash blowing in the breeze, cluttering the water drains. “What the hell am I supposed to do here?” I ask myself, aloud. I shrug, and start down the road. There’s shuttered shops and dingy buildings that have rooms for rent, there’s trashcans spilling their contents onto the sidewalks, there’s towering tan brick churches at almost every corner, though there seems not many people live here; there’s so many things of the same that I wonder if I hadn’t just been dropped in another town in the same world than a parallel one. “Hey!” I turn to the voice. It’s a short teenager huddling in an alley. He’s wearing camo shorts and a white t-shirt, and carrying a broken bat. “What?” I ask. “Are you the Antichrist?” I raise my hands, let them fall. “I suppose so.” “You don’t look like the son of the Devil.” “Not many people look their part either.” “What’s that mean?” he asks, stepping out of the alley. “Doesn’t matter. What do you want?” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I was bored.” “We all are, but not everyone talks to strangers. Didn’t your parents tell you not to do that?” He shook his head, nearing me, stopping at the end of the sidewalk. He rocks on his feet. “Nah, I don’t have those.” “Sure you do; everyone does.” “Well if do,” he says, “I never met them.” I look at my hands, move my fingers. I feel something coursing within, like a dull warmth. Maybe there’s something in me after all? “Would you like to meet them?” His eyes go wide, the grip on his bat tightens. “You can do that?” “Maybe,” I say, “or I can at least try.” The teenager bites his bottom lip, moving his head from left to right, and eventually nods. “Yeah, I guess, at least once.” “All right.” I walk over to him and grip his wrists. “This might not work and it might hurt a bit, but I’ll try. Now close your eyes.” Hesitant, but the boy obeys. I do, too, and focus on the warmth, focus on fanning the flames. It grows and overwhelms my arms, washes over my chest and fills my body. I smell burnt hair, charred hot dogs. There’s a whooshing sound and the ground is gone and I feel air wafting against my legs. Then, there’s solidness beneath my feet and I open my eyes. “Fuck,” I say. We’re in Hell. The Hell. Brimstone stretches forever into the distance before being overtaken by mountains that scratch the sulfur sky. Fire erupts from fissures in the ground, moans and groans echo through the air. Smell of piss and shit and rot stings my nostrils. “Tony?” “Anthony?” The teenager opens his eyes, shakes my hands away and moves around me. I turn. There’s a man and a woman in tattered clothes with scorched flesh and burnt away hair. The man is missing an eye, the woman an arm, but they look similar to the boy. “Is that you, son?” the man asks. I hear the teenager sniffle, his chest hitch. “Da-- dad? Mom?” “Oh Lucifer!” the mother shouts before oily tears stream down her face. Al three of them embrace, and another type of warmth fills me and something stings my eyes. I wipe the fiery tears away quickly. No one needs to know the Antichrist can cry. If you enjoyed the story and want to read more of my work, visit my and consider subscribing.

A refreshing splash of cool water on my face, same time everyday, part of my early morning routine. Dabbing the towel to my face I looked in the mirror, is that a new wrinkle, or just a crease from the pillow? I leaned in for closer inspection, just a pillow crease. Not that another wrinkle would bother me, I am glad to have gotten to this age, against all odds, I survived. Funny how the reflection of my face in the mirror seems to change, I know over time I have aged, yet sometimes I still see all the younger versions of me looking back. The longer I stare, memories of all those years flood in. Good times, fun times, exhilarating times and occasionally the sad times. I often replay these events over and over, wondering, if it were possible to go back in time, knowing what I know now, would I do anything differently? If I did change anything, would it change anything about who I am today? I am glad it isn’t an option because I really like who I am today, I hold dear all the memories good and bad, all of them combined made me who I am. All those experiences taught me about life, people, and true value of living a happy and fulfilling life. Learning this took a lot of trial and error, emotional growth is just as much a part of life as aging is. I remember when I first realized that timing is everything and not everything negative that happens, has a negative outcome, like the time I got in my car to go to the bank, and it wouldn’t start. I was so mad, thinking ‘oh come on, not now I can’t afford car repairs. After 20 minutes of fiddling with the engine, it started and I went to the bank, as I pulled in the parking lot, I saw police cars every where. I found out that it had been robbed 15 minutes earlier. Wow, I thought, if my car had started the first time, I might have walked in on the robbery, I might have startled the bank robbers and got shot. This reality put me on a path of looking at situations and events differently. I started to view life from the bright side, almost like a mystery to solve, what ever was happening to me, I had to search for the why? What was I learning this time, were negative situations just annoying moments that were actually protecting me from horrible things? Sometimes I discovered yes, sometimes I never found out, but I continued viewing life as an adventure and mystery to solve, rather than negative. It made life less disappointing, like the time we put an offer in on a house we really wanted, but didn’t get, three months later we drove past it and it had burnt to the ground. Or the time my husband didn’t get the job he applied for and then two days later was offered his dream job, a job he didn’t even know was available at the time, they called him. One time I had forgotten to trust in timing, and of all days for my husband to be late getting home from work. (this was in the days before cell phones) I was in tears because our refrigerator broke, we couldn’t afford another one, anyways he entered the house to find me crying, I shouted where were you? He replied that he had stopped in at a friend’s house to see his new kitchen renovations. This upset me even more, here we were, no fridge and his friend was getting a new kitchen. I continued to cry and asked how big the kitchen was, to make him almost 2 hours late, he laughed and said, “well it took a while to load his old fridge in the truck. As it turned out, not only was his old fridge only 3 years old, but it was also my dream fridge, black, 2 door, freezer on the left, fridge on the right. He had replaced all the appliances with stainless steel versions. Over the years we have experienced hundreds of situations like this and for the most part, trusted in the timing instead of being frustrated. Time is a strange concept; it has many sayings that prove this. Time is money, time after time, time of your life, time waits for no one, time flies when you are having fun, time is the most valuable thing a man can spend, time is the wisest counselor of all, time is an illusion. There are dozens more but there is ones that stand out strongly for me are in reference to birth- IT’s TIME! and death, ‘It’s not my time.’ ‘gone before his/her time.’ I think these effect me so deeply because I have been surrounded by a multitude of births, as a labour coach and by deaths of many family members, as well as cheating death 3 times myself. Over the years I have seen the passing of both of my in-laws, both of my parents, my sister, and my youngest son. I noticed that when people speak of older ones passing, they say “it was their time” but for the young they say “gone before their time”. In my situation, each time the doctors said I was going to die, and I didn’t, people would say “I guess it wasn’t your time.” I always found these references to be odd, almost as if everyone had the exact amount of allotted time on the planet and didn’t stick to the plan. I see the reflection of the sun rise in the mirror now, another day has begun for me, I guess what I am trying to point out really is, that the time is now! Life isn’t short, it’s the longest thing you will ever do. Nobody knows how much time they have, but no matter how much time that is, make it time well spent. Learn about your life, the good times, the bad times and the weird times. You can not always control what happens in your life, but you control your attitude about it. So go ahead, enjoy your time on earth, do all the things you want to do, don’t be concerned about the destination, it’s all about the journey. Don’t be concerned about what others think, as long as you are not harming anyone, just do what makes you happy. The only one who can see the whole reflection in the mirror, is You.

In the fall of 1996, I was on the cross-country team. Before each race, the team would warm up by running the course. During one such run, I was forced to stop because I almost shit my pants. The key word here is almost. In my youth, I knew not to test fate, so I turned back around leaving my team and headed straight for the restroom. The toilets were metal and disgusting, but beggars can’t be choosers. I immediately exploded when I sat down, and I knew right then and there that I would be dropping out of the day’s race. My team, my family, and my friends were counting on me to finish--like always--dead last. Would they be disappointed if I weren’t closing out the race? When I finally emerged from the bathroom, my team (and their families) were waiting for me. Apparently, the story had gotten mixed up, and they were all under the impression that I had actually--in actual fact--shit my pants. There was nothing I could say to make them see it my way. Needless to say, there were jokes. These jokes continued the following week at school when everyone was telling the story. “Troy shit his pants and couldn’t run.” “Hey, Speed Racer, did you shit your pants?” “Keep on walkin’ Shit Pants.” Then, about a month later at the Fall Sports Banquet, I received the Most Improved Award. Now, you might be thinking, “Most Improved? I thought he always got last place.” Well, by the end of the season, I was no longer last. There were usually one or two people right behind me trying to steal my spotlight. As my coach was delivering his introduction of my award, he regaled the audience with the mixed-up version of the story, the one where I actually--in actual fact--shit my pants. So while everyone was red-faced and laughing so hard they were crying, I had to get up in front of all of them and accept my “Depends Award”--my coach’s nickname for it. A very pleasant experience. The truth is on that fateful autumn morning, I didn’t shit my pants. I just sharted a little. &#x200B; \* \* \* &#x200B; In the year 2000, I had gained a little weight after graduating high school. I was a little chunky, not super chunky, but enough to make my belly button talk. So in January of 2001, I decided to start running again. By the summer of 2001, I was full-blown OCD about it, running 5 miles six days a week. One summer day, I began my run like any other day. My course was a 2.5 mile run away from my house. About a mile in, I started to feel a little weird, but as any runner will tell you, stopping is out of the question. As the road straightened out, I noticed a group of guys riding four-wheelers on the old railroad tracks that were parallel to my course. No big deal. Common practice. At the 2-mile mark though, I started to feel cramps--I had been here before. Then, as I was just about as far away from my house as humanly possible, it happened: full-blown bubble guts. I tried to remain calm, but my body wasn’t having it. Why had it come on so fast? Was this some kind of karmic retribution? What had I done? I tried turning around and running back, but I realized very quickly that my colon could not hold its contents at that speed. So I tried walking briskly. Nope. Still about a mile and a half from home, I began getting hot flashes and goose bumps. This was going very, very badly. I was not prepared for this digestive incursion. Some immediate decisions had to be made, and I was not emotionally prepared to make such decisions. What should I do? What could I do? I was already clenching cheeks, tip-toeing on the side of the road like some cartoon bad guy. I could barely take another step. Should I go in my shorts? What if it leaks out and runs down my leg? Everyone driving by will see, and they’ll think, “I knew he really shit his pants that day. ‘Almost,’ my ass.” I decided that my only option was to go in the bushes. Wiping logistics would have to be determined later. I waited for all the cars to pass, then ran off the road and over to the train tracks. I looked around, saw that the coast was clear, then squatted down over some rocks. I’ll spare the details, but just know that the details were very messy...very hot and very messy. Only once I was relieved of my burden did I remember the guys riding four-wheelers just 20 minutes earlier. What if they came back? This operation would be compromised. I don’t know if I could escape fast enough. If I pulled up my pants too fast, I’d have shit all over my back. And what would they say? “Shit Pants is at it again.” “My God, he can’t stop himself.” “Look at ‘im. Just squattin’ there. Little pervert.” Getting caught was not an option. I couldn’t survive it socially. The anxiety set in, but I still had to figure out how to wipe. Should I use my underwear and just leave them there? What if they could be traced back to me? I grabbed some leaves and prayed to God that it wasn’t poison ivy or poison oak. I’ve never wiped so fast and so unthoroughly in my life. I pulled my pants up, checked for passing cars, and when no one was around, I ran back out to the road and walked home as if nothing had happened. When I got inside, I threw my underwear and shorts away, then got in the shower and rinsed off. I was an animal that day. &#x200B; \* \* \* &#x200B; For years I was fine. Life was good. That is, until yesterday. For the last month, I have run/jogged/walked a five-mile course two or three times a week. Yesterday, I decided that I would run once it cooled down. I figured 6 pm would be good. It would be cool enough, but the sun would still be out. Last time I ran at night in San Pedro, two men--on two separate occasions--swung at me as I ran past them from behind. One of them even said, “What the hell?” as he swung. Apparently, in San Pedro if you are running toward someone at night, you don’t have good intentions. I also had to make sure I got past a certain spot in the bushes by the beach while the sun was still out. That is not a place where I want to frolic in the dark. Last time I was there, the city was doing construction, and I saw a woman with a stroller go into the bushes down the very manicured dirt path (kind of like a little side park). I thought, “This gentle mother must know a way around the construction,” and I followed her only to realize too late that I had just been led into a homeless encampment/drug den trap by its supplier. That wasn’t a baby in that stroller. That was crystal meth. Thank God I had on running shoes because running is exactly what I did. I have no qualms about openly running from people. I do it all the time. Prior to yesterday’s run, I had drunk a total of 8 espresso shots and had eaten only a bowl of cereal, two hard-boiled eggs, and an apple with peanut butter. I didn’t consider the consequences. Years of peacetime had made me forget the scourges of my rectum. It wasn’t until right around the secret homeless encampment/drug den that I realized something was wrong. My insides started to twist; my mind started to panic. Again, I was at almost exactly the farthest point from my house. I decided that I had to just keep going. I only had to make it back. And, actually, that seemed to work for a little while. My future started to look brighter. Then 23rd street hit. I had been walking for a little while at this point, and I thought I would run a little more since I was only about a mile from home. After about 10 steps, I realized that running was now off the table. If I ran another step, I would dump. Up until this point in my life, I’ve never had to clench so tight. You know when you swallow air to make yourself burp? Well, it was kind of like that but heavier, considerably more miserable, and on the other end with a lot more fear and regret. A group of misfit teenagers were on the other side of the street. Two seemed to be arguing and the rest watching. Was a fight about to break out? As a teacher, I’m used to intervening in these situations, but a gang fight might be just the distraction I need if I suddenly find myself with shit running down my legs. With all the attention on them, I might be able to clean myself up with a sock or something before anyone notices. Maybe they’ll all get involved and it’ll really become a scene! However, much to my dismay, they stopped arguing and went on their way. I was left with 13 more blocks to go. My head down, my breath heavy, my pace quickening (as much as my clenched butt would allow), I charged on. Every few blocks or so, I would get a wave of severe cramps with the understanding that I could blow at any second. I thought maybe if I sat down it would help, but that was also chancy since my body might interpret that position as a command to release. So I kept going, wincing and whispering “Oh my God” over and over. About five blocks from my house, things got really serious. I walked over a piece of upended sidewalk (from tree roots) and the bubble guts came on so hard that I almost just let go, but this was not Bellaire-Neffs Road. There were no train tracks or bushes to hide in. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen out in the open for everyone to see. I pulled from deep down inside me. This will not be the day that I shit myself in public! I held it in as hard as I could knowing that I was probably causing irreparable bodily damage. My poor lower intestines. They don’t deserve this! Just a few blocks from my house, I walked--head down in full panic--past two men standing near their stoop. Judging by my demeanor, they knew something was wrong. What was that in their eyes? Sympathy? Disgust? I couldn’t dwell on such matters. I rounded the corner and arrived home. I entered the code to my building, ran up the stairs and into my apartment, and tore my shoes off. Side note: I just bought these shoes, and they are half a size too big. So in addition to battling a severe case of diarrhea, I also went running in essentially what might be described as Asics clown shoes. Needless to say, when I was finally on the toilet, something really, really special happened. I literally screamed when I finally let it go. And then I--out loud--thanked God for bringing me home to glory. &#x200B; Not again bubble guts, not again. &#x200B; P.S. Is this why they call it “the runs”? &#x200B; P.P.S.

It happened on Halloween. It was supposed to be my off day, but I ended up working a double shift because Tim and Nora both called out. They were the latest victims of a nasty stomach bug making the rounds at work, which we'd taken to calling the Panacea Plague. Tim and Nora were pharmacy technicians, so their calling out wouldn't normally affect me, but since the other two techs had just quit, Mike had no choice but to move Zach and Carla from cashier and photo to pharmacy, since they were the only cashiers with active tech licenses. From there, I suppose, he had no choice but to bombard my phone at six a.m. with frantic texts. Can you work nine to close? Frankie? Hey Frankie, just checking to see if you got my texts from earlier. Frankie?! I really wanted to tell him no. Halloween was my favorite holiday, and my daughter was finally old enough to enjoy the experience of trick-or-treating. Ever since mid-September, when the October schedule posted, I'd been anxiously awaiting what would surely be the best Halloween since I'd become a mother. If I closed my eyes tight enough, I could see it: After I dropped Lily off at daycare, I'd catch up on laundry while watching classics like Hocus Pocus and Bedknobs and Broomsticks and sneak a stash of pumpkin-shaped peanut butter cups and other premium candies before setting out a bucket of candy for trick-or-treaters. That afternoon, I'd surprise Lily's class with cupcakes for snack time, the kind from the grocery store bakery with too-tall swirls of orange and purple frosting decorated with plastic spider rings. From there, I would go home to change into more festive attire while Lily's dad Drew picked her up, took her to his condo, and helped her get into costume. Then, we'd meet in a neutral neighborhood to trick-or-treat together. As a family, for lack of a better word. But the truth was that I couldn't afford to say no to a twelve-hour shift. Not after I had lost half a week of work to my own bout of the Panacea Plague earlier this month. Being sick for three days shouldn't cause a financial crisis, but without paid sick time and a strict no-overtime policy, I just wasn't able to catch up. Late fees were rolling in, first on my credit card and then my student loans. I was getting dirty looks from the preschool director when I dropped Lily off at daycare because my portion of her tuition was late. Again. Not for the first time, I considered telling Drew how tight my finances were. I knew that he'd cover the full amount of daycare and give me whatever I needed to get caught up without batting an eye, because he'd done it before. Most recently when I was out of work for almost a month. But I didn't want to take advantage of his kindness, so I texted Mike back: Sure thing. See you at nine. I dragged myself out of bed and dug through the laundry hamper, on a quest to find the least dirty uniform shirt. I sprayed it down with Febreze, shook out the wrinkles, and hoped for the best as I tugged it over my head and tucked it into my last clean pair of khakis. After I'd gently shaken Lily awake and sent her stumbling bleary-eyed to the bathroom, I began the process of packing my lunch. After a moment of consideration, I pulled out my phone and called Drew. "Hey Frank," he said, picking up after just one ring. "Everything okay?" "Hey, Drew. Yeah, everything's fine." I cradled the phone between my ear and my shoulder, freeing up my hands to untwist the tie on the loaf of bread. "Sorry to call so early. I hope I didn't wake you." "Nah, I've been up since four." He stifled a yawn. "International sales meeting that could have absolutely been an email." "Ugh. That sounds awful." I cut a banana in half and peeled the yellow skin back so I could slice it into rounds. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm not going to be able to come trick-or-treating tonight.” I could feel Drew deflate in the silence that preceded, “What? Why not?” “Mike asked me to come in to work today. We’ve got several people out with the stomach bug again.” As I spread peanut butter on a piece of wheat bread, Lily appeared beside me and shifted her weight into my hip, a five-year-old’s halfhearted “I’m awake and not happy about it but I love you anyway” brand of hug. She’s changed out of her pajamas and dressed herself in black cat leggings and an orange dress featuring a family of ghosts. I leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head and pointed to the table, where a fried egg and a piece of toast with jam was waiting for her. “Can’t he ask someone else?” Drew asked, sounding indignant on my behalf. “Not really. There’s no one left to ask. Everyone else is sick.” Horrified, I realized I was crying, and the choking feeling in my throat was building quickly toward a sob. “This isn’t fair.” I winced at the unusual sharpness in Drew’s voice. “I know. I’m sorry to do this so last minute.” “Don’t be sorry. I’m not upset with you ,” he said. “I’m upset for you. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to this.” “Yeah.” I swiped at my eyes, knocking hot tears off my face before they could dry and make my cheeks tight and sticky. “Maybe we should just wait until tomorrow. I know several places downtown are doing trick-or-treat events.” “No way! I don’t want her to miss out on this because of me.” “Okay.” He hesitated. “Frankie, did you tell him you’d come in because you need the money? Because if that’s it, you know I can--” “We’ve talked about this, Drew. I don’t want to take money from you unless I absolutely need to. You cover Lily’s health insurance, and most of the daycare tuition, and your mom always buys her a lot of clothes when she sizes up...” “That’s all stuff for Lily. I’m asking if you need me to do anything. I care about you too, you know,” he said, an edge to his words that wasn’t there before. I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. This again. The conversation we always talked around but never quite allowed ourselves to have. Drew and I were friends long before we were co-parents. We met during an early orientation week at college, the summer before freshman year, where we and eight other incoming business majors familiarized ourselves with campus, registered for classes, and debated the eternal question: to rush or not to rush? (Both of us, for the record, decided not to rush.) It didn’t take long to realize that Drew had a crush on me. While the feeling was very much mutual, neither of us seemed eager to change the nature of our outwardly platonic relationship. And then, we went to a bonfire during fall midterms our senior year and let ourselves get tipsy enough to tell each other the truth. When I found out I was pregnant a few weeks later, he told me he loved me and asked me to marry him without skipping a beat. He was certain about me, so certain it scared me. I let him down as easily as I could, arguing that our baby deserved stability. Trying to build a new romantic relationship alongside raising a child seemed like to exact opposite of stable. I always expected we'd start dating once we got our footing after Lily was born, but it never seemed like the right time. Drew...didn't feel the same way. "Frankie. Please." The way he said my name, tender and full of promise, was too much for me to bear. "Listen, I've got to scoot if I'm going to get Lily to daycare before nine. Please take lots of pictures and text them to me, okay? I know you'll have a great time." Before Drew could protest, I'd disconnected the call and shoved my phone in my pocket. "Thank God you're here," Mike said. "Go open the other register please, I'm dying here." There were three people in line, none of them with more than two items. I looked at them, then back at Mike, trying to figure out if he was joking. The look he shot me confirmed he absolutely wasn't. "Sure thing. Just let me go clock in and take care of these," I said, holding up my wallet and keys. A flicker of annoyance passed over his face. "You still haven't set up ExpressLane yet?" ExpressLane was a new feature Panacea had introduced a few months ago. Employees were encouraged to download the Panacea Partners app, log in with their employee ID, and enable automatic timeclock events. There were sensors at the main entrance, which would clock you in or out depending on whether you were going or coming in. The break room and restroom had sensors too, although Mike and the corporate HR partners who'd visited on ExpressLane launch day assured us that those would only clock us in or out if we spent more than our allotted fifteen minutes of on the clock break time. Almost everyone else had signed up that very first day, and I was the last holdout. I was weirded out by how much information the app seemed to track, and the list of permissions it requested when I opened it the first time seemed way too long for a simple timekeeping app. Why did Panacea need access to my call history, my camera roll, my contacts just to clock me in and out? I didn't mind the few extra minutes it took to walk back to the locker room and punch in my code. By the time I made it back to the front of the store, the customer queue had evaporated and Mike was waiting by the main register with a fresh cash drawer. He glared at me as I walked behind the counter. "Took you long enough." He swiped his manager card to sign out and stepped back so I could sign in and swap the drawers. Once I was finished, he handed me a price gun. "Between customers, start marking down all the Halloween stuff by fifty percent. Candy, costumes, decorations, it's all going on clearance. Should have been done yesterday, but of course it wasn't." He walked away without waiting for a response. You're welcome for coming in on my only off day, I thought as I grabbed the price gun and headed for the seasonal aisle. I was surprised by how quickly everything Halloween-related cleared out. Before I took my lunch break at two, all of the costumes and decorations were gone and the only thing that remained was a few bags of B-list candy. Their only selling points seemed to be "big" and "nut-free." I snapped a picture and texted it to Drew once I got settled in the break room. If your condo association changes their minds about trick-or-treating last minute, we still have a few bags. Let me know if you want me to set them aside for you. A response buzzed in almost immediately. Haha. I don't think I need any more Halloween candy just yet. I'm still trying to work through all the rejects Lily left at my place. I frowned. What was he talking about? Lily had done a little trick-or-treat party earlier in the week at daycare, but she'd only brought applesauce pouches and organic fruit snacks home from that. Maybe this was a joke, one that didn't translate well over texting. I laugh-reacted to Drew's message and locked my phone. Unwrapping my sandwich, I noticed in dismay that the bread had molded. Like, really molded. It wasn't something I could have easily overlooked this morning, even if I'd been distracted by the conversation with Drew. These were quarter-sized splotches, dark blue covered in fuzzy white fibers. I swallowed back my disgust and peeled the sandwich open. The slices of banana were slimy and black, just shy of completely putrefied. With a shuddering gag, I tossed the entire thing in the garbage and started scrubbing my hands clean in the sink. Mike poked his head in the break room. "Hey Frankie, you on the clock?" "Will be in a few minutes." "Good. Once you're back, I need you to help Amy update the seasonal aisle. Inventory and planograms just came in. And Frankie?" I turned to look at him over my shoulder as I turned the water off. He was peering into the garbage can with a worried expression on his face. "Yeah?" "You really need to consider setting up ExpressLane, okay?" After Amy and I finished stocking the seasonal aisle with Thanksgiving decorations, I typed out another text to Drew. Thanks again for being cool with me working on Halloween. I appreciate it. He responded with a row of puzzled-looking emoji, followed by How many times are you going to apologize for that? It's fine. Around six-thirty, once I'd finally calmed down a customer who was downright irate that we didn't yet have Christmas items out in the seasonal aisle, Mike told me he could cover for the rest of the night if I wanted to leave early. "I kind of forgot you had a kid when I asked you to work until close," he said sheepishly. "Carla just reminded me. If you want to try and make it to trick-or-treating..." Tears welled up in my eyes. "Oh my God. Mike. Thank you. This is her first time trick-or-treating, and I was really bummed to have to miss it--" He held up a hand with an expression that said, I'm a nice guy, but don't push it. "See you tomorrow." I signed out of the cash drawer and handed it over, then sped walked to the break room to get my stuff and clock out. Mike's letting me off earl y!!!!! I texted Drew. That's great , he replied. Too bad he couldn't have let his heart grow three sizes on Halloween. I frowned. What was I missing here? Drew's texts hadn't made any sense today. My stomach rumbled and I remembered it had been twelve hours since I last ate. Low blood sugar must have affected my sense of humor more than I realized. Jennifer, one of the pharmacists, was talking to Mike at the cash register when I walked back through the store and toward the main entrance. She furrowed her brow in concern when she took in my bare arms. "Don't forget your jacket, hon," she said. "It's freezing out there." "Oh, is it?" I said with a frown. "I thought the overnight low was in the seventies today. Well, I have a sweatshirt in the car." "Frankie." Mike's face was grave when I looked up at him, and a strange feeling unspooled in the pit of my stomach. "Set up ExpressLane tonight, please." "You don't have ExpressLane yet?" Jennifer's eyes widened. "Yeah, you need to do that." "Okay... Well, I'm off to trick-or-treat with my daughter. See y'all tomorrow." Before either of them could say anything else, I walked through the doors directly into a blast of sleet. "Hey Drew," I said, trying not to sound panicky as I fastened my seatbelt. "So I'm leaving work and it's crazy cold. And stormy. Not at all the weather forecast I was expecting for today. Anyway, um. My car won't crank. So if you don't mind giving me a call when you get this... Yeah. I'd appreciate it." I ended the call and rubbed my hands together, desperately wishing for a blanket, a pair of gloves, anything to help shield me from the intensifying chill. Five minutes passed, then ten, then twenty, without a return call from Drew. I picked up my phone to see if I have any missed call notifications. I didn't, but that isn't what caught my eye. At the top of the screen, plain as day, my phone reads Fri, December 18 . After several restarts, my stubborn phone would still only display the incredibly fake and not at all real date. Since Drew wasn't calling me back, I didn't see how I had any other option but to walk back inside. Mike was waiting for me just inside the door, looking remarkably more tired than he was just half an hour ago. "Hey Frankie." "Hey. So listen, this is very weird and I'm not sure if you'll believe me--" "But when you left the store, it was way too cold and your car wouldn't start and your phone told you it was December 18th?" My eyes widened. "Um. Yeah. Something like that." Mike sighed and rubbed his forehead before reaching into his pocket and handing me a card. ExpressLane Expert Line, 1-888-555-3535. "Go back out to your car and call this number. They'll tell you what to do." "But I don't use Express--" "Believe me, I know," Mike said with a weary sigh. "Just call the number, Frankie." Thank you for calling the ExpressLane Expert Line, a partner with Panacea Pharmacies Incorporated. To get started, please state your employee number or enter it on the keypad. For assistance with setting up your Panacea Partner profile, press or say 1. To report an outage or other software issue, press or say 2. For assistance with a missing timeclock event or to report delayed timeline experience due to postponed ExpressLane integration, press or say 3. "Three. Three. THREE." I could have just pressed the button, I knew that. But after everything I'd been through today (this month?), it felt so much better to shout.

“Ah! Look who’s finally here!” Rodney looks over at you, smiling and getting Jack’s attention by nudging him with his elbow. Jack looked up from the book he was reading, an odd expression on his face. “Reader! Wasn’t expecting you, to be honest. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some time now, y’know. Jack stuck his hand out for a handshake, but hesitated. With a sheepish smile, he retracted his hand. “Sorry, I guess that’s not really possible, huh? With us not being physical and whatnot, I mean.” “We could always ask Author to write that we shook hands, but that’s not really the same thing, is it? But, really, it’s all unnecessary. We have things to discuss, so we shouldn’t waste our word count.” Rodney explained. He stood up from the brown leather accent chair, stretching his back. He wore a neat, brown suit with a stylish black tie. His hair was a dull red, slicked back with a bit of hairspray. A single strand had come loose, falling down across his forehead. His face was stern, thin eyes hidden behind thick framed glasses, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. His voice was loud and stern, not matching his appearance at all. “Author.” Rodney snapped, staring off at an empty corner. “Please, stop. No one wants to read lengthy descriptions of a character’s appearance. It's obvious you’re stalling for time.” “Come on Rodney, let her have this.” Jack interjected. “I’m sure Reader wants to know what we look like, don’t you think?” “As much as I trust in Author, I can’t have our story escape from us. Besides, it doesn’t matter what I look like. If Reader cares so much, they can make something up. We’re wasting words here. We have a limit if we want to be eligible for the contest.” “And when was the last time Cara got even close to reaching that limit?” Jack pointed out. “She’s barely even gone beyond 2,000 words, let alone 3,000.” Rodney placed a hand on his chest, taken aback. “Don’t you say her name so lightly!” “Oh, come on. They already know her name, it’s right up there. See?” Jack gestured to the top of the page. “No need to be so damn cagey.” “Still, we must use her proper title as a sign of respect. She created us, and she can just as easily abandon us. You must know of the many, many WIPs she hasn’t touched in mouths. You don’t want us to end up like that, do you?” A flash of genuine fear goes across Jack’s face. He tries to hide it by rolling his eyes. “Whatever, dude.” Jack gets up as well, tossing his book on to the coffee table. He was opposite to Rodney in many ways, from his more casual clothing to his softer facial features. His blond hair was long and messy, and the old sweater he wore was stained with something you couldn’t recognize. “Which is another way of saying she couldn’t think of anything.” Jack whispered to you. He felt a sudden, slight pain in the back of his head, as if he had been hit with a rolled up magazine. “What? I’m right!” he argued. “Jack, I’m begging you, stop messing with her.” Rodney pleaded, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “Look, Reader’s probably getting tired of all this. You’re wondering when we’re going to get to the point of all this, aren’t you?” “Don’t assume that! Maybe they love this!” Jack said. “Why don’t we ask them?” “We both know we can’t do that. Since Author has no control over them, we can’t know their answer. Plus, there will be more than one Reader reading this, and they will all have different thoughts and opinions.” “Then let’s give them some options to pick from, like those old “choose your own adventure” books!” Jack suggested. 1. Agree with Jack (page 12) 2. Disagree with Jack (page 49) “This is a short story! We can’t give Reader different options!” Rodney exclaimed. “We don’t even have that many pages to flip to! Hell, this isn’t being printed, so we don’t have pages period.” “Ugh, fine, fine. I guess we can just move on then.” Jack sighed. “Thank you!” Rodney said forcefully. He took a moment to compose himself before continuing. “Now, as you know, Author is creating this for a contest. We’re here to discuss our odds and, if I may be so bold, give some incentive to let her take the win.” “I’ll give you twenty bucks if you let her win.” Jack interjected. Rodney’s eye twitched. “Please, God, shut up. This is so important, not only for us, but for Author as well. A contest win would surely get her more commissions, which you and I both know she needs.” “Man, who cares!” Jack falls back on to his seat, flinging his feet over the armrest. He goes for his book, but Rodney is quick to snatch it away. “Why are you acting like this? What, do you not want to win? Do you just not care?” Rodney questions frantically. “You haven’t been taking any of this seriously, despite the fact that the entire reason Author created you was to be in this story to help me. Why are you going against her wishes?” “Because, the second this story ends, she’s not going to care anymore.” Jack's voice had gone unexpectedly cold. He cocked his head, supporting it on his arm as he looked at Rodney dead in the eyes. “She doesn’t care about us, Rod. The only reason we exist is because this story needed characters, and she wasn’t going to use any of the ones from her real projects. I mean, hell, look at our fucking names even. Jack and Rodney?” “Those are fine names!” “She chose them with a name generator! They have no deeper, symbolic meanings, they’re filler, just like us.” Rodney’s face fell. A look of disbelief and horror spread from across his whole body, letting his arms hand low and his heart drop. Jack just snatched his book from Rodney’s hand. “I’m not about to waste my limited existence doing work for someone who doesn’t even care.” Rodney was frozen in place. He tried to speak a few times, but the words died in his throat. Jack didn’t seem to care as he lazily flipped through the pages of his book. “...She does care.” Rodney mumbled, barely audible. “Give it up, Rod.” “No. No!” Rodney straightened, determination and resolve flowing through him. “If she truly didn’t care, she wouldn't have published this. She wouldn’t have edited this if she didn’t care. She wouldn’t have written this in the first place if she didn’t care! Jack, don’t you see? While, yes, we are not her most developed or thought out characters, we are still her characters! She cared enough to make us exist, to let the world see us, to let herself be judged through us!” Rodney ranted, a hopeful smile appearing on his face. Jack still looked unconvinced, but he continued to listen. “I mean, look! Reader is proof of just that!” Rodney turned, that hopeful smile now aimed at you. “Author cared enough to let Reader meet us. So many of her characters don’t get such an amazing opportunity, but we did!” Jack looked over at you, trying to read your expression. After a moment, he just let out a sigh. “...Ah, well, what do I know. I’m just a jumble of words, after all.”

The kid who lived in the dark It was a beautiful, great day for a little boy to go outside, get dirty and have fun. Otis put on tons of sunscreen all over his face and body in order to ensure he wouldn’t get burned. But just as Otis walked out of his house and into the glaring sun he felt a sharp pain. This was no ordinary sharp pain, the pain was rapidly moving throughout his entire body as if he was thrown in a fire pit and left to suffer. The little boy scream in agony, but the ball of fire that was up above was unforgiving. The ray from the fiery was shooting down on the little boys' skins like lasers. he still felt like a burt rotisserie chicken. HIs skin was bubbling and rough and bumpy rashes appeared all over his skin. He began to smell the gut wrenching smell of burnt skin. Little Otis was running around like a chicken without a head screaming and yelling, flopping his hand as if he was under a bee attack. Otis began to scratch himself in order to relieve the pain, but that made it worse. The itchiness and burning sensation that he felt was getting worse and worse. He fell to the floor exhausted. Then all of a sudden a dark figure brought him inside. Otis imagined that it was his father, but couldn’t tell because his eyes were in the process of dilating. The father set him on the bed, asking him what had happened and what was going on. “What happened out there son, it looked like you were trying to dance all by yourself” The boy couldn’t speak a word, his eyes were blanked and looked as if he had just seen a ghost. After that day the Otis would never go outside. He couldn't risk the chance to feel the agonizing pain he did that one day. Otis wouldn’t even think of going outside even when all the other kids were playing and having fun. Instead he would stay inside of his little dark room and work on stuff like homework or play video games. It became concerning to his parents, They decided that is was time to take him to the doctor for a check up. The doctors weren't any help they said “Everything seems great with otis, no sign of any allergies to the sun. We are not certain, but we believe it may have been an anxiety attack.” Otis knew it wasn’t an anxiety attack, he knew it was real and it didn’t matter to him if anyone else believed him or not. His parents thought it was an anxiety attack as well and tried to encourage Otis to come outside and try it again. “ Come on Otis just come outside it will be fun, you have to get out of your comfort zone and just try. Come on!” Otis was not taking any chances. “No I told you once and I’ll say it again, I know I have a sun allergy whether you believe me or not.” After week’s of trying to persuade him to go outside without any luck they gave up and accepted that their son will never go out in the sun again. Months passed, And Otis will finally be starting school. The butterflies in his stomach were flying around in his stomach, he was nervous for the first day of kindergarten. As he walked through the gates of the school he was wearing a full body cover beekeeping suit. He looked like an astronaut on the moon with all that gear and protection from the sun. Everywhere he went there was someone looking at him with a smirk on their face laughing at him as he passed by. He felt embarrassed, his face became hot pink and his ear became burning hot. His head sunk into his shoulders as he walked to his class. During lunch time it was even worse for Otis, nobody would even want to sit near him. “ This is for sure the most embarrassing day of my life.” Claimed Otis. Years have passed and things didn’t get better for Otis he was still getting made fun of and messed with all of the time. Otis is leveling up the rankings of school going from Elementary to Middle school to now in High school. Otis was know as the kid who would stay inside during snack and lunch and read a book. Otis was also very musical oriented and loved to draw. As a ninth grader he felt it was about time to step out of his comfort zone and try a sport. That day he sprinted home and was on a mission to figure out what sport he would be trying out for. He went through the list putting an X on all of the sports that he didn’t like and all of the sports that were outdoor, in the end the only sport left was Ping pong. “Perfect!” Exclaimed otis excited and confident. Otis began to love the game and got better and better. Instead of being insecure about himself and worry about what people said about his sun allergy, he grew a priority in Ping pong. He wasn’t the best at Ping pong but his love for the game kept him going. Their practices were held inside the gym and everything was going great. Otis didn’t have to worry about the sun allergy and he was playing the game he loved. He was playing well against his opponents and was building his confidence around in classmates and fellow teammates. The day came when Otis wouldn’t be so lucky. When the gym was under maintenance nobody was able to practice inside, meaning Otis would have to face his fear and step out into the sun. However Otis’s fear of the sun was far more that his love for ping pong, He stayed home locked in his little room and would begin to miss practicing. After no Practice for two weeks he got an email from the coach telling him that if he were to miss one more practice he’s off the team. After hours of hard thought and contemplating he finally made the decision to go and practice. He dressed up in his sun protective suit and headed to the school for practice. Once he got there it was even worse the coach told that he couldn’t wear that suit for practice, anxiously Otis went into the locker rooms and took it off. Just as he was coming out of the locker room he grew scared, He took a step into the sun and he could feel the beaming sun hit his face. He began to feel the heat warm his skin, Otis felt a sharp pain go throughout his body. He wanted to scream out loud until suddenly there was no pain, the sun felt great on his body the warm sun cradle him like a warm blanket. Confused he proceeded to go to practice and he didn’t feel a single pain. Later that day his parents took Otis to the doctor to see what had happened. The doctors finally had the answer that Otis had been waiting for his entire life. “After running a test on Otis here we came to the conclusion that your son is allergic to Sunscreen. It seems that the sunscreen you put on that day many years ago was what caused the allergic reaction.” Everyone in the room was looking at each other in such awe. Otis couldn’t believe that this entire time it wasn’t the sun, but instead the sunscreen that kept him away from the outdoors.

WHO IS THAT It has been a long day. I have been thinking all day. Thinking about my life and all the things I've done. All the events of my life.--All the people in my life. My parents -my sisters. It's been many years. The memories come back and dwell in my mind.--My sisters and I have gotten older.--Our lives have moved in different directions. Today I think about all the fun we had. I was the youngest -the only boy --My sisters were older and I was the baby of the family. That was good---Where's Terry -He's been gone a long time--My Mother tells my sisters -You better go look for him--And so they do--I had went down the road from our house --it was winter --the snow was deep. A pond was close-the bank was high-it was by the road -down below laid a snow bank and it was very deep. I decided I would stand on the pond and jump into the snow. That would be fun--And so I did----I hit the snow and went in deep--above my shoulders -only my head showing--I was stuck and I was scared . I worked and I squirmed but I could not get out.--I was only 6 years old. But I knew my sisters would come to help me.-I cried out -Help me -I'm stuck in the snow and I can't get out.--Then I see them -it's getting dark and I am so afraid.-My sisters--Deanne-Bonnie and Cheryl --their coming to save me. They dig me out -They put me on a sled they have brought . They take me home and warm me up. I thought then--it is so good to have someone who will come looking for you -if you've been gone too long . Today I think about that day-when I was only 6 --I walk by a mirror and what do I see--I see myself -when I was 6 -I look -wet-I look cold . And then I know -the reflection I see is from the day I was stuck in the snow. It is good -I don't want to move -I want to remember that day and who I was--I wish it was then -but it is now -so many years gone by --I stand there and I look -a reflection of years ago. I cannot let go.--My parents- my sisters and myself in a house. A family that stays the same -no one grows older--Life goes on and we cannot stop it --I hear my sister say --Terry -It's time for Church--You better get ready-I'll help. you. We all get in the car--3 in the front 3 in the back. We get close to Church--The bell is ringing -We are going to be late. We run up to the Church-we go up the stairs and we open the door.-we go in -the Church is full . But our pew is empty -the Church is full. But our pew is empty --it is our seat -everyone has a special place. Do not sit in someone else's pew.-And so we sit down. A song is being sung. I sit between between Deanne and Bonnie -I liked sitting between them. I feel safe. I know they will tell me what to do. They will open the hymnal and point out the words. They will find the number of the hymn and point it out to me. Then we will sing . My Mother has told me we must go to Church every Sunday---Jesus is here and He wants to talk to us.-He want's to tell us what He has done for us. We cannot miss-We never do. --I stand up--I put my arms on the pew in front-and I look all around-I see all the people . I know their names -Families sitting together --The Women in their hats and their dresses and their high heeled shoes. Some of them wear scarfs and they have them tied below their chins. The men are in their suits and ties. And their long sleeved shirts--Their skin is tanned from the sun and the wind. Their hands are rough from the shovels they have held. They are all farmers --My Dad is a farmer from Nebraska -who moved to Idaho with his wife Marie. He is a Sharecropper -We never had much money --but we were okay-we never went hungry. We were always happy and content with what we had.-I was happy--How could I not be?-My sisters loved me and I had toys and a dog named Spotty. Our Church was out in the Country--A tall -very tall tree stood close. It did not move -it did not fall. Rooted deep in God's great earth. The steeple stood high-on top was a cross-that was lit.--Surrounded by fields of Clover.-So it was called The Clover Lutheran Church. A School across the road and that is where my sisters and I went to School. We rode a bus -it picked us up at our house every morning--I was 6 -it was my first day of school. I was scared-I did not want to go-My sisters were older-they had already been going. They said it would be fun-I might learn something--there would be other kids to play with--We had recess. -My sisters got me ready--Bonnie said I had to look good for my first day of school. It was a Christian School--Clover Lutheran school. My teacher was nice. Her name was Miss Leader-I liked her--I was not afraid. My sisters were in another class . I wish I could see them. Deanne had told me -do not be afraid -I'll be close by. And she was.-We learned about Jesus -We sang songs and we prayed. At Christmas we would have a Christmas program in the Church. We practiced a lot.--It was on Christmas Eve-And it was a night.-Only lit by the Christmas trees and lights on the altar. The Church would be full of people-all the parents, We had lines to remember. Each class would take their turn. We would stand on the altar and look out to the congregation.. We would tell the story of Christmas and we would sing songs about Jesus.. The people listened--I hope I did okay?--When we were done another class would come up. We sat on the sides -all in in classes -there were Christmas Trees on both sides of the altar.--They were tall -very tall-lights from top to bottom -Ornaments covered the trees -Tinsel on the branches. A Manger with the Baby Jesus sat below one tree --His Mother Mary-His Father Joseph -Jesus was in the crib. Sheep and cows looked in. When the program was over we walked out. We were given a sack of candy and peanuts. And a orange. We drove home -my sisters and I were excited. Santa had come while we were at Church. He had brought us presents. So we opened our presents. We were all happy-it was the best night of the year.--And now I look in the mirror that has suddenly appeared. I see myself on Christmas Eve. With my train set.-I move for a better look. I see myself stuck in a snow bank--I see my sisters coming to help me. I holler-I'm stuck in the snow and I need help. I hear my sister Deanne--We're coming to help you.-How good it is to look in to look in a mirror and see a reflection of my life.

“I apply for jobs I don’t want, to work with people I won’t like in a country I don’t know,” I say in one quick burst. Dr Bremen leans back and observes me over the rim of his octangular glasses before saying: “Good. That’s a start at least, but we still have some unpacking to do. Why is it you apply to these jobs if, as you say, you don’t want to actually work them?”. I ponder this a moment. “I’ve never really considered why before; I just know that I don’t want to actually find a job, even though I’m constantly applying”. “Mm-hmm” replies the Doctor, “well then, have you any idea where this drive to apply comes from?” “Social pressure I suppose. My family want me to do well and apply myself. God knows I’ve been hearing that ever since Ellen was placed in the advanced class back in 2nd grade. “Evan is a good student” they used to say, “but if he just applied himself to his work he’d excel like his sister”. “I see,” says Dr Bremen. “Would you say you experienced some kind of pressure to follow in your sisters’ footsteps?” “Yes exactly!” I reply hastily--half delighted to have found a piece of the puzzle and half surprised I’d never made such a simple connection before. I always had a hard time expressing myself without writing things down. “All I ever hear is how great Ellen is. She’s been made partner at her law firm already--she only started two years ago. My parents rave about her any chance they get.” “So would you say you resent her?” “Not exactly. It’s not her fault she’s so great. In fact, she’s one of the only ones who takes the time to help me figure my own life out. Sometimes I like that. But other times it's frustrating, like she’s so perfect that she has time to get her own life in order and manage the life of her baby brother. What I mean is, she means well, but she’s like all the others” I stop at this point, afraid I’ve said too much. “Like all the others in what way?” Presses the doctor. “I don’t know... it’s like... they only see life in fast-motion--like they're playing on the highest speed setting in a videogame. Money, career, house, investments, success. Like some linear progression. Do this. Get that. Reinvest. Upskill. More experience for your resume; push for a promotion; work harder, make more. Go. Go. Go. I just don’t get it, I never have. My mind doesn’t work that way.” “How does your mind work?” asks the doctor. “How does anyone’s mind work?” I reply sarcastically. “What I mean is, what is it you feel is different about your mode of thinking to those around you?” “It’s hard to put into words. A lot of the time I feel distant. I can get caught up in the tiniest detail. Or sometimes I can just sit and enjoy the whole thing, the moment, the feeling in the room--smells, sounds--then I zoom out. I picture it all. The whole thing. This giant organism called Earth, with all of us performing different functions, influencing the whole. It sounds kind of cringe when I put it like that but I don’t know how else to put it. “Remember what we talked about. Describing your own feelings as “cringe” only stifles your thought and causes you to withdraw. Come on Evan, I know you know better than that by now”. I nod slowly while trying to collect my thoughts. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that everyone always seems so anxious to change the world in some way. To create or destroy, to uproot or control. I just don’t feel that urge - at least not as strongly. I tend to get lost in the complexity of it all. Sometimes this hurts me and I find everything confusing and I struggle to make sense of my own relation to things around me. But other times... I don’t know, I’m just perfectly happy thinking about the whole thing working in unison, perfect the way it is. Like serendipity.” “I see,” says the doctor, “and you feel that this mode of thinking clashes with the thoughts of those around you, your family and friends?”. “It clashes with the whole system,” I say, a little too emphatically “I don’t know. I don’t want to go all Karl Marx, but sometimes I feel our whole direction is skewed. We chase goals that we never chose ourselves, but which benefit the economic and social structure we’ve been born into. I mean, of course, some people are naturally ambitious and want to do well and compete with themselves and others or make a lot of money and reach the top of their careers, and that’s okay. But it’s the people who don’t fit that mould that suffer. People like me.” “So then, this brings us to applying for jobs you don’t want” the doctor leans forward slightly, “If I understand you correctly, you feel that society puts a pressure on you to follow a certain path, and you struggle to reconcile this with your vision of the world?” “Exactly!” I nod excitedly. “I apply for jobs in insurance and banking because I feel like that’s what I’m supposed to do. But my heart’s never been in it. And then I wonder whether it really is society at fault, or if it's me? I mean, there are plenty of people who’ve said no to the rat race and done just fine. I just... I never felt like that was an option for me. Besides, what would I do? Live like a bum and float about? How would family gatherings go then? At least now I get introduced as our son Evan, he’s had an interview with XYZ insurance company this week. Instead, it would be: this is our daughter Ellen, she’s a partner at Hook’s law firm. And this is Evan, he’s... travelling? On a gap year in his 30s...? I don’t know...” “Well let’s not catastrophise just yet. Are there any jobs you could see yourself working?” The doctor asked, before scratching his chin and adding, “actually, let’s leave the subject of jobs for now. What kind of life do you imagine when you think of yourself as old and content?” I look at the doctor for a moment in confusion. I watch his glasses slide slowly down his hawkish nose as I realise, I’d never really taken the time to think that. Should I have thought about this sooner? I stop myself before I spiral into what-ifs and reply “I guess I see myself surrounded by nature. I’d like to live in a small cottage with lots of books.” “Good,” says the doctor “and how would you spend your time?” “Well, I’d like to have a small garden, maybe some chickens too. I’d like to read a lot and maybe write too. I used to love writing as a child. It was all I ever wanted to do, but since I left school, I haven’t written much at all. I always found it easier when I had a teacher to assign me homework and give us topics to write about.” “Interesting. How would you feel if I were to assign you homework?” Asked the doctor. “Are you going to grade me too?” I laugh. “No no, but maybe the structure could help you. Your first assignment could be to think through this vision you have of the future and try to put it into words? We can review it during our next session.” “That sounds... actually like a good idea,” I say. “Does that mean our time is up today?” “Almost” he replies, “unless there’s anything urgent, you’d like to talk about?” “Not really” I reply as I stand up. “Thank you, doc, same time tomorrow?”. “Same time tomorrow Evan” he smiles.

***I accidentally submitted this story under the incorrect theme. The theme I chose is as follows: Write a modern version of "The Tiger, the Brahmin, and the Jackal," in which someone suffers from their own good deeds and must turn to an unlikely source for help. The Shooter, The Teacher, and The Student Once upon a time, a Shooter wearing a mask to hide their gender was seen walking into the back door of a school. The school alarm hadn’t sounded at their entrance and the Shooter began to panic. Suddenly, a teacher ran out of her office to see why the alarm was sounding and she saw the Shooter. The Shooter was trying to get back out the door but in their confusion had turned around and didn’t know anymore what door was the exit. Many of the doors were locked with supplies and the Shooter was sweating and swearing under their breath. “What are you doing in our school?” the teacher asked. "Please don't hurt the children." “I went to the wrong building and now I just want to get out of here,” replied the Shooter. “I was just trying to play a trick on my friend.” “Can I call someone for you? You need help. I can help you." said the teacher. "Just open the door for me and I'll go. Jeez, why can't you do what I ask?" "You need to leave,” said the teacher. “I’ll open the door but you have to go. You need to go find help.” “Yeah, I told you I’d go. Just open the door now!” “How do I know you won’t just go into another building and hurt the children if I tell you how to get out of here?” asked the teacher. “I promise I won’t. This was a foolish prank and I just want to go home.” The teacher went to the exit door and was about to push it open when the Shooter pointed a gun at her. “Wait,” said the teacher, “You said if I showed you the exit you would leave and go home and no one would get hurt.” “Stupid woman,” sneered the Shooter, “Why would I just leave and allow you to call the police and tell them that someone with a mask came into the school?” “But you said you would if I showed you the door,” replied the Teacher. “Listen if you can find one student who can give me a good reason not to shoot up this school I will leave and go home and no one will get hurt.” The teacher agreed and started making her way down the hallway. She went into the classroom where all the students were so advanced that they were already taking college courses. She ran over to one student and put her hand on his shoulder. “There is a Shooter out in the hall and they said if someone could give them a good reason not to shoot they would leave and no one will get hurt,” the teacher told the student. “I’m busy studying and that Shooter probably isn’t even smart enough to pull the trigger. Just open the door and push them out,” said the student. The teacher shook her head in frustration at the pretentious student and left the classroom. The teacher walked further down the hall and saw a classroom where all the students were working quietly but didn’t have test booklets on their desks. The teacher put her hand on one student near the back of the room. “There is a Shooter out in the hall and they said if someone could give them a good reason not to shoot they would leave and no one will get hurt,” the teacher told the student. “I’m busy working on my book report. Maybe just tell them to sit and relax for a few minutes. They probably just had some silly fight with a friend and they’ll get over it. I’ve had fights with my friends and it really is not a big deal.” The teacher shook her head in amazement at the apathetic student and left the classroom. The teacher walked further down the hall and saw a classroom where there were only a few students who were sitting on squares of rug pieces playing with cars and other kinds of vehicles. The teacher put her hand on one student who had stopped for a moment to think about the traffic jam of cars. “There is a Shooter out in the hall and they said if someone could give them a good reason not to shoot they would leave and no one will get hurt,” the teacher told the student. “Oh no! Maybe they just need a friend right now to talk to. Maybe they were bullied and now they feel sad. I can try and talk to them and see if I can help cheer them up.” The teacher took this student by the hand and led them back down to the back door of the school. The Shooter laughed. “What is this young child going to say to me that will make me change my mind? I will just shoot you both.” The student looked the Shooter right in the eye. “I’m sorry you are feeling so sad today. I used to be afraid to come to school because the kids who were smarter than me would make fun of me and the work I was doing in my classes. I’ll be your friend. We can talk and you might start feeling a bit better.” The Shooter looked at the student who appeared bright and nicely dressed. “You would never be my friend. You and your friends would laugh at me and say I was different. I would never fit in.” With that, the student went to the Shooter and wrapped her little arms around his waist. “Well, I’m not giving up on you so you can either leave here with no one or you can accept my friendship and be able to say you have a new best friend. The Shooter looked from the teacher to the student. They showed the teacher that the gun was only a plastic toy and asked the teacher to throw it away. The teacher took the toy and put it on the floor and smashed it with her foot. The Shooter took off their mask and held hands with the student. The Shooter was just a young boy from one of the classrooms. “My name is Jessie. I’m really not very smart and the other kids keep making fun of me. It has made me so sad and mad.” “Jessie, my name is Taylor. I’m not very smart either but I listen to the things my teacher tells me and I know I am learning every day! You can come to my classroom today and spend the day being friends with me. You’ll feel so much better if you have a good friend you can talk to.” Jessie looked at Taylor and gave a faint smile. “That would make me feel so much better.” The two walked back into the classroom hand in hand and smiling.

There were worse ways to die I thought. Of course, the cancer has ravaged my body for months now. It left me bedridden. Barely eating or drinking. Drifting in and out of sleep. Too weak to string many words together. But, at least death hadn’t been abrupt. I had time to make amends. To tell people how much they mean to me. I even got to check a couple of items from my bucket list. Even today, surrounded by my family. Yeah, there were worse ways to die. I had felt the end was near for a couple of days now. I barely spent any time awake and what little I did was dimmed by the drugs that they gave me for pain. But, no amount of drugs can hide something that I knew in the deepest part of my marrow: I was going to die today. Oddly enough, I was okay with the entire situation. Dying would certainly be a relief from this suffering. My breathing was becoming more shallow. The time between breaths lengthening. I read one time that when you’re dying your body releases endorphins so that you make a more peaceful transition. I just hoped I ended up in a good place. That was my last thought before I drifted off, embracing the eternal sleep that comes for us all. It seemed like no time had passed since I closed my eyes. I slowly blinked myself awake, but the blinding lights I half-expected didn’t swim across my vision. In fact, it was quite dark. And small? I reached my arms out, trying to find purchase on something to clue me in on where I was. Both hands encountered...was that fabric? Denim and cotton and what felt like tulle. I rustled the fabrics around and heard the tell-tale sound of hangers sliding. I took stock of my other senses which all seemed to be intact. I took a deep breath. Fresh linen scent. My feet sunk a little into the floor. Carpet. I took a couple steps in each direction, arms outstretched. A wall here. There’s the corner. That’s the space with the clothes. Painted wood? Sliding my hands down and to the sides, I felt it then. The hard coolness of a doorknob. Freedom! Freedom from what, I wasn’t sure exactly. Shrugging to myself, I turned the knob. I couldn’t stay in a closet for the rest of eternity, could I? I don’t know what I thought I was opening the door to, but this wasn’t it. My eyes darted around the room, taking it in. Pink walls on all sides. A small canopy bed against one wall, draped in lacy white. Stuffed animals were piled across the comforter, on the verge of toppling to the floor. White furniture dotted the room, cheap trinkets and baubles stacked on their flat surfaces. At last, I focused on the center of the room. A little girl sat poised over a small table, her wide eyes staring back at me. She held a small teacup in her hand. “Finally! You’re here!” she exclaimed, slamming the cup down to the table in her apparent excitement. I turned to look over my shoulder. Was she talking to me? I turned back around just in time to see her leaping from her chair, barreling towards me. Her hand grabbed one of my own. “Sit down here by me.” She led me over to the tiny chair adjacent to her own. She patted the empty seat before returning to her own. I squatted down, feeling like my body was folded up into a little ball. My knees were nearly at my ears, the chair was so small. The little girl was making herself busy, pouring another pretend up of tea and putting the finishing touches on a melamine place setting. She was dressed like any other little girl playing “tea party” I surmised. Purple dress with golden accents. A plastic tiara askew on her hair that probably needed a comb through it. She was cute though. And, she reminded me of my nieces. “Okay so here’s your tea.” She handed me the tiny cup. “Now, take your cup and hit mine. This is what my mommy does with her friends sometimes.” She held her cup up in the air. I realized she wanted to ‘cheers’ and tapped her cup with mine as daintily as I could manage. While I pretended to take a small sip, she turned her cup up and drank her “tea” in one gulp. “Mmm. Mr. Snuggles, you made good tea today.” It was at that moment I realized two larger stuffed animals were our other two table companions, the big pink elephant apparently the aforementioned Mr. Snuggles. She turned her attention back to me. “What’s your name?” “Sophie.” “I’m Gracie.” I stuck my right hand out. “Nice to meet you, Gracie.” Instead of shaking my hand, she slapped it in imitation of a high-five and promptly fell off her seat in a fit of giggles. I had just started laughing along with her when the door to her bedroom swung open. “Gracie? Who are you laughing at, sweetie?” A woman who looked to be about my age stood confusedly in the doorway. Gracie sat up and pointed a small, erratically painted fingernail in my direction. “My new friend. Sophie!” The woman who I presumed to be Gracie’s mother swept her eyes around the table, looking carefully for any sign of something out of place or sinister. Evidently, she didn’t find anything of consequence despite me sitting in a chair 10 feet from her. Gracie spoke up again. “She’s right here, mama!” She gestured again toward me. A look of realization passed across the mother’s features. “Ohhh. Yes, I see her now, Gracie. But, it’s time to come down for dinner, okay? Let’s go wash up.” Gracie scrambled off the floor, scurrying off in the direction of the door. Stopping abruptly, she looked back. “C’mon, Sophie! Mama made mac and cheese tonight!” She waved wildly, encouraging me to follow her. Her mom’s laughter carried down the hallway. “Gracie, you and that imagination.

TW: murder To whom it may concern, My name is Rob Conway, and I’m a monster. We all were back then. Monsters with an insatiable appetite to hurt others. But it wasn’t our fault. At least that’s what I tell myself at night to fall asleep without dreaming about him. It wasn’t our fault. It was the Shadow’s fault. But let me tell you everything from the top... It all started in 1956, in Newberry, a small, coastal town where the cliffs met the sea, and the everlasting green hills were dressed in groves and rivers. It was a nice town to live in. Not as busy as the major cities, and not as dull as the villages of the area. But, despite its beauty, Newberry didn’t offer us much: a few record stores, one or two pubs for the drunkards, and nothing more than that. So, my gang (Billy the Dull; Smith the ‘Smithie’; Davie the Bigfoot) and I had to find other ways to pass the time. First, it was bike rides around town, but that grew dull very quickly. And then--it was Smithie’s idea I remember--we built a fortress in Newberry Grove. We spent most of our time there, fencing with twigs, talking about the girls we liked, smoking our first cigarettes, and having a first taste of beer. We called it, the Newberry Saloon and it was a lawless land where we were the outlaws, the sheriffs, the knights, and the kings! That’s how life went by in Newberry. And it was oh-kay, I gotta admit, nothing wrong with all that, right? Well, there was nothing wrong with Newberry, except for the Shadow. You see, the Shadow was always there as we grew up. We saw it in the windows of stores, in the woods, and in remote parts of the city. Sometimes the Shadow followed us home. The Shadow never picked one person to follow. It somehow managed to follow all of us. I don’t remember when I saw the Shadow for the first time. It must have been before the time I started to form memories, but it was always there, following me, watching me when I was sleeping. But how can you tell something like that to others? Some would call me mental, or worse. But that was a good scenario. I was mortified that someone would confirm my story, and that’s when the Shadow would become real. I always called myself crazy, because I thought that the Shadow was of my own making, a twisted vision of my mind trying to trick me, until the summer of 1956. We all sat down, cracking a six-pack of cold ones, having our second-ever smoke. It was the smoke, the beer, maybe it was the heat of the summer, but I decided to share my crazy. “Screw it,” I said and stood up. I turned and pointed at the Shadow, and I saw it in their eyes. “You can see it too?” I asked. They all nodded with somber eyes. I could see it engraved within them: they knew where I was pointing at. I wasn’t crazy. And know, you can think that this was a children’s story, but let me tell you what happened after that. That same night, when I came home, my father was in his armchair, with the local paper in his arms, and the Shadow standing right behind him like a guard. My mother strolled inside with an anxious smile, serving him a drink. She glanced at and left back to the kitchen. “Where have you been?” my pa asked. “The Saloon,” I said. My father rolled his eyes, lowering the paper, “This nonsense again...” He took a sip of his drink and eyed me carefully. “You see, Robbie,” my father said, staring at me along with the Shadow. “Your mother and I...we know.” “What do you know, pa?” I asked. “That you can see the Shadow,” my pa said and leaned closer. I swore that I heard the Shadow chuckle and grin. I could feel its hunger, its longing for something that I couldn’t understand at the time. I remained silent and my father smiled. “You see,” my father said. “I think it’s time I tell you what my pa told me.” “Okay,” I said uncertainly. “We all see the Shadow, son,” my father said almost compassionately, and he was never so compassionate. “We all see it, and we must obey it. He is the one in charge. We do not resist, and we do not ask, we just do, do you understand?” “Why?” I said with terror. “Because I said so, Robbie!” my father shouted, slamming his glass of whiskey on the table beside him. He cleared his throat and rubbed his tired-looking eyes. “Look,” my father said, calmly again. “We never address, and we never challenge the Shadow, do you understand Robbie?” My father was scary, and I didn’t feel I had a choice. “I do,” I murmured, and at that moment, the Shadow became clear as day, dark like a stormy sky or a nebulous, winter morning. “Attaboy,” my father said, as he always did when I said something that he approved of. “Let’s have dinner now.” And so I did. Ever since I could not only see the Shadow, but I could hear it, whispering things to me during the night. Its slimy, rotten voice pierced into my mind, like a parasite feeding from my own sanity. At first, I didn’t understand what the Shadow said, but the more the days went by, the clearer I could understand its meaning. When I met with the gang again, they all had the same terror in their eyes, but it all affected us differently. Davie seemed colder, distant. Billy became harsher as his jokes were insulting and he shared all sorts of crazy ideas. Smithie was like me: mortified. The Shadow became a part of our gang. We never talked to it. We never talked about it, but we let It follow us around. It followed us to the fortress and when we took our bikes out for a ride. It followed us when we bathed in the river. And it took all the joy away from the little things we did, replacing them with vile thoughts we didn’t want to have. But we obeyed the Shadow. One day, a new kid came to town. George DeWitz was his name, and his smile is still engraved in my mind. George was not your typical 1950s boy, and certainly not a typical Newberry boy. George was always dressed in lighter colors and one day we saw him wearing a dress. We all noted how George behaved more like a girl than a boy. We didn’t mind George. He seemed like a good boy. But the Shadow didn’t agree with us. “He is not normal, Robbie!” my father had shouted at me when I told him that I wanted to invite George over for dinner. “No boy like that will ever set foot into my home! And if you are like him, you better pack your things and leave!” The same night, the Shadow repeated those words; words that I do not care to write here, and words that no one should ever write. It said all types of words for the boy we knew as George. I didn’t believe that George was any of those things, but the Shadow had a weird way of poisoning us. Eventually, I cracked, and I didn’t want to go against the Shadow. We started calling him names; the names Shadow taught us. We started hazing him, hunting him down, striking with sticks. Whatever the Shadow commanded. One day, the Shadow even ordered us to throw him into the river and we did, without asking, without addressing the Shadow, because we were all afraid of it. That’s when the Shadow made us take it too far. It told us to haze George and trick him, make him believe that we will hang him. We took George out to our now ravaged fortress. We placed a noose around his neck, and we pulled him up, and up. We were laughing I remember, and I can’t feel more disgusted by that memory. If you had been there, you’d see children believing to do the right thing--what the Shadow commanded. It was Davie and Billy who enjoyed it the most, but we were all laughing because the Shadow told us to. We were laughing and poor George was choking. We would stop, pull him down, let him leave. But the Shadow never told us to stop, so we never did until George was no longer fighting. Until George was dead. No one ever pinned the murder on us, and George’s parents simply skipped town. We were never punished for our mistakes, and that was our punishment. We all felt ashamed. Dirty. We wanted to be punished. We wanted to be thrown to jail and rot. Poor Billy even went to the police and told them what we did. They all laughed and let him leave. Billy told us that some even thanked him. Our crime went unpunished, but we deserved punishment. We never talked again with the gang. We all left for college, and no one ever returned to Newberry. Years later, I learned that Billy took his life, tired of listening to the Shadow. Davie joined the Army and never returned home. Smithie tried to redeem himself, track the family down, and George’s father killed him with a shotgun on their front porch. George’s father went to jail and Smithie died the way George died. But we all deserved what happened to us. Me, I’m still here, and now that I write all that I know that it was our fault. Because I escaped, but it took me many years to do so. All I had to do was address the Shadow, and I did one day. It was a day that the Shadow commanded me to kill another boy like George. It was the same thing my father had told me one day: “These men should be put down like sick dogs.” And for the first time, I asked. “Why?” I asked with tears in my eyes. “Why do you call him that? He is a person! Why do I have to kill him? He is just like me and everyone else!” The Shadow’s grin vanished and its eyes didn’t glow as hot anymore. “Why!” I shouted, louder than my throat could handle. And a why was all it took for the Shadow to retreat to its smoky, dark home, away from me. Why was all I needed to ask to make the Shadow go away. If we had addressed the Shadow, George would be alive, Billy and Smithie would be alive. Davie would be here, with us, and we would all be a happy gang. But we never dared to do it, and that was our fault. Our fault. It wasn’t my pa’s who told me to not to address the Shadow. It wasn’t George’s who chose to be who he wanted to be. It wasn’t the Shadow’s fault for being there. It was my fault for not ever asking why. I can’t write another word without thinking that it was all my fault. And I can’t live with that burden anymore. I might have won the Shadow, but it took everything from me. Whoever reads this, remember. Always address the Shadow, even when everyone tells you not to. It’s the only way for you to live.

He sat alone in his cell. Same thing he did every day. He would sit, sleep, think, and masturbate the days away. He did nothing. And that's what they punished him to. Nothing. That's what death row is. First you do nothing, then you die. But his day was coming. The day that shoved some toxic chemicals in him and kill him. But that's not what he was waiting for. He was waiting for his last meal. The last chance to have one last piece of the outside world. He'd been waiting years. He dreamed of this last meal. An 18" Italian sub from Fontane's Deli. Fontane's was a small deli in his hometown. He's wanted it for so long and finally it was coming to him. An 18" Italian, lettuce, tomatoes, oil, vinegar, oregano, and no onions. He hated onions. He paced around his cell counting down the days, the hours the minutes. Finally a knock came to his door. A man in a guard uniform announced almost as if the cowering man in the cell had no idea the day it was, "Time's up. Come get your last meal and get ready." He flinched at the thought of death, but smiled at the thought of that delicious sandwich waiting for him. He sat down, two guards to either side of him. He smiled as the sandwich was presented to him. His drink was a bottle of root beer. Glass bottle. The other stuff just didn't compare. He sipped at his root beer and smiled at the sweet taste he hasn't enjoyed in years. He picked up his sandwich. He bit down. He chewed. He smiled. And slowly his smile turned to disgust and his face twisted into a fearful look of despair. He whispered to himself, "...fucking onions...

My sister lives in B.C. (Canada) and is looking for a house. She decides to put an offer in for a home pretty much in the middle of nowhere and- half in jest-asks if the current owners had ever seen bears on the property, to which they reply they had not. *The next day* a bear manages to open a glass sliding door and get into the dining room while the current owner and her boyfriend are in the house. They begin making noise (like you're apparently suppose to) in hopes of scaring the young black bear away, but it isn't budging. The owner barricades herself in a bedroom while the boyfriend begins putting together a rifle that was in pieces throughout the house. Meanwhile the girl is on the phone trying to convince a 911 operator that this is a *real* emergency (give that a try sometime, haha). The boyfriend finally gets the gun together and puts the bear to rest right in the dining room. Next step is to repair the bullet hole he put in the wall. I guess it was later discovered that the bear had a pretty bad infection, which is why it was so bold and unaffected by the noise the two generated. TL;DR - a bear was shot in the dining room of the house my sister is going to be moving into *the day after* the owner had told them she'd never seen a bear on the property before.

A thud. The mattress wobbles. “Hey. Marry me.” Anoushka groans, and burrows further into the pillow. ______________________________________________________ Some unknowable number of hours later, Anoushka is finally feeling once more capable of being alive, though not without some bitterness. She finds Jade in the kitchen, sat cross-legged on a chair and hunched over a book. She looks up as Anoushka comes in, smiles at her, soft and warm. “Merry Almost Christmas.” “Back at ya.” She pauses on her way to the kettle, hand coming to rest on the back of her chair as she leans over to kiss her on the cheek. Her mug is already on the counter, she notices, next to the coffee that’s also been left out. She tips out some powder, forgoing the spoon, and then hops up onto the worktop to wait for the water to boil. Jade straightens slightly in her seat, eyes scanning words with marked intent. She finishes up her chapter and sets her book on the table, page marked with an old grocery receipt. The kettle finishes boiling. Anoushka finishes making her coffee. She holds the mug in both hands - the steam warms her face, just the right side of too hot. She looks at Jade. “So. Lunch at Anna’s today, right?” Receiving a confirming nod, she continues. “Presents?” “Still under our tree. We should pile them up before we get ready to go.” “Is Kiran’s -” “Yep. Wrapped it while you were asleep.” Anoushka sighs. “Thanks.” She takes her first sip. Jade shrugs. “No big deal. Nothing else to do anyway, and you were asleep a very long time.” “Awww,” she coos, dropping off her perch. “Missed my sparkling personality, huh?” Her tone is light and teasing, but she moves across the kitchen to drape an arm around Jade’s shoulders in something half-hug, half-apology. Jade leans into the touch, looks up at her. She sighs, though her tone doesn’t quite manage to hit the faux-exasperation Anoushka’s sure she was aiming for. “I am going to ask Santa to bring you so much coal.” They walk into the living room together, debating the various merits of being gifted coal. Anoushka, being over half a foot shorter than Jade, had dropped her arm at some point out of necessity, so it now rests loosely about Jade’s waist. Jade has her elbow at Anoushka’s shoulder and is leaning heavily onto it, shifting her weight over almost on instinct. The joint digs into her flesh. The tree stands in one corner, a garish, foil affair, loud and gaudy and balanced precariously atop an old cat scratching post that one or the other had appropriated from someone or the other many years ago. Lights smother the structure as if doing so could suffocate the spirit of Christmas itself - Anoushka has been buying a new string of LEDs every year for almost a decade now, and these days their makeshift tree more closely resembles a military dazzler, best only viewed out of the corner of the eye. Every colour found under the sun is present, and, as Jade likes to posit, likely a fair few that aren’t as well. A half metre above the tree, a small bookshelf has been temporarily cleared to make space for cards, while presents lie at the base of the post, scattered without consideration. Anoushka studies the pile, appraising. “We’ve been living together too long. People don’t bother giving us separate gifts anymore.” Jade evidently doesn’t think this observation worth a verbal response, but she presses her elbow a little heavier into her shoulder, deliberately, and Anoushka laughs. They sit down, legs crossed and angled just slightly towards each other. Anoushka begins rifling through packages, checking labels against a mental list of people she’s expecting to find at Anna’s annual pre-Christmas lunch. “Do we open one tonight?” She looks sideways after a moment, when she doesn’t get a response. Jade looks, not quite present. Not completely lost in thought, but certainly straying. She reaches out and nudges her knee. “Hey.” Jade blinks, twice, then looks up at her. Nods. “Uh, yeah. Same old.” Anoushka waits a beat, and then when it’s clear that Jade isn’t going to add anything else, goes back to stacking presents. “Pick something out then, I guess.” “You should, um, do mine. If, you know, you don’t mind.” She still seems vaguely preoccupied. She also still seems uninclined to elaborate, so again Anoushka lets it lie. “Sure,” she says, tugging out a long flat package, and nearly toppling the tree in the process. “Not that I seem to have many other options here,” she mutters, voice overdark, and she’s rewarded with a small smile. They pass the next half hour like that, side by side, laughing and trading quips and just enjoying each other’s company, as they sit relaxed in the rare stillness of an unrushed morning. But all things must end, and eventually the outside world comes creeping in in the form of an alarm Jade had set last night in anticipation of this very event. “We should get moving.” Anoushka groans, but time very rudely does not heed her wordless request to cease moving, so she pushes herself up to kneeling and does a final run through the gifts they’re taking. “Oh, I forgot to give Kiran a card.” “On it,” she answers, standing up and heading into the kitchen to dig one out. “Although, really I should be making you do this. He’s your friend.” “You’re my hero,” she hears called after her, and smiles despite herself. “Get rid of some of your friends,” she shouts back. “No can do, they’re common property now.” “Ah.” She thinks for a moment. “Guess there’s nothing else for it, we’ll have to split.” She hears a slightly choked sound from the other room, a stifled grunt of pain, and hurries back, worried and equally worried about betraying that fact. “I get Anna in the divorce though.” She rounds the corner of the door and stops, surveying. Jade has stopped moving, but nothing else seems out of place, and she doesn’t look like she’s in pain. She’s on one knee by the tree, right hand pressed into the carpet for balance, and Anoushka feels the corner of her mouth lift as she leans against the doorframe, expectant. Jade looks up at her. She raises an eyebrow. “Divorcing me before I even got a chance to ask? That’s cold.” Anoushka bites the inside of her cheek and breathes, trying to keep a straight face. “That the best you’ve got?” Jade grins. She reaches for her ponytail and tugs it loose, holds out the newly liberated hair band between both thumbs and middle fingers, proffered like a ring. Anoushka brings a hand up to her mouth to stifle her laughter, hoping the mimicry of joyous shock is obvious. “Anu, darling. Light of my life, brighter than even a thousand LED bulbs, a comparison I do feel qualified to make based on my own personal experiences.” Here she nods over at their tree. Anoushka tightens her grip on her face. Jade ignores her. “For days now, I have wandered, lonely as a cloud that exists against the odds in a region where it is in fact unusual for there to be clouds and the sighting of one would be a rare and isolated event, of how, in this house we share -” “It’s a flat.” She gets a mock glare in return. “Fine. Home, then.” Such a beautiful sentiment has never been expressed with such disparagement . “Wondering how, in this home we share, to ask if you would be willing to forever more share your life with me in this way. For so long did I deliberate over how to ask you, until here and now, sitting with you during this, the most wonderful time of the year -” Anoushka shakes, sliding further down the doorpost. “- all my feelings came rushing out, and suddenly without conscious thought did I find myself here: just a girl, waiting on one knee in front of another, different girl, asking her to marry her.” Don’t laugh out loud, don’t laugh out loud, don’t laugh. Jade stares straight at her, eyes bright, hair long and loose about her shoulders, daring her to crack. Slowly, Anoushka brings down her hand and straightens up. “In other words, you stumbled and fell trying to get up?” Jade slips her hair bubble over her wrist and finally puts her hands back down. “Would be a different but not entirely inaccurate version of events.” “Need a hand?” “Perhaps.” Anoushka does laugh this time, and walks over. “Come on then, lover mine. Let’s head out.” ______________________________________________________ “Hey, toss us an orange.” Something bright comes hurtling at her face. Anoushka just barely brings up her hands to catch it. A round object, red and smooth. “This is an apple.” “Is it.” The words are flat, the intonation not questioning, and deliberately so. Anoushka continues to stare at her. Jade just smiles back, a sweet, butter won’t melt smile. She picks up the correct fruit and stands up, empty hand reaching for her cane, and starts to walk towards Anoushka and the door. Anoushka keeps staring at her. She keeps staring even as another bright round object is pressed into her hand, and she’s left standing in a doorway in some parody of a modern art piece, weighing up two pieces of fruit. “Comparing apples and oranges, a commentary on modern black and white-ism.” Jade does not drop her vacantly saccharine expression once. “In Ancient Greece... “ she starts, uncertainly. Jade slows on her way towards Anna’s living room, dawdling, the movements of a person desperate to hear what a person has to say, but not at the expense of that desperation being discovered. It comforts Anoushka, makes her think she may be along the right lines as she tries to piece together the various oddities of the day, and emboldens her to continue. “In Ancient Greece, they used to propose like this sometimes. You’d throw an apple at a girl, and if she caught it, she’d accept.” Jade turns around. She looks her in the eye. They hold each other’s gazes for a heavily pregnant minute. “You know, that’s actually a common misconception, it doesn’t have any factual basis or precedent in the historical record.” And with that, still smiling, she turns back and goes to join everyone else in the main room. “Wait, what? Jay!” ______________________________________________________ It’s late when they finally leave Anna’s and head back home. There was a time when she would have balked at the thought of making such a short journey by car. These days she just drives, hand on the wheel and Jade in the passenger seat. It’s not like she drinks that much these days, anyway. Neither of them do. The same cannot be said for the majority of their friends, and they’re kept out another forty minutes dropping people off. But eventually it’s just the two of them, driving through darkness. Anoushka looks to her left. “So. You gonna tell me what’s going on?” She can’t read her expression. Part of that is no doubt due to the inconsistency of illumination provided by the street lamps they pass, and part will also likely be the fact that she can’t take her eyes off the road for too long, in the interests of safety. But little she does see is guarded, and though no less apprehensive she is at once sure her suspicions are right. Silence. Not an uncomfortable one, but not easy either. The air is expectant, anticipation. “I was gonna wait till we got home.” She sighs. Anoushka says nothing. They’re maybe twelve minutes out now, but she has the wild urge to take a sudden wrong turn or four, just to give them time. Jade breathes. “Look. We don’t know how long I have left.” Invisible bands wrap around Anoushka’s chest and pull tight. She can’t move, can barely breathe. She has the strangest, most fleeting thought that it’s good the car’s already in third gear, because she’s sure she wouldn’t be able to relax her grip enough to release the wheel and change it, right now. Her knuckles, she knows intuitively, are already white. Jade must notice. Her next words are hurried. “And I mean that genuinely, we really don’t know, it could be years - hell, it could be decades. This isn’t some grand farewell tour or anything. It’s just...” “Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but, you’re it for me. I know we’re not, together, like that, but there’s no one else I’d want to share my life with, you know? You’re my family. “And...” She hesitates. “I’m pretty sure, or, I mean, I’d like to think, that, well... That it’s the same for you.” Her voice has grown quiet. Silence. She soldiers on. “So, I’m asking you to marry me, because I love you, more and better than I will ever love anyone else. And because friends or partners or roommates aren’t inaccurate labels for what we are, but they fail to express the depth of my commitment to you. And I’m asking you, because I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next few years, I just know that I want you by my side for it. And I want people to know how important you are to me without my having to explain it, and maybe it’s somewhat misleading, but I’d rather people understand the significance of our relationship if not the relationship itself, than undervalue it.” Jade’s breathing a little heavier now. Good , Anoushka thinks. She can pick up the slack for both of them - her own lungs are empty. She’s reading between the lines, and the thousands of unspoken words paint a devastating picture. Jade's eyes are shut - it seems she’s decided the best course of action is to simply not look at Anoushka until she’s done. Usually Anoushka would try and fix that, try to comfort and reassure, but her hands are still glued to the wheel and she still can’t move. Her voice is more measured when she opens her mouth again. “And I’m also asking you, because I don’t want to live the rest of my life with this cloud hanging over me, and I don’t want to have to keep worrying about updating my will, or making sure you’re listed as next of kin in case I’m suddenly hospitalised somewhere and can’t tell them to let you in, and maybe it isn’t fair to put any of that on you, but I’m not sure fairness still has a place around here, so I’m asking you anyway.” It’s impossible to think that they could still be moving. Anoushka’s world has, jarringly, for a moment ceased its inevitable slow spiral out of orbit, and so it is only rational that the rest of the world follow suit. But the engine still rumbles and the shadows dancing across Jade’s face are still in flux as they pass under lamp after lamp. Anoushka notes it all, vaguely, as though from a great distance. She is thinking, lost in these revealed glimpses of an unwelcome future: a Jade weakening; a Jade lying motionless in some cold, unfamiliar bed, and just as terrifying, the thought of that bed becoming familiar in time; a Jade nowhere to be found, the worst vision of all. She blinks hard. Beside her, Jade has opened her eyes. Her tone now is firm, if slightly sharp, as though the words escaping her mouth left a lemon-sour taste behind. “And besides, there’s the Marriage Allowance - you could get some sort of tax break. Plus, I think there’s less inheritance tax or something if you leave stuff to your spouse. So, you know, there’s something in it for you too.” And Anoushka still doesn’t feel completely present. But the idea that Jade might not be enough, that she’d need something to sweeten the pot - well, suddenly it’s the simplest thing in the world, unclenching her hand to take Jade’s into hers. She clasps their fingers, left hand not quite dexterous enough for anything more complicated and squeezes slightly. “Regardless,” she says. “I would be honoured.” Jade stays quiet, and the bands around her chest don’t fall away, but the heavy silence shifts to something lighter, more comforting, and Anoushka can breathe again. “You and me, together till the end. Partners in crime, and now also in law,” she says, as the car finally pulls into their hard-won parking space, and Jade rewards her with a slight snort. She straightens out, then stops the car and pulls the key from the ignition. “Besides,” she starts, opening the door. “I refuse to believe you own anything that could be worthy of inheritance tax.” She’s grinning wide, and won’t make herself stop. “No take-backs,” she adds as she jogs over to open the front door, chased by Jade’s insistence that she rescinds every nice thing she said, and also hopes Anoushka dies. ______________________________________________________ They’re in Jade’s room, sitting on her bed. Two wrapped parcels had lain atop the covers, one each. Jade now wears a beautiful new watch, elegant with deep leather straps. It proclaims the time to be a minute to midnight. Anoushka’s gift is in a tiny square box, topped with a small gold bow. She pries it open to find a ring, nestled in velveteen lining. She looks at Jade, who shrugs. “I have a book stashed somewhere, I was gonna swap them out depending on how you reacted today.” She looks back at the ring. A plain black band, with a single silver line. Carefully, she lifts it from the box and offers it to Jade. Jade seems startled for a moment, but then her face clears and she shuffles a little on the floor to face Anoushka more fully. She takes her hand. “Marry me?” She feels the cool metal against her fourth finger, and answers: “I will.” The minute hand reaches twelve.

I've gone madly insane and grown to love myself. I've journeyed through a thousand leys where between numbers 9 and 199,500 I found myself, many times. I found myself in a cold room with log walls and wooden floors. The stench of fresh game, peate and cold. An old woman with a bigger mustache than mine licks my face. Slick silvery saliva slide onto my brow as she drags her tongue across my forehead from one temple to the other then tells me to believe in myself. I don't like that so I squeeze through the cracks in the floor boards and... I found myself outside my father's room, not his room now but the one he shared with my momma when he was still my hero. I can hear two voices arguing inside, one squashed and one pounding. When I enter they are both him, and he fights himself until I take them both by the hand and say I loved them. They tell me I must learn to control myself, I thought that was hypocritical so I left. As I close the door they began to argue once more, typical. There is nothing but scintillating lights so I walk until they stop hurting my eyes and I found myself at the mouth of a cave whose path seems to lead up to nothing. Walking inside I see my mother on our old couch with a book in her hand waiting for me, the warm spot where I learn to read and trust sits ready. I am more tempted by this comfort than anything but I don't linger. I move on and my old elementary school appears, where I learn a love for music, stories and the unfair nature of adults. I continue walking towards middle school where I learn how to type 60 wpm and that people can be selfish. I go faster through Highschool, where I learn the most, that the truth is often veiled. That anyone can lie to you. I came to the cliff edge and look over the abyssal chasm that would be the rest of my blip of existence. Then back at the climb I have taken where all the instructors of my past linger in varying forms of interest. Beckoning me to follow paths I have already past. I turn and step off into myself, trusting. I fall for so long that I begin to fly and i found myself soaring above oiled plains heading toward an ocean of water and people. My grandfather is waiting when I land and I cry for hours on his shoulder while he recites every piece of advice he ever gave me. I look up to thank him for making me human but I've wasted my time crying and he has faded away. The sadness is too heavy with the weight of the feelings I cannot express. I am pressed into the hard earth until I am separated and move through it. I found myself disjointed both in mind and body. I float for years through substances hoping to stick myself together, not knowing it was solvent to my glue. I drift into a fairy circle where a woman wearing an apron dress of my ancestors flowing with every color put my pieces back together. She is kind, funny, understanding and fierce. She feeds me from her circle, the taste is bitter but I could not live without it so I ask to take more. I eat until I am full and realize I have left none to regrow. The woman begins to weep in my arms so I pick her up on my back and we move away from her home. I found myself walking for miles through a nothingness that screams out with all the things left ignored and unfulfilled. The words bite and tear at my clothing, taking strips of my flesh, sucking moats of my energy. Regret drives me to my knees where I continue to crawl towards something I do not know. After millennia I come to realize the voices are mine, all of me from all of time who all have a common emotional response towards me, hatred. Before I allow myself to be crushed by the unfathomable burden of my criticism I feel weight lift from my back as my hands are taken. Through the immense pressure of my self worth I am lifted and... I found myself looking into my own oceanic eyes as the woman in the hangerok brings me to my feet. I am frightened and overjoyed to see that she is me in a way I can never be alone. She is everything I have ever thought, everything that I have ever felt, every scar I have created. I look back to the start of my journey and see she had been along the entire path, pushed behind me, ignored. When we had come to the circle we had arrived together, but I was the only one that ate. I apologized and hugged myself, becoming singular for perhaps the first time. The voices do not stop but hinder and cut less as I make my way towards the end. When I emerge, I found myself whole.

The red hand lurches forward, trekking across the face of the clock. He taps his finger on the rim of his coffee cup, precisely in time with the torturous beat. Despite the bustling cafe around him, he swears he can hear it. Tick, tick, tick. He wishes it would pause. If only to stop her from walking through the door behind him and sitting across from him. He glances at the small table before him, dark rings staining its wooden surface. Too small. It's too small to stop her from reaching across and slapping him or perhaps to move before she threw the napkin holder at his head. Not that he didn't deserve it. She had requested to meet here, but it was his friend who made him go. He hadn't been inclined to do so at all and had been about to send the message saying so when Ben had snatched his phone out of his hands, typed 'yes, of course,' and offered him a hard pat on the back. Ben had looked at him and said, "You need to tell her." Ben had looked at him and said, "We all make mistakes; just own up to them." He didn't miss the faint glimmer of amusement in Ben's eyes. Ben wanted to see him flustered and wanted to see what he would do. He silently cursed Ben, but he had spent the night tangled up in another girl's sheets. He was not a religious man, but he guessed that fact would deem him insufficient to praise or curse anyone. He could still taste her lip gloss. Still smell her floral perfume. Hastily, he sips at his lukewarm coffee, silently praying that the scent of coffee beans and overpriced pastries would take care of the rest. Tick, tick, tick. There were two choices. 1.Do the good thing. Be the good guy who owns up to his mistakes. He snorts into his coffee cup. He, of all people, knew Ben wasn't a saint, which made his plea for honestly downright comical. 2.Keep it to himself. After all, omission isn't quite a lie. Though, he had ignored her twenty missed calls. Had told her that he would be out with friends-which he was at one point in the night. Tick, tick, tick. The bell above the door rings. His back is turned towards it, but he knows it's her. He can feel her gaze from behind, already discerning his rumpled clothes that had been on the ground for the better half of the night and his tousled hair. He didn't quite decide which option to chose when she sat across from him. Too close. Close enough to see her red-rimmed eyes and puffy face. A bitter taste fills his mouth. He doesn't know if it's from the crappy coffee or shame. He makes his choice. "How's it going?" His question seems to startle her out of a stupor. He knew her well enough to know that she had been in her thoughts for far too long. She had probably tossed and turned all night in her small bed in her small apartment where they spent many nights. So different from the penthouse in the Upper West side he found himself in last night. But his response-casual and calm-was not what she had expected. It certainly wasn't what he had expected, but instincts have a funny way of acting on behalf of self-preservation. If Ben were here, he'd laugh. " How's it going? " She seethes. A group of kids at the table next to them stall in conversation, making no effort to look like they aren't eavesdropping. One of the girls loudly slurps her iced coffee as she watches. This could have been a theater, and they the show. "That's what you have to say?" "I told you I was going out with my friends, didn't I?" He keeps eye contact. Not too much as to cause suspicion, but just enough . He wouldn't look up and to the left. He read somewhere that it signaled a lie-or was it the right? But a flicker to the lips and an occasional glimpse to the forehead would suffice. She looks away first. Perfect. "I told you I probably wouldn't answer my phone, babe. You knew this." He wouldn't say more than he needed to. Too much and too fast would make her question. Too little, and she would fill the blanks with the assumptions she had made as she tried to sleep. "I know, but-" "I'm struggling to see the issue, then." He clutches his coffee cup as the words come out of his mouth. Too forward. He needed to let her speak. Let her feel like she was being heard and listened to. As if she read his thoughts, she looks at him, more confident than before. Yes, he had made an error. His eyes strained, begging him to find refuge in the clock. Or perhaps glare at the girl next to them, now chewing a croissant with her mouth open. He hates bad manners. He gestures his hand for her to continue-a silent apology and submission. She sighs and runs a hand through her greasy hair. "This was for hours, Jace. You usually text me at the end of the night to at least let me know where you are." He nods and makes more eye contact. She looks slightly pleased. She loves being heard. She loves being listened to. He would risk it. He reaches out for her hand. She eyes it warily, but the tug of his genuine demeanor and the familiarity of two years with each other lifts hers and places it into his. He squeezes it. Reassurance goes a long way with women who overthink. That's what Ben said. "And well...Anne saw you at the bar. She said you were on your phone." Busted. Think, think, think. Tick, tick, tick. Too long and he was putting together a lie. Too short meant too defensive. Tick, tick, tick. He wills his face into a frown. He settles on being displeased. "I wasn't aware you were having your friends keep tabs on me," he says. Red blooms on her round cheeks, and she hastily shakes her head. "No, it's not like that. She just happened to be there." She looks at him again. Her eyes harden, a hint of defiance left in them. She was reminding herself what her argument was. Reminding herself what her friends had told her in their little group chat. "She said you also left early. Without your friends." He tries to keep his swallow imperceptible, but her eyes flicker to his throat as it bobs. He squeezes her hand again and leans in close, willing her to look into the eyes she knew so well. He prays she won't catch a whiff of the perfume he breathed in all night. It was intoxicating and so different from the vanilla scent he smelled now. "Ben and his friends get a little too rowdy for me these days, I told you that. I went to hang out with Greg at his place afterwards." "And you couldn't have mentioned that?" Not too many details. "We had a few drinks and crashed. You know he and Linda have been having some issues. He wanted to talk it out. I was texting him at the bar, making sure he was okay." Pieces in a puzzle. Cogs in a clock. She looks down in submission. Moments pass. Tick, tick, tick. She finally nods her head and squeezes his hand in response. He raises a brow and asks, "Is there something wrong with that?" "No...no of course not. It's just..." And there it was-the life line, the holy grail. He could almost see the future-could see the words he would say and how she would react. He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. With his warm countenance and calm eyes, he would coax the words out of her. She sighs in pleasure at his touch. "I just can't help but think you were with someone else." Perfect. He stops hearing the clock. Now, he has what he needs, and despite not being a religious man, he thinks himself a prophet. He retracts his hand. Hurt. He would look hurt and tired. It was almost too easy to do, but it was significantly harder to see her recoil and watch the regret choke her. "We've talked about this." The words come out of his mouth stern. Sharp and cold. She needs to know she will lose him. He would use his hurt and anger like a whip taming a wild animal back into its cage. "A thousand times we have talked about this, and you still don't trust me." She panics, reaching out for his hand. He appears hesitant, but he takes it. A drop of hope that he isn't too angry to get past her insecurities. Hope that he will stay. "No, god no , of course not Jace. It's not that." "Then what is it?" He let his hand go slack in hers. A tether to him that would snap if she wasn't careful. She tightens her grip. Perfect. "Because it seems to me that's what we come to every time. You assume I'm up to no good and then punish me as if I actually did something." He allows his voice to raise a notch. He allows her to look embarrassed as he uses the public setting to his advantage, and eyes turn towards them. She is fumbling for words. "I-I'm sorry . I know, I know.." Perfect. He leans back in his chair, the picture of a man's pride having been trampled on. Slowly, he pulls his hand from hers, and tries not to notice when she flinches. He rubs his face. He is tired, yes. He is tired, and she was the reason. She would be the reason. "I just...I just don't understand. I've never given you a reason not to trust me." She leans forward. Eager. He feels pity for her, the pity someone feels when they see a stray dog or a homeless person. "I know. I'm sorry, okay? I'm trying to work on it, I promise." She is chewing on her lip now, the tears gathering in her eyes. "I just got a little worried, is all." "You promise you'll work on it every time we have this conversation. And lately, it feels like we're having it more often than not." Desperation. Panic. Regret. Those were the things she was revealing on her face and what he was feeling beneath the surface. "Look, can we just please move past this? Come back to my place." Bingo. He would look hesitant. Would take a long sip of his now cold-coffee as he considers the offer. His hesitation will tug on the leash he has so cleverly put around her neck. "I don't know..." " Please." God, he felt like an asshole. " Please, Jace. " Those were the magic words. He sets his cup down, picks up his keys and stands. No words, but a little nod. Just to show he still wasn't keen on the idea, but he would do it for her. By god, he would do anything for her. The relief was stark on her face. She hastily snatches up her belongings and stands as well, rushing to his side. As he walks out the door, he doesn't bother to hold it open for her. But she won't say anything. She would accept it because she had to. And she had to, or else that tether would slip entirely, and he would be gone. And it would be her fault. He told her he would meet her back at her place before walking to his car. As he drove off on that familiar route, he had one honest thought. The art of persuasion was a nasty one, but one that he would perfect for her.

TRIGGER WARNING: Explicit language and mention of substance abuse It had been five years since I'd been home for the holidays. The last time I was home for Thanksgiving dinner, I uncovered a massive secret my mother was keeping. She swore me to secrecy. What kind of mother would force her child to keep such a secret from her father? I resented her for that. I also blamed her for my little sister Joy's drug addiction and for my older brother Jonathan's gambling problem. She had single handily destroyed our whole family. This year, she had begged for us all to come together for dinner; she said she had something to tell us. I was grateful that my boyfriend Greg was attending dinner with me because I could really use his support. We'd been dating for eight months and I'd been avoiding introducing my family to him. I didn't come from a family filled with love, hugs and kisses. My family was filled with hatred, lies, deception and secrets. I wanted no parts of that so I decided to learn how to love them from a distance. "When the dysfunction begins, don't say I didn't warn you," I said to Greg as we walked hand-in-hand to the front door of my childhood home. "C'mon, Babe," he chuckled, "They can't be THAT bad." "Just you wait and see," I replied as I knocked on the door. My beautiful grandmother opened the door. I got my good looks from her, through my father. "Granny!" I exclaimed, genuinely happy to see her. She tended to be one of the least dramatic members of the family. We hugged and I introduced her to Greg. When I turned to look at him, he was standing with a blank look on his face. "Y'all c'mon in. Everybody's already here and waiting on ya!" she said as she walked towards the dining room. I turned back around quickly and shot Greg a confused look. "What's the matter?,"I asked him. "Oh...oh...n-nothing," he stuttered, "It's just-she looks way too young to be your grandmother. I giggled. "Good genes." We followed my grandmother into the dining room. She took a seat next to my grandfather at the far end of the table. I sat next to her, directly across from Joy and Jonathan. Greg sat in the seat between me and my cousin CJ. CJ was sitting next to his mom, Sandy, who is my mother's sister. Across from her was Uncle Ted, my dad's brother. In between him and Jonathan sat his daughter, my cousin Deena. My parents were seated at the other end of the table; both of them next to their own sibling. After introducing everyone to Greg, my grandfather blessed the food and we proceeded to break bread with one another. It wasn't long before Joy and Jonathan started their usual sibling banter, shortly being joined by CJ and Deena. Like clockwork, my parents began jesting with their respective siblings. Greg and I sat quietly enjoying the meal. I sipped on a chilled glass of wine, impatiently anticipating my mother's big reveal. Time was ticking and I was getting antsy. I was on my third glass of wine and it was starting to go to my head. Finally, my mother cleared her throat. "Well family," she said with a deep sigh, "I asked you all to come here today because I have something important to tell you. I'm just gonna get straight to it. I have cancer. It's stage four. They tell me I don't have much time left." I cocked my head to the side looking confused as my mother sat teary-eyed and a silence fell over the room. "Is that all, Mother?" I inquired aggressively. Greg squeezed my hand under the table to comfort me. I shook my head then continued. "No. You need to tell them the rest of the secrets you've been hiding." "Jenna, please," my mother begged. "Tell them, Mom. Tell them how you cheated on Dad and he's not Joy's real father." Every mouth sitting around the table fell open. "What!" Joy exclaimed, turning to our mother, "She's lying, right, Mom?" Silence. Finally, my father spoke. "Is it true, Sheila?" "Yes." She said, dropping her head. My father proceeded. "So, who is her father?" I looked at my mother, then we both looked at my grandfather. The guilty look on his face said it all. When it clicked in my father's head, heartbreak was written on his face. "Dad!," he yelled. My grandfather hung his head down. "I'm sorry, Son." Gasps and wishpers roamed all over the dinner table. "I'm sorry, Joe," my mother chimed in. "Back then, you were always traveling for work. I was just so lonely." "Lonely my ass, you tramp!," he growed at her. My mother began sobbing uncontrollably. I rolled my eyes noticing the death stare my grandmother was giving my grandfather. "I don't know why I thought you'd ever change," she said to him. "You've been a dog the whole fifty years we've been together! Dammit, James! Our son's wife! You're a pastor for God's sake!" " Edna, I...I...," he stuttered. "Save your excuses, you ol' fool! And you too, jezebel!," she exclaimed as she stood up, looking at my mother. She then scanned the rest of the faces at the table. "What's wrong with this family?," she asked. "Does anyone else have any secrets they want to share? I guarantee that each one of you at this table has a secret their hiding? How about who stole my bracelets?" Jonathan clear his throat as my grandmother sat back down. "Well since we're telling secrets...," he began, as he turned to look at our sister. "It was Joy, she's smoking crack again. She stole Granny's bracelets, pawned them, and smoked all that money." He put his fingers to his mouth as if he was smoking, to tease her. She smack his hand down. "Go to hell, Jonathan!," she screamed at him, "You're just mad I didn't give you any of the money to cover your gambling debts." She looked at our father. "Hey, Dad. Did Johnathan tell you that he's been sleeping with Deena." "She is your cousin, Johnathan!," my father hollered at him. "She's not my cousin," he replied. "Her momma told her that Uncle Ted is not her real father." "What the hell!," Uncle Ted yelled, wearing the same expression of despair his brother wore just a couple of minutes ago. "I'm sorry, Dad," Deena explained, "Mom's been paying me for years so I wouldn't tell you." She darted her eyes at my brother. "And how dare you," she grunted at him. I thought we were confiding in each other. I never told anyone that you told me your dad has been sleeping with your Aunt Sandy." "Yeah, I did it," my father said quickly, without hesitation. "I been sleeping with her. By the way, CJ.....we gonna have to talk about getting your name changed. I don't like the idea of MY son being named after another man." He raised both hands, balled up like fist. Then he opened them up like exploding bombs. "Boom!," he said to my mother as he stood up. "How ya like them apples?" Then he walked out of the dining room. Dinner with my family was the exact disaster that I was expecting it to be. "You see," I said to Greg as we walked back to the car after dinner, "My family is dysfunction at its finest. That's why I keep my distance." I opened the passenger side door, slide into the seat, and buckled my seat belt. I noticed an expression on Greg's face that I just couldn't read. "Baby, what's wrong," I asked concerned. "You've been acting strange all night. "J, I don't think we're gonna be able to continue seeing each other," he said somberly. I panicked. "Is it because of my family? Greg, they don't have to be part of our lives. Baby, I love you. Please, don't this" "Your family is wild, and no secrets are gonna be safe or stay buried." "Are you trying to say that you have a secret to tell me?" "Well....do you remember the conversation we had earlier in our relationship? The one about some of the wild sexcapades we've had before we met?" "Yes, but what are you trying to say, Greg? I don't understand." "Just listen. I know you remember me telling you about that older, cougar lady that I had a fling with." "Yes." "I don't know how to tell you this, Jenna. But, that lady is your grandmother...."

I clasped my hands in front of me like a good little boy and watched Not-Naughty-Librarian thumb through the book looking for something that seemed mighty important to her. I couldn’t tell you what she was so intent on finding that she couldn’t even spare me a passing glance seeing as how I was dead and hadn’t had orientation yet. All I knew was I didn’t seem to be in hell since there was a considerable lack of hellfire and brimstone. I don’t remember the exact moment I died. Or, rather, I don’t know when my body died as my soul was sucked plum out without my permission. Did I live another few minutes? I have no idea. All I know is I was rushing through a beam of warm light, neither air nor liquid, but somehow seemingly both. I continued whooshing right past some sort of welcome committee. I saw my Granny Coral, her face so jubilant at first, confused as hell the next moment, but by then I was already long past her and whomever else was waiting there for me. Zooming right by a blur of buildings, people, alien-looking creatures, beams of light; all wrapped snugly in a cocoon of bubbles, I didn’t have much time to process a thing. Looks a lot like a beehive, I thought, as my progression sped up until I found myself jolted to a stop and plopped right smack dab into a polished chair facing a young woman, hair in a loose bun, glasses perched on the end of a pert button nose, a humongous book taking up the space between us on the desk piled high with books of all shapes and sizes. Frankly, she looked like one of those “naughty librarians” I sometimes liked to watch, but I quickly erased the thought because, you know, I was dead, and Granny Coral taught me all about the Good Book and Judgement Day. I probably shouldn’t have been thinking of my sins right that moment lest I inadvertently invite some of that there fire and brimstone I noticed was fortunately not here. In fact, this room was rather lovely. I took my first good look at the place. Seemed like I was in an ancient library. All stone and wood and stained glass windows, it appeared as if I was somehow in one of those fantasy movies my girlfriend sure loved to watch. I never really understood the appeal, but she said that’s to be expected when you’re a muzzle... er... muddle... uh.. muggle? Hell, I don’t know. I just know that’s the very second I started to tear up thinking about my sweet, perfect Penelope, my favorite nerd, my little angel baby who used to keep a smile on my face. That’s precisely when Ms. Not-So-Naughty Librarian finally deigned to cast me a glance. “Oh, don’t you fret now, dearie. You’ll see her again before you know it. You’re from the same group, after all.” I must have looked rather alarmed because she laughed a tinkling little laugh that sounded unlike any laugh I’d ever heard in my whole life. “Well, you’re not holding anything back, you realize. You don’t have to shout your thoughts at me, either.” Her face was sunshine and dandelions as she thrust her full attention on me. Maybe Judgement day wouldn’t be so bad, I mused. “Oh, calm yourself, sweet soul. You’re still really new, only been here...” her eyes swept down on the page wedged in between her arms resting casually on the desk, “...oh, yes, you’ve only existed for a few lives. But don’t you worry one itty bitty bit. I’ll walk you through a few things and get you settled in to heal the gaps in your energy.” All complacency left me as a flood of questions drenched my mind like a deluge worthy of Noah. I no sooner opened my mouth to start shooting them questions right out my mouth before she held up her petite hand and closed my mouth right quick. “Right, then. First, you’ll need to quit calling me Not-So-Naughty Librarian. My name is Akasha. Secondly, my job here is not to judge you. You’ll find there’s none of that fear-mongering nonsense here. And thirdly, my job is Archivist. I document and organize every single life you’ll ever lead, and then I’ll help you in your studies to evaluate your actions and monitor your growth to enlightenment.” She paused then, and the cutest little smile lit up her face. I presumed my embarrassment over the moniker I had gifted her was showing on my face. Could ghosts blush? Was I as red as my Mama’s homemade sangria that she made every summer? “No, I’m just trying to figure out why you came straight to me instead of to meet your soul group, head to the The Healing Cavern, or see your guides for your Life Review before they brought you here to study. And you are not a ghost. Those poor souls get a little confused before we can coax them to come back home, but they all make their way back eventually.” I watched the colors from the stained glass play across Akasha’s face, red and orange and yellow and colors I had no name for. The light should have been blinding, but no. I could feel it moving against my skin like a living thing, warm and cool all at once, before becoming me. Sounds crazy, when I think of it in human terms, but this lady here was busy explaining I am not a human, I am a soul who had a human experience. Huh, imagine that. I didn’t really believe Granny Coral or Pastor Hank. I mean, religion seemed so silly, no more reasonable than thinking a wolf swallowed a little girl in a cherry red cape before gobbling up her granny. “There’s a reason you came to me first, so we’re going to figure that out together! Let’s take a look at the life you just led, shall we?” All of a sudden, images sprang up out of that big book she’d been studying and oozed all around, like I was watching my surroundings being painted over, a fresh new world in its place. And then I saw myself being born. I had no idea my Mama could scream like that! Hoo boy! I was going to send her the biggest bouquet of flowers just as soon as I was done here. It hit me again as soon as I thought it. I was dead. There weren’t going to be any more flowers sent to Mama or anyone else. “No, no, no, just a little too far back. Let’s speed this up just a bit, shall we?” The blobs of paint began to dance around me, and I watched myself growing up. There I was, spitting beets out all over my father’s face when he insisted I would love them even though I was only six months old, and no baby loves beets. The scene was painted anew as Mama’s laugh faded out. I was a few months older and taking my first steps. I was two and scared of a thunderstorm. I was three and lost my mother for a few minutes when I let go of her hand and chased a dragonfly. I was four and skinned my knees up so badly that I carried the scars for the rest of my life. Five and starting kindergarten, bravely not crying even though I really wanted to. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten; memories, but more. I felt everything all over again. The sting of my first heartbreak. The embarrassment of my first time with Lonnie in the backseat of the old car Dad and I spent a full year repairing, that first time ending before I could say “Oh, my God!” My graduation, Helena - the first woman I ever really, truly loved. Thought I was gonna spend my whole life with that one. But then the baby, that perfect boy, arriving much too early and gone too fast. I watched Helena pack her things and drive away all over again. No Helena. No baby. Months of depression where my entire world turned grey and flavorless, leaving me lost within the ocean of myself, with no anchor to hold me in place. Then Olivia. Warmth returned to my bones then. Three years of carnivals, concerts, movies, getting snowed in during the nor’easter of ninety-four. Then she, too, was gone, but my world only dimmed a little that time. I saw myself starting my own auto shop, and working with my hands was good and honest work that paid the bills. That’s what Dad said as he slipped away in the hospital bed in the living room. He was proud of me. The energetic and kind hospice nurse wiped my tears. “Thank you, Penelope,” I breathed into her hair. I could smell the strawberry scent of her shampoo all over again. She became my everything from then on out. Sunday dinners with Mama, camping under the stars, that trip to Disney World because Penelope said we never really have to grow up if we don’t want to. I watched it all again, the joy within me expanding until I felt it explode from me and meld with the images of my life. And then I watched myself collapse, saw through my flesh and muscle to my heart, suddenly still, and the crowd that rushed in on aisle seven of the hardware store. I wasn’t going to finish that crib now. I wasn’t going to paint the nursery. I wasn’t going to see the little lima bean inside Penelope grow into someone I could teach to ride a bike. The paint faded back into the book, and I sat on the polished chair, half the size I was before, folded in on myself. Penelope glided right through the desk and wrapped her arms around me, breathing fire back into my soul like warm honey, slowly seeping into each molecule. “How are you here?” I croaked. Akasha’s voice seemed to come from within me. “I can be any shape you need. So can you. We are limitless. We are everything.” The doors burst open, and in rushed my father. If anyone ever tells you there are no tears in heaven, they’re a bald-faced liar, I can tell you that, yes sir! But he didn’t give me time to cry. No, sir! He grabbed my hand right up into his and began to pull me along at the speed of light. It could have been a minute, could have been a week, hell if I know, but we came to an abrupt halt right about where I came in and first saw Granny Coral. Souls were lined up and saying goodbye or hello, depending on which way they were heading. And there was Granny Coral, just like that. “I wanted to have more time with ya before I headed on down, but this will do.” Her smile was so much more beautiful than I remembered. “I’ll be popping back in here and there for a while, so we can get a slice of blackberry cobbler with ice cream and play catch-up as soon as I get a little work done. Humans are boring to be until they can start getting into trouble. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be taking care of Penelope for you now.” “You mean...?” “I’m your granny and your daughter, Pumpkin. Guess we really are Southern.” The raucous laughter that erupted from me at that moment almost drowned out her goodbye as she headed back through the gates. “We will get that cobbler, lickety split! Go get yourself patched up!” I can’t describe what it’s like here; I can just let you know that you’re really gonna love it. There is no beginning, there is no end, there just is. Why I was flung halfway to Timbuktu when I arrived hasn't been made clear yet; however, I have a lot to learn over the course of innumerable lives to come. There's no rush. I'll be having a lot of human experiences, I reckon. How 'bout that? Having human experiences is great ‘n all, but being a soul sure takes the cake. Yeah, you're gonna love it here.